I’ve got a million things to do. I’ve already done a million things this morning. And I’m pretty sure my hair is falling out as a result. I don’t even know where to begin. My emotions have been all over the place, from elated to down right depressed. Brendan is suffering as a result. I’m suffering as a result. Like…can you tell that my brain is scattered to the farthest reaches of the wind?

Graduation: I’m trying to graduate this semester. I found out I only need one credit before I continue on my pathway to higher education but, as there are less than 6 weeks left in the semester, acquiring that last credit seems nearly impossible. After spending a day running around from different ends of campus, I found someone willing to adopt me into their independent study course, normally worth 3 credits but since it’s so late would actually amount to 1 credit. Great, right? No. Trying to cram even 1 credit’s worth of work into a 6-week period has turned into pure madness. Graduation is in May, and I have yet to purchase anything for it, let alone actually start the paper that I’m supposed to write. I’ve done a teensy bit of research but between writing a paper for an incomplete course last semester and trying to keep up with the class that I’m legitimately taking, I’m swamped. I even missed a meeting with the professor supervising me this morning while trying to do every other thing I had to do. Ugh. My mom wants me to graduate this semester, I want to graduate this semester, but trying to do all of this in such a short time sort of kills the vibe of graduation. It’s supposed to be a fun, exciting time and just like high school, this is turning into a desperate race to the finish line so I don’t have to deal with it anymore. Just like everything else in life. That’s sort of how I roll but I don’t like it. That’s the actual, underlying problem. I am so short-sighted that I end up doing everything like this. Sloppy and half-assed. I’m sick of it. I’m ashamed of my accomplishments because they aren’t accomplishments. They’re throwing myself across the finish line, despite having quit a million times before. It’s not overcoming an obstacle, it’s not accomplishing a goal, it’s being in the right place at the wrong time. I hate it. And I hate myself for doing it. Every. Single. Time.

Sparks: I’m currently residing in my grandmother’s house, that was previously occupied by a family for nearly 12 years. The patriarch of the family was an independent contractor who worked on estates and accumulated a lot of stuff through his job. Cabinets nobody wanted, furniture that didn’t have a home, that sort of thing. And it accumulated in the house. As we go through and get it ready to sell (it was built in the 30s so his lack of care and the fact that it’s old as dirt does not help anything), we find problem after problem. And most of it can’t be fixed cheaply. Painting, holes in the drywall, problems with the furnace, the (practically) toxic water in the well, it’s all horrible. It’s depressing since it’s my grandmother’s house. It’s got sentimental value, especially for my mom. Her siblings share ownership but don’t seem to share te same attachment to the property that she does. They haven’t helped a lick with the entire thing. It’s upsetting to hear her complain and stress about the house, being powerless to d anything. And then I keep finding problems. My mom is digging herself into this hole with this house and all I’m doing is reaping more dirt on her. It’s hard. So hard.

Body: I lost nearly 50 pounds over the course of the last year. I worked hard, ate clean and felt so empowered in my skin. There were still improvements to be made but it was the happiest I’d ever been with my weight. Well, guess what? I’ve gained it all back. I watch My 600-lb. Life and hate myself because I can relate to what the people are saying. I can understand eating as a stress-relief, eating to disappear, eating to make people stop looking at you, to hide behind food. I hate myself, even for typing it. It’s disgusting. And I’ve started picking my fingers again. My thumbs are bloody and scabbed, and every little piece of skin that tries to grow over gets pulled off. I get stuck, picking and pulling rather than doing homework or completing the task in front of me. I leave a trail of little white flecks behind me because I’m pulling so much skin off. It’s horrible. And as a result of all this hate, I want to cry. I want to cut. I want to express the hatred I have. But rather than change my habits, rather than fix things the way I did before, I’m taking it out on my corporeal form. I’m blaming my body for what I’ve done and it’s paying the price.

I can’t explain what else is going on because there isn’t a direct reason for it. Like I said, my emotions are all over the place. I feel stretched too thin and squished all at the same time. I’ve got lots of homework to do, lots of responsibilities that aren’t really my problem to deal with and finding a way to swim through it all.


