I am a Rachel. I am 21. You may know me as Kiyaar. My hobbies include inadvertently poisoning myself, sleeping, and Russia.
I go to school, but not for much longer. I plan to be an art thief or the owner of a gluten-free bakery and maybe write a thing or two.
Here you will find a lot of things about a Skrull named K'arr'n, these two fictional douchecanoes, things i write, and also an increasingly large amount of doge.
Put things in my box! It's open! Tell me a story or ask me a thing or lie to me because lying to strangers is fun.
Depression is humiliating. It turns intelligent, kind people into zombies who can’t wash a dish or change their socks. It affects the ability to think clearly, to feel anything, to ascribe value to your children, your lifelong passions, your relative good fortune. It scoops out your normal healthy ability to cope with bad days and bad news, and replaces it with an unrecognizable sludge that finds no pleasure, no delight, no point in anything outside of bed. You alienate your friends because you can’t comport yourself socially, you risk your job because you can’t concentrate, you live in moderate squalor because you have no energy to stand up, let alone take out the garbage. You become pathetic and you know it. And you have no capacity to stop the downward plunge. You have no perspective, no emotional reserves, no faith that it will get better. So you feel guilty and ashamed of your inability to deal with life like a regular human, which exacerbates the depression and the isolation.
Depression is humiliating.
If you’ve never been depressed, thank your lucky stars and back off the folks who take a pill so they can make eye contact with the grocery store cashier. No one on earth would choose the nightmare of depression over an averagely turbulent normal life.
It’s not an incapacity to cope with day to day living in the modern world. It’s an incapacity to function. At all. If you and your loved ones have been spared, every blessing to you. If depression has taken root in you or your loved ones, every blessing to you, too.
Depression is humiliating.
No one chooses it. No one deserves it. It runs in families, it ruins families. You cannot imagine what it takes to feign normalcy, to show up to work, to make a dentist appointment, to pay bills, to walk your dog, to return library books on time, to keep enough toilet paper on hand, when you are exerting most of your capacity on trying not to kill yourself. Depression is real. Just because you’ve never had it doesn’t make it imaginary. Compassion is also real. And a depressed person may cling desperately to it until they are out of the woods and they may remember your compassion for the rest of their lives as a force greater than their depression. Have a heart. Judge not lest ye be judged.
The Mark is a living thing on Dean’s arm, all heat and poison and teeth. It beats faster than his heart, throbbing when he’s trying to sleep, flaring up sharp and angry when he’s fighting, when he’s fucking, when Cas touches it, tracing his fingers over the rough, raised edges, digging his thumb into its scar-thick center.
"Don’t," Dean hisses, his dick twitching in his jeans, a jolt of white-hot need zagging through him like lightning. He tries to pull his arm away, but Cas is still faster than him, still stronger.
I will officially work at a museum doing really cool shit this summer. And will have a professional thing to put on my resume. People live on min wage all the time and I will be fine and my diet is already rice and beans anyway because that’s all my body can handle.
So, good. Rachel, Museum Assistant.
ETA: And, I don’t have to go back to Maine where my Aspie dad and doormat mom live to die a slow emotional and creative death.
I’M GETTING OUT AND STAYING IN THE GAYEST TOWN IN AMERICA, BITCHES
When I was a student at Cambridge I remember an anthropology professor holding up a picture of a bone with 28 incisions carved in it. “This is often considered to be man’s first attempt at a calendar,” she explained. She paused as we dutifully wrote this down. “My question to you is this – what man needs to mark 28 days? I would suggest to you that this is woman’s first attempt at a calendar.”
It was a moment that changed my life. In that second I stopped to question almost everything I had been taught about the past. How often had I overlooked women’s contributions? How often had I sped past them as I learned of male achievement and men’s place in the history books? Then I read Rosalind Miles’s book “The Women’s History of the World” (recently republished as “Who Cooked the Last Supper?”) and I knew I needed to look again. History is full of fabulous females who have been systematically ignored, forgotten or simply written out of the records. They’re not all saints, they’re not all geniuses, but they do deserve remembering.