Someday I will put here a title

i didn’t realize it for the first few years - something shifting, something so subtle. the winter makes us all cold, the summer makes us all a little out of our minds. i just loved her, because she was incredible, and i was the luckiest person alive.

it’s just that i realized that spring came with sudden bursts of cold. it’s just that summer frequently raged in with fire sprouting from her lips. it’s just that winter was the worst of all, her eyes dead. it’s just that autumn loves me different; throws herself into it without the clingy sweat of summer. i used to love that summer girl, you know? i loved how wild she was, the way in summer she took every risk she could. but i carried her home drunk one too many times, cleaned up one too many of the messes she made for no reason than to enjoy the sensation of burning. and winter was worse; the shutdown, the isolation. how she became distant, a blizzard, caught up in her own head, unable to tell me what was wrong and unable to think i actually wanted to listen.

she comes home, her hair bleached white. a dark smile on her lips. the shadowy parts of her are back. they loom like icicles overhead. she kisses me with her body held at a distance, a peck on my cheek that feels like an iceberg. she makes polite conversation and we go to bed early, our bodies untouching. 

it is a lonely season, i think on the ninth day of this. winter is cold. winter is known for the death of things. when i look at her, i see the girl i fell for, inhabited by an alien. she was the first women i loved so much i felt it would kill me. i can’t leave. when i wake her up with my crying, she tells me to shush and go back to sleep. she’s different like this, quiet, doesn’t eat. 

three days later i stare at myself in the mirror. i wonder if it’s me. if the fat on my body or something in my face or the wrinkles and she doesn’t love me. i try prettier lingerie, lean cuisine, i try different hair, more makeup, try harder. it doesn’t work. she looks at me the same; that empty gaze that neither loves nor condemns my actions. 

somewhere in februrary i lose it. we’re fighting again, from car to restaurant to car to home again. we fight about stupid things, small things; i tell her i feel she doesn’t love me, she says i’m not listening. the circle goes around and around, old pain peeling back, new pain unhealing. i sleep on the couch.

i wake up when i hear her crying, white hair around her all messed up. the kind of sobbing that only comes at two in the morning, heavy and thick and hurting. my winter girl. my heart is breaking. she looks up at me like i’m her anchor. “i’m sorry i’m like this,” she says. and i start saying, it’s okay i’m here we’re married, but she just shakes her head and says, “I know this isn’t the real me.”

i hold her cold hand. she stares at the blankets. “i am different in winter,” she whispers, “i know i am and i’m sorry.” she looks at me. “why do you think i dye my hair? cut it off? get rid of the old me?”

i tell her it’s okay. we’re together and it’s okay, and then she whispers, “i’m sorry you married four of me.”

we lay there like that, her head on my chest. she falls asleep. i stare at the ceiling, thinking of the way she sounded when she was crying. how i helped put her in that pain. how i promised in sickness and in health and everything in between.

the next day i spend at the library. there aren’t enough books on how to love someone with seasonal affective disorder so i make my own, notes and pages and little ideas on post-its. and i take a deep breath and make myself a promise.

she comes home to her favorite dinner and we kiss and she’s uneasy but that’s okay. the next day i bring home flowers and the next day she finds little love notes in her pockets. i love her quiet, the way winter demands, understand her sex drive is faltering; spend more time just cuddling. we drink wine and we kiss and some part of her starts relaxing. 

the truth is there is no loving someone out of their mental illness. the truth is that you can love someone in despite of it; love them loud enough to give them an excuse to believe they can make their way out of it.

and i learn. i remember the rebirth of spring, when she starts thawing. we kiss and have picnics in pretty dresses. i remember her joy at little birds and her rain dancing. i fall in love with the flowers in her cheeks and the little bursts of cleaning. i fall in love with summer’s slow walks and milkshakes and shouting to music playing too loud on the speakers. i fall in love with her dancing, with the sunfire energy. and when winter comes; i am ready. i remember that snow used to look pretty. i fall in love with the hearth of her, with the holiday, with the slow smile that spreads across her face so shyly. i fall in love with how she looks in boots and mittens and every day i find another reason to love her the way she deserves - they way i always should have.