I’m in the public library. It’s been quite some time since I’ve done this. But I needed to be here. I spent all day in bed, watching NCIS and scrolling through Facebook. I needed a change of scenery, a change of pace. I was getting pretty restless. It’s sort of funny that you can get restless during a self-imprisonment. I’m supposed to be working on not one, but two papers. Instead, I’m listening to music and writing a journal entry. I just couldn’t help myself. I should probably also be outlining the next few chapters of my sociology textbook to make sure I friggin’ pass that class but again, not doing it. At least, not yet. It may happen after this post. Mostly because I won’t have anything to preoccupy myself with once this is finished. I’m feeling….God, even after all that therapy and junk, I still hate saying statements like that. “Use ‘I am’ statements.” Um, no. I don’t wish to be possessive of most things, let alone my emotions. That’s too much liability. My legal representation (my brother, Thomas) wouldn’t not approve of such admittance at this time. Let’s say, instead, that this sort of knot is building up in my guts. It’s twisting them and tying them and I’m not really sure what to make of it. I’m having spontaneous urges to throw things, punch things and any other manner of destruction. I also desperately wish to take drugs until I’m pooping blood but that’s mostly out of pain. My hip has been hurting so badly lately that I can’t walk, I rarely leave my bed (not like I was doing much of that before this became a problem) and Brendan has been driving me around as of late. I have an ultrasound scheduled with my gynecologist on Wednesday but I’m not holding my breath. Usually, when I am in pain, there is no cause and I’m left to splutter through the endless days and weeks until a doctor decrees they will take sympathy on me and prescribe a temporary sedative or opioid. It doesn’t last long and once a doctor has admitted to such weakness, it isn’t long until I’m stonewalled into finding other help. It makes me look like a drug-seeker but I’m being framed by the system, I swear! That could be part of the problem. Right now, I’m shaking from the pain being so intense in my hip but I can’t express it. I can’t explain anything to anyone or convince them that I’m in horrible, agonizing pain. It just doesn’t work. I’m too tough for them. My mother shows pain like a normal person. I mean, she isn’t a sucker, but she will concede to her limit. My father is the opposite and never admits defeat. He would saw off his own foot and walk 20 miles before he even considered saying something about being in pain. Me? I’m sort of the neutral party. I will concede that I’m in pain, I will admit that my body has reached its limits but like my father, I can’t express it. It stays cramped and bottled up inside until someone shuts the door in my face and I’m out on the streets again, looking, begging for help. Wow, I didn’t know this post was going to twist into a pity party about pain. My apologies. Really, I should have been talking about the knot that’s twisting my intestines (and probably contributing to the pain I’m already in). It’s leaving me feeling both uplifted and elated, like I’ve got the energy to bang out both of these papers and complete my sociology class by tomorrow. It’s also got me feeling like I need to destroy, to self-destruct, to do whatever it is that the villains of Gotham did to piss off both Superman and Batman. It’s confusing and I feel trapped, like that poor elephant at the National Zoo. Mother, TomTom and I took a trip to the National Zoo over our mutual spring breaks. It was a grueling walk that left me out of commission for days but it was enjoyable to spend time with them. And I’d never been to the National Zoo so I got to see pandas! Anyway, off topic. The point is, while we were there, one of the Asian elephants, housed across from the pandas, was throwing its front legs out in front of it while standing in place. It sort of looked like the potty dance on four legs. Except, elephants can pee wherever they want so I attributed it to nervousness. Like, he was anxious, all cooped up in his pen with the others. It was sad. That’s how I feel though. I’m not a tiger pacing in its cage. The danger in that would be too obvious. People know to fear tigers. They aren’t as wary of elephants, creatures that have been used by mankind for centuries. We sort of treat them like passive horses or something, but really, elephants kill a lot of people every year. They’re destructive and docile at the same time. That is how this knot in my stomach is making me feel. It’s making me feel like a time bomb that could go off at any second, that only needs a bit more pressure before the bough breaks and everything falls apart. If I ever wrote an autobiography, that is a title I would seriously consider: When The Bough Breaks or Everything Falls Apart or Why Elephants and Invalids Are Alike. Ooh, I just thought of that last one and I like it! Alright, focus, time to actually write something. Or sit on Facebook for the remainder of my time here. Who knows what could happen? I certainly–oh! And to top off this growing knot in the pit of my stomach, I’m doing two things. One: I’m binge-watching NCIS to the point that every sentence that comes out of my mouth usually makes some connection back to the show. Not a good thing. Whenever I get this binge-y, it takes a while for me to snap out of it. It also makes me really depressed when I reach the end and can’t continue at the current trajectory. Two: I’m not seeing Craig this week. He cancelled early this morning, which means this blog will most likely be the last confession I will make this week. I realized when I was driving here that even Craig, the person I’ve spent two years with, doesn’t know me. I can divulge lots about my illnesses or my past but it’s much, much harder to say anything definitive about myself. My dad asked me once why Craig accused sabotage as being my saboteur in my “recovery” (*gag*). I told him I didn’t know, that I couldn’t know because I was ultimately doomed to spin on this hamster wheel until I died. Like, if I’m subconsciously sabotaging myself, it would theoretically never end. Well, at least not until I died. I need to get out of this headspace. I’m going to actually go work on my paper because it’s both boring and horrible, two things I excel at.


