I don’t think ‘want’ is the word. I guess I gotta try. My father told me once, he said, “If you see something wrong happening in the world, you can either do nothing, or you can do something. And I already tried nothing.
ya lit meme: [5/10] books or series
≡ percy jackson and the olympians
The throne rumbled. A wave of gale-force anger slammed into me. WHO DARES- The voice stopped abruptly, The anger retreated, which was a good thing, because just those two words had almost blasted my mind to shreds. Percy. My fathers voice was still angry but more controlled. What-exactly-are you doing on my throne? “I’m sorry, Father,” I said. “I needed to get your attention.” This was a very dangerous thing to do. Even for you. If I hadn’t looked before I blasted, you would now be a puddle of seawater.
did you know, someone once told me i had my father’s smile
i told them thank you even though i wasn’t sure; that just wasn’t something i had seen in a while
i saw the back of your head more often than not
and even more than that, i saw your fist a hell of a lot
the physical pain was nothing compared to the way you left
mom tried to hide it but i heard those tears that she wept
she never saw mine, locked myself away in my room
and i cried and i cried and it’s all because of you
see, you were never a dad; you’re nothing more than a sperm donor
you never saw us as a family, just property and you were our owner
you never really loved us, because love doesn’t cause pain
had a temper that exploded worse than a bottle of champagne
and i tried and i tried to be the son you always wanted
years of not feeling good enough has left me feeling haunted
but now i’m older, wiser, and i know that i wasn’t to blame
and even if you apologized now, nothing would ever be the same
despite how much i hate you, i think i still love you regardless
i’d tell you happy father’s day if i thought this collect call was worth the charges
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:
It could be worse. You do have all the luxuries befitting a
princess, though one charged with treason. But a gilded cage is still a cage. And
the prospect of withering away in this, the tallest tower of the Palace of Asgard,
in the same place where your once-betrothed will live and marry and rule from,
it’s almost too much to bear.
author:sugardaddytonystark (formerly buckysbackpackbuckle) pairing: Thor x Jotun!Reader word count: 4067 warnings: brat prince Thor, unprotected sex, oral sex, hair pulling, choking
Thanks for the fathers day snapchat thing. It's pretty great of you to make people who have father's issues feel better!
Aw, of course! It was my pleasure, cause I know we all could use a little encouragement from time to time! I was blessed to always have those words from my father, so I wanted to pass them on to others who needed it as much as I did!
My childhood innocence was stripped when I was about 3, my dad was driving drunk with me in the car and some guy cut him off. So he proceeded to chase him down. Then the guy got out of his car and grabbed a crowbar. I would wake up from naps and my dad was nowhere to be found. Throughout the years I watched him fall down stairs and stumble around. I was terrified. He would come and leave and I would see my mom cry every time. I watched him and my mom scream at each other why I sat on the porch covering my ears. My brother asked me when I was 6 “do you wanna see your dad get beat with a club?” Id go to school and get no relief because I was picked on day after day. I truly believe the trauma of your childhood melds you into someone different. I often wonder what I would have been like if it hadn’t happened. Would I not be a shy, anxiety ridden depressed person? Or would I be exactly the same? I don’t think children should have to have an adult mind and issues. Because then you have all this baggage that weighs you down all the time. It’s always there in your mind. I think people think that children don’t catch on to things or wont remember. But that’s the farthest from the truth. They are so observant. It strips their childhood away from them. And puts them in a position to deal with things that they should have no business having to deal with. If adults have a hard time dealing with it, how do you think it is for children?
Last night the guy I’m dating and I lay entangled in the dark of his room and we reminisced on the very short amount of time that we’ve been seeing each other. We talked about this or that, the conversation meandering lazily, taking twists and turns and detours.
“How do you feel about saying ‘I love you?’” he said at one point, which is one of the more careful ways of broaching the subject.
“I feel good about it,” I said.
This wasn’t enough reassurance that it was safe to say it, because he asked me about my general thoughts about love.
So I told him that I believe meaning is created between a speaker and the other person in the conversation—that when my father looks at my mother, who he has been married to for 27 years, and says “I love you” he might say the exact words but there is no way that “love” could ever mean the same thing as when I say it to anyone else. When my father says “I love you” the word “love” contains within it the birth of three children and a journey to a new country where neither of them spoke the language and had only each other to rely on, and it contains every fight and the purchase of their first car when they were poor and young and had an infant and every time they lay in the dark together. How could the word “love” somehow mean the same thing when he says it to my mother as anyone else’s use of the word?
So, I told him, I believe that if I care about you, if I’m invested in your happiness, if I value the time we spend together, then that’s love. “I love you" will not mean the same thing when I say it on Tuesday as it will on Saturday, will not mean the same thing after two months as it will after a year, even if the order of the words never changes.
After a moment of quiet, he whispered “I love you” against my skin.
Many years ago, I used to be a feminist. At first it was merely a “yeah, girl power! Feminism!” kind of thing. And then I moved back home from an abusive relationship, and started hanging out with one of my best friends more often. He was one of the few guys that was a genuine friend and didn’t want to try to get into my pants. Or so I thought. After several months, having found some peace and routine with him, he brought up the prospect of being anything more. Thing is, I felt nothing for him in that aspect. I mentioned this, told him that it wouldn’t feel right forcing myself to be in a relationship with him when I didn’t actually see him in a romantic way and that it would only be cruel to him. He was disheartened, but he didn’t bring it up again for a while.