I was given homework. Believe it or not, Allistair feels that I’ve slipped so much I need a weekly homework assignment to survive from appointment to appointment. And so, here I sit, in the public library, blogging. It’s been so long that I forgot my password to this account (I remembered it eventually, obviously). I don’t particularly like the set-up of these computers because they’re all facing the same direction, which means the only people with true privacy are those in the very last row. And because computers are assigned to individuals to limit usage, you can’t automatically choose to sit in the back. It kinda sucks. As has my mood lately. I can’t explain why but it’s gotten to the point that cutting seems to be a very real option. All the old analogies of drowning, of falling off some impossibly high precipice come to mind when I want to describe how I’ve felt this past week. I was denied my graduation application because I’m short 1 or 2 credits (it’s still quite unclear) and I haven’t heard anything from any of the graduate schools I applied to. Not like it really matters in the end because I’m not going to graduate when I thought I was. Thomas sends me the usual texts pertaining to medical questions but most of them lately have revolved around our differences despite growing up in the same environment. It’s not an easy thing to explain and it certainly doesn’t make me feel like a worthy person. Even last night, I went out to dinner with my mom and Thomas and the entire ride to the restaurant was full of questions about his classes and future endeavors and applying to graduate school. Thomas is a sophomore. I sit on my ass and do nothing while he excels at everything by simply existing. It goes beyond any sort of resentment I may have felt towards him for being the “favored” sibling though. I understand that Thomas didn’t choose that, that he was simply a product of his environment, but when I try to apply the same thinking to myself, it doesn’t work. It becomes a personal vendetta against myself to find all problems and their impossible solutions. I don’t blame Thomas for his success in life. I don’t blame my parents for liking him more. I really don’t. My main problem right now is the fact that…wait…maybe I don’t know my main problem. Maybe I’m not sure where the issue lies. Has my resentment evolved into envy? Jealousy, even? Is this some sort of resignation of…life, basically, because Thomas is ultimately and fundamentally better at it than I am? That’s what I used to do when I was a kid. I would feel unique and excel at something until someone else came along that was better than me. Once that happened, once my unique-ness was taken from me by the existence of someone better than me, I quit. I hated everything about whatever I was good at. I resented the person, I hated the activity or whatever, and I wanted nothing to do with it. Maybe that’s what’s happening here. Maybe, because at one point I excelled at school, I was better at certain things than Thomas (like writing), and Thomas has come along and blown any and all performance out of the water, I want nothing to do with it. Writing was my thing, right? Then, Thomas wrote a 2-volume novel, filling 2 composition books. He continues to write a story, like an ongoing saga, about him and his friends in a mythical place that he’s contemplated sending to Cartoon Network and the like to have it animated. I’ve finished one story in my…no wait, two, in my entire life and both of them were fanfictions. They weren’t even based in my original universe. When I was in grade school, I was mixed with curly hair, that’s what made me unique. Then, all of a sudden, 2 different mixed girls were suddenly being mistaken for me and it became a game of correcting roulette, trying to convince the gym teacher that I was, in fact, Lucy and not Briana or Jessica. I want to be the hero in the story that makes such an impact in people’s lives that they can’t imagine anything before or after my presence. As self-centered as that may seem, that’s what I want. I want to be the Doctor in someone’s life. I want to be Sherlock Holmes, with my quirky residence and annoying habits that people can’t help but to love. I want to matter. And I don’t. I’m just an ordinary human being, with no exceptional skill set, that will wither and die on this miserable rock and no one will hear my flame extinguish, or care, even if they did. That’s how I feel right now. I don’t have a “real” job (I’m a nanny, if you want to be fancy), I live off the government, I don’t own any property or live in a place not owned by my parents. Literally, I am one of those people that could disappear in shows like CSI and NCIS and no one would notice for months, and when it came time to solve my death, they wouldn’t know where to begin. This is the most I’ve written in a while. I have a paper due March 1st that I’ve yet to start. I have to read 2 books for my Sociology of Mental Illness class and haven’t started. Speaking of which, that class brings up so many memories about all my inadequacies, it isn’t funny. My teacher doesn’t speak with the same political correctness that my psychology teachers do, as he shouldn’t. He’s a criminal justice professor, though his original field is social psychology. Because of that though, I feel as if I have a huge neon sign on my head that says that I’m Bipolar, that I have Borderline Personality Disorder, that I’ve stayed in places like the hospital in One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest. I’ve entrusted my entire life to the “system” of psychology and psychiatry, and for what? It’s gotten me up, sure, but up this cliff that I’m now falling back down. I don’t resent Thomas. I’ve said that. I’m past that. But I do resent my past, what’s happened to me, and all the damage it’s done to the road in front of me. I do resent that. And currently, I resent Brendan. He told me last night to “get over it, just do something.” I try extremely hard not to hold his lack of experience against him but when things like this happen, when I go through this shit over and over again, I need him to understand. I need him to be more supportive than select few were. I need him to want to change and learn like my family has to support me and get me through this. I need…I don’t know what I need. I need air, I need space, I need freedom, I need a break from my brain.

This is like a record or something, right? I’ve managed to write twice in the same…year! This year is almost over, actually. I’m not finished Christmas shopping, I still haven’t solved the Internet crisis at Sparks and I don’t have a job. I might be getting another babysitting job in January with one of my mom’s coworkers but for now, I’m a free agent. There’s nothing wrong with that though. It means I get to sleep, and clean, and take care of all the stupid little projects that are around the house. I mean, even now, I’m in the library collecting phone numbers and people to contact to do all the minor things around town that I can’t do. Waterproofing the basement, hooking up a better Internet for all mankind, curing AIDS, ya know, that sort of thing.

The semester has finally ended as well and boy, did it go out with the biggest bang it could! I took a history course with a professor I had for Ethics last semester for the sole reason that I liked the professor. I enjoy history, but this class was much more streamlined for history majors than my Ethics course was, although we did discuss a lot of history in that one as well. Hell, we reenacted the Nuremberg Trials. The focus of this course was writing historical analyses. Like I said, not a history major so I’ve never really written papers in that format before. My Ethics course didn’t require papers like that, at least not in such a formal manner so this was totally foreign to me. My professor, that I have the utmost respect for and admire her intellect, gave me an Incomplete as a final grade. I lost it. I went to her office to ask what happened, what I had done wrong and what exactly she wanted in exchange for a real grade. She told me I had tried to pull a fast one on her, that I was trying to get out of writing a good paper because I was a psychology major and not a history major. All in all, she told me my paper was shit and that I was disrespecting her because I thought I could get away with not completing the course requirements. Now, I know y’all don’t actually know me but if you did, you would know that I am not one to cry or one to shy away from hard work. I cried in her office that day. And I mean, cried. I wept to the point that I couldn’t form coherent words or phrases. I was pissed off, not because I hadn’t “gotten away” with something as she kept accusing, but because the hard work I did put in on the piece I turned in was such a shitstorm to her that she made me cry! The cycle just kept going around and around. The more I thought about what had happened, the more pissed and hurt I got. Even Thomas noted that I’m not a crier and that when it comes to constructive criticism I’m pretty thick-skinned. She was not giving me constructive criticism. She was just being mean. I recorded the whole conversation and plan on keeping any correspondence between us until this “I” leaves my transcript. For those of you who have not been in academia rather recently: an incomplete is like a blank space on your transcript. You don’t receive the credit but it doesn’t lower your GPA as if you failed. Instead, at the professor’s discretion, you are granted an indeterminate amount of time to redeem the credit in a way that is also at the professor’s discretion. Basically, the professor has you by the balls until you do what they want. It’s totally bullshit. I was more pissed off at the fact that I’m going through this process again than actually having the Incomplete. I mean, she could have failed me! But she didn’t and for that I am thankful. Though I’m not too happy about having to spend $60 on books on Amazon for a paper. I did this almost every semester when I was at HCC. I would have a mental breakdown and have to either withdraw entirely or take the Incomplete and work it out with my professor. That’s what bothered me. All this way, all this time, all this money…and I’m still fucking up in the worst sort of way. I’m a good writer. That is one thing I have complete confidence in. But now? Now my foundation is shaky. I’m not sure how good a writer I am because I’ve had to withdraw from so many classes, I’ve had to take an “i” in a course that isn’t even related to my major. Frustrated. Angry. Pissed. Hurt. Enraged. None of those begin to cover it.