He was a pharmacy student who was on the cusp of graduation. He studied well and had high grades, and part of our hangout routine was him using his homework and notes to “teach” me (I didn’t really pay attention, but it helped him to better understand his material). One weekend - Halloween, actually, as I will always remember it - he was picking me up from my place so we could spend a few days lounging and playing video games. His car broke down and we spent hours waiting for the tow truck. The next night, we were playing video games per usual. He asked about whether or not I wanted to go somewhere and do something different. I told him that, understanding his financial situation, it would be best if we just continued with our normal routine. At the time, I didn’t think much of it. I figured “Hey, he must just be bored and stressed.” He seemed flustered and excused himself to get us some drinks from downstairs.
He came back with some drinks. I remember that mine tasted odd. I chalked it up to flat soda and allergies to the cats. Soon after, I got extremely tired. I thought it was because I hadn’t slept a few days and it was catching up to me, and I was with someone that I trusted.
I woke up feeling weird. My clothes were gone, I was in his bed, and he was on top of me. His tongue was down my throat. Every ounce of trust I had went down the drain. I was enraged. He was the ONLY male I had trusted. He was my best friend. I hardly trusted my own father to not hurt me at this point in my life because of how rocky our relationship had been. The man I had just left was sexually, physically, and emotionally abusive. This man, the man I so foolishly had considered my best friend, had broken every ounce of trust. I don’t even know the full extent to what he had done to me. But I demanded a ride home.
I never went to the police because I didn’t think they would believe me and at the time I still cared for him as a friend. I didn’t understand at the time everything that had happened. It didn’t completely sink in for years that he had drugged me. It didn’t sink in that he was the one who took off my clothes, that he had touched me in places he knew I would never allow. And I didn’t want to ruin his life over it. But it hit deep enough that I began to hate all men. Every one of them.
A couple of months later, after barring him completely from my life, I was hanging out with my female best friend. She took me out with two of her male friends, who I didn’t like or trust. And a guy that I’d liked from high school met us at the place we were hanging out. He pulled me off to a secluded area and started kissing me. At first I didn’t mind. He was cute, and seeing him kind of rekindled the old flame. But then he wouldn’t stop. And I started pushing him away from me, but he would pull me closer. I’d tell him to stop, and he would tell me that I didn’t really want that. I started struggling and yelling.
My best friend with her friends came across us. I came to find out that she didn’t know he had taken me away and had been looking for us. He friends separated us. I was crushed, because once again a man had broken my trust. My friend, instead of consoling me, lashed out at him. Accused him of “using me to get to her because he knew she liked him.” She didn’t try to make sure I was okay. But her friends did. Her two male friends, who I hadn’t liked simply on the basis that they were male, told me that if they had known the extent to which things had happened they would have beaten his ass instead of telling him to leave. One, who had just gotten out of jail, said that if I knew where the guy lived he would be more than willing to go back to protect me from the guy. These two men were more understanding than she had been.
They took me home. I was too shaken up to be fun. My dad saw how I was, and asked me what happened. The guy worked with my father. I told my dad what he did. He asked me what I wanted to do. My only words were “I want him to go away.” My dad said he could make that happen. And he did. The guy moved to California within the month.
I began having doubts about whether or not all men deserved to be hated simply because of their penis.
Months later, I began going to school the place my dad worked at. I realized that a lot of the ladies there liked my father. He wouldn’t ever do anything to return this “friendliness” from the women. My father prided himself on being professional. He was a completely different person than he was at home. One of the women who consistently tried to advance on my father began to feel spurned. So she and some of the other girls conspired together. They made false accusations about my father. Saying he would touch them and speak inappropriately to them. The school wouldn’t even listen to my father. They wouldn’t even allow him to defend himself. “The accusation alone is proof enough” were their official words. They made him resign.
My father began working as the general manager of a chain of luxury refinery. The girls that he hired took a liking to him, and when he turned down their advancements, they did the same. They accused him of sexually harassing them. When he didn’t. Once again, he was forced to resign. “This has happened twice. If it happens again, we will be forced to revoke your license.” Once again, they didn’t even allow him to defend himself. They wouldn’t see the video footage of him telling them to stop. They wouldn’t see the texts of him telling them to calm down. Because he was male.
And I realized that I, as a woman, held more power than any man ever could. I realized that all it took was mere words to destroy a man’s life. That wasn’t weakness. It wasn’t oppression, not on a woman’s part. I realized that there were shitty men and shitty women. But there was no shortage of good men either. And there was no shortage of good women.
My resentment for men faded, and it faded fast. My resentment for feminism grew for forcing me to be so scared of men, because despite my terrible experiences there were men who were willing to go to prison to defend a woman that they hadn’t known for more than five hours.
My entire point is that you are allowed to be hurt by your past experiences. You are allowed to feel, to grow past it. But don’t harbor the hatred. Don’t turn it against the people who didn’t actually do anything to you. If a man abuses you in any way, shape, or form, it’s on him. It isn’t on the shoulders of every other man in existence.
Misandry isn’t the answer. Don’t let your fear turn into hatred, please. Learn to grow past it. Because no matter how scared you are, there are people strong enough to protect you, who are willing to do so in the blink of an eye. People who don’t even know you who still love you enough to treat you like family. And it’s not their fault that there are fucked up people. People, not just men. People.
Part one of three! You have the wonderful and ever amazing @ladyccr to thank for this wonderful story. I hope you all enjoy it as much as I loved writing it.
I have never attempted to hide my disdain for humans. In fact, it used to be something I would relish in. I was young once, although that may seem impossible for something like me. I was once bloodthirsty. I was vengeful and cruel. I fought in countless wars that were carried out in several different names. Sometimes it was the same war just in a different era. Now that I look back, I actually can’t tell them apart anymore. As I grow older and wiser I can see that, no matter what banner I fought under, war is the same dance.