And then, on top of that, when I went to take my final final of the semester (which was at 10 AM for a 2 PM class), I got an email. All of my emails come to my phone (like 99% of America’s population) so right before the test was handed out, I checked my phone for messages. I had an email on my school account. I swiped it open and it was her. Just the thought of what had happened, her name, her reply, all of it was like a traumatic event all over again. I’m pretty sure I bombed that test because I was so distracted and wrapped up in my head about my history course. My professor for Social Psychology (that was the final I was taking when I was so rudely shoved into an emotional storm) is really nice and has even served as my pseudo-advisor while my school-assigned advisor is on sabbatical. I don’t think she’s so nice though, that she would let me retake the final, completely stress-free and environmentally-safe, without phones and surprise communication with my history professor. That’s asking a bit much.

I just feel so handicapped. When I’m walking with crutches, when I’m using my cane or even my wheelchair, people stare at me. It’s just part of the gig. I don’t like it but I can put on a tough face and take the questions, laugh off the stares and get on with my day. There are certain intellectual topics that I also accept as being part of the wheelhouse I do not belong in. Math, science, things like that are not for me. Never have been, never will be. And I’ve accepted that. Because so much emphasis is put on those subjects though, I’ve been compensating my entire life with useless facts and a superb knowledge of things I am good at. English, writing, history, things like that. For my professor to make me feel stupid isn’t really an accomplishment (I feel stupid a lot actually) but making me feel stupid in something I know I’m good at is a skill. And now I feel so stupid that I can’t do anything. I’ve recoiled so much that I can’t get anything done. I can’t think of anything remotely important without thinking about how I’m doing it wrong or there’s a million better ways to handle it. It’s insane how much one person can affect you.

I’m so sleepy. I took a Oxycotin last night because I was hurting so bad and now I feel like it hasn’t worn off. I’m gonna go home and lie down. And, of course, I look fucking fabulous today but that doesn’t matter because I have nowhere to go.

350px-CastielPurgatoryFinals. Oh, how I hate you. Long time, no blog. I can’t leave the building yet, as I have another final at 12:30 (I had one this morning at 8…AM), so I’m sitting in one of the alcoves, full of sunshine, typing. I’m listening to music too but that was sort of a given. Watching people study is sort of like watching people in the bookstores and coffee shops. Some people are obviously not doing anything but trying desperately to hide that fact. Others aren’t even trying to hide it; they’re talking, looking at their phones, anything to keep the books shut. And others are legitimately working…and being greatly annoyed by those of us in the other two categories. That’s okay, though. I like the anonymity of it all (I spelled that right the first time! That never happens!); hiding in plain sight and all that. I have to work tomorrow, after another final, that I haven’t studied for. Exciting.

This week, I was super depressed. I got blown off multiple times by the same person, was left alone a bit too long and spent too much money. I’m sort of like a dog with a credit card. Leave me alone and I’ll buy ten pairs of shoes rather than eat yours in protest. I’m not sure if the emotionality was because of this semester ending; you know I don’t do well with endings. Or if it was because I have major decisions to make. I don’t know. I can’t figure it out. The decisions I speak of: graduate school, to take or not to take the GREs, and what to do about my living situation. Let’s break it down.

Graduate school: Brendan. That’s pretty much the concern there. He’s assured me he will follow me to the ends of the Earth, or Pennsylvania because that’s where I think I’m going, and get a job wherever we land. He’s supportive like only my parents have ever been. It freaks me out sometimes. Other times it’s the best and most perfect thing. He’s not the only issue though. The other problem is uprooting my life to go to school. That means being an adult. Like all the way. Shopping, not having parents within proximity, not having anywhere to run when we fight, not having anywhere to run: period. I’ve lived here my whole life. While it has not provided me with the ample running zone I would like, it has been sufficient. Having an alcove at my parents’ house is perfect for those times I just can’t stand to be in anyone’s company. If I move, that won’t be there. I’m like a baby bird leaving the nest, except the only reason I’m leaving is because I’m being forcefully shoved by society. The GRE problem is pretty much wrapped up in this too. If I go to a school that requires the test, I’ll have to take the test. If I don’t, I’m sure as hell not taking it. I will write a kick-ass essay though. That’s a given. Well, come to think of it. My living situation is sort of wrapped up in this too. Brendan is coming with me, no matter where I go, as he says, but what am I to do now? We live in my grandmother’s house in the middle of nowhere. It’s big and empty and drafty and good. But there’s no Internet. Like, at all. And, as much as I hate to admit it, we are children of the 21st century. We want the Internet (note: I didn’t use the word “need” because we don’t ultimately “need” it but we desperately, desperately want it!). It’s that simple. Having spoken with at least 2 Internet providers (I don’t know if B has talked to anyone), we have gotten no further on the issue. He wants to move but I know he’s reluctant to make that jump without having that tether to the real world. And I get it. But I also don’t want to live without him right now. I have to add the “right now” because I’m such a fluttering flower that I may not agree with myself in 5 minutes!

I’m going to watch Supernatural when I’m finished typing this. I was watching it the other day and it was fueling my depression more than I care to admit. Why? For those of you that don’t watch the show, I’m going to try to sum it up in a few sentences. Dean and Sam Winchester fight otherworldly creatures as a duty to protect humanity from said otherworldly creatures. They receive help along the way, from various human beings, creatures of the kind they hunt, and heavenly bodies. One of these heavenly bodies has played a key role in their success: the angel, Castiel. Now, if you are suddenly compelled to watching this (amazing) show, please skip to the next paragraph, as I am about to spoil some it for you. If you already watch/don’t want to but wish I would shut up and get to the point, keep reading this paragraph. I am Castiel. No, I don’t mean in a vessel-I’m-losing-my-mind-Joan-of-Arc-style. I mean, the character. The struggles, the trials, the tribulations, yadda yadda. Okay, here’s what I’m thinking. Cas saves Dean from Hell. Why? Because he knew he had to. It was his duty. Yes, I am aware there is more to it but I’m trying not to totally spoil! Then, he takes on the Leviathan (spelled this right too! YES!) and it ultimately (sort of) destroys him. Then, he survives purgatory without understanding why; he was totally expecting to rot there for the rest of his…whatever. Now, here’s my analogy (it’s me we’re talking about! Of course there was going to be some symbolism!). Cas did what he thought was right (twice) only to have it bite him in the ass. Then, he had the chance to pay for his crimes (though they weren’t really seen that way), he’s saved from that curse and is left to figure it out (I’m only on season 8 so no one spoil it for me as I’m writing this!). I’ve made countless mistakes trying to save other people, myself, whatever and whomever you want to “insert here.” I’ve never been to purgatory so I can’t say that but I was saved from my self-inflicted punishment for some unknown reason. I don’t know what I did to deserve the people that are in my life now but I can tell you, whatever it is, it didn’t happen in this lifetime. My punishment for all the pain I’ve caused, all the people I’ve hurt, all the hell I’ve raised (not in the good way) is having to live with that knowledge. But, like Cas, I’m still left with the confusion of what I did to deserve my saving. I’ve tried to kill myself before. Cas rotted in purgatory. I keep watching the show, hoping he gets some redemption, some relief, so I know that it can happen to me too.

It’s the same reason I read that book, Borderlines by Carol…something or other. That’s what started me on this journey. The divorce from Mara, the craziness that followed. Even the day it happened, I called my mom, crying, wanting to know the end of the book. I needed to know that she survived, she made it, she put her life back together. I keep watching because I need to know if Cas redeems himself. I relate to that with so much of my being, it’s insane. I’m afraid that I will never get to redeem myself, to forgive myself.

It ebbs and flows. Sometimes, I’m just as angry as Dean, just as flustered and frustrated but understanding as Sam. Sometimes, very rarely, I’m happy and carefree like Garth. Most of the time though, I’m pining for forgiveness, some sign that things will be okay despite everything that has happened, like Castiel. B has been my steadfast rock; my constancy through it all. Somehow, he’s forgiven me. Though he wasn’t at the eye of the storm, things were pretty rough on his shore because of me. Now? Now I just need to figure out how to do it for myself.