she comes home with her white hair and dark smile and a package in her hands. i ask to see what it is and that small shy grin comes creeping out. it’s a sunlamp packed in with medication. she looks at me with those wide eyes and that beautiful winter blush. “i’m trying to get better,” she whispers, “i promise.”

recovery doesn’t look immediate. sometimes it isn’t neat. i can’t say we never fight or that we’re suddenly complete. but each day, that tiny girl’s strength gives me another reason. i love her. i love her while she tames the roller coaster of spring; i love her for reigning in the summer storms; i love her for taking her winter and trying to be warm. it is hard, because everything worth it is hard. she spreads out her autumn leaves; mixes the best parts of her into everything. learns to take winter’s silence for a moment before yelling in summer. learns to take autumn’s spice and give it to spring. we are both learning.

one day she comes home and her hair is different, but it’s a style i don’t know. i kiss it and tell her that she’s beautiful and the inside of me swells like a flood. i’m so glad that she’s mine. every part of her. the whole. i am the luckiest person on earth. and i always have been. but she’s hugging me and saying, “thank you for helping me,” and i can’t explain why i’m crying.

this is what love is; not always an emotion but rather your actions. the choices we make when we realize our lives would be empty if the other was absent. this is what love is: letting them grow, helping them find their way in out of the cold. this is what love is: sometimes it takes work to see how the thing you planted together actually grows.

brushbug banging out the tunes

the big finding of the whole experiment was that both food and comfort are not just substantial, but required for healthy development. in the 50s the popular theory was that mothers should touch and hold their babies as little as possible to avoid “spoiling” them, especially right after birth (which explains uh. a lot about boomers as a generation).

Harlow conducted his experiment to investigate this idea, and he found that physical comfort nearly eclipsed the food as a need in the baby macaques. They would go to the wire mothers only when they were hungry, sometimes even trying to reach the milk bottles without letting go of the cloth mothers, because they so badly needed both. Harlow’s other experiments showed that being deprived of parental comfort and enrichment as babies dealt lasting psychological damage to the macaques. and today we know that human babies can just up and die without enough skin-to-skin contact.

1. If you see this post, highly recommend taking it as an opportunity to set a timer for 15 minutes and switch over to ACTIVITY YOU ENJOY. if after those 15 minutes, you want to go back to scrolling, that's okay!

2. Huge shout out to this popping up in my notifs often, bc I do go back to activity.

You need to believe in things that aren't true. How else can they become? 🌿🌿🌿

Trigger warning for graphic descriptions of injured and dead wildlife.

When a fireworks display occurs near a wild bird roost, the birds simultaneously explode into the night skies in utter panic, which can lead to huge numbers of deaths, usually because these birds either smash their skulls or break their necks as the result of flying into trees, fences, billboards, houses and other solid objects that they cannot see in the gloom and ensuing chaos.

Many of the startled birds who take flight fly at much higher altitudes and for much longer durations than they’re used to to escape the noise, which is energetically costly and physiologically stressful.

Small birds and bats can be knocked from the air and killed by the sonic shock. In 2010, 40 dead sparrows were discovered dead under a roost in a nature reserve after a local fireworks display. The manager of the reserve witnessed a tawny owl fluttering and convulsing on the ground after a particularly loud explosion. It died shortly after.

In Arkansas in 2010, some 5,000 red-winged blackbirds, European starlings, common grackles and brown-headed cowbirds suffered blunt-force trauma after colliding with cars, trees and buildings, an ornithologist from the Arkansas Game and Fish Commission would tell National Geographic.

In 2008, federal officials showed that seabirds in the northern California town of Gualala abandoned their nests after a fireworks show, leaving their eggs vulnerable to predators.

Each year in Austin, Texas, the Congress Bridge bats can be seen fleeing the fireworks display en masse on weather radar, and emergences from their roost diminish noticeably in the days following the Fourth.

In 2018, the Galapagos banned the sale and use of pyrotechnics. According to the BBC, conservationists said that fireworks caused elevated heart rates, trembling and anxiety in many animals. 

The threat to wildlife doesn’t stop at startling lights and sounds; fireworks also have the potential of starting wildfires, directly affecting wildlife and destroying essential habitat. Litter from firecrackers, bottle rockets and other explosives can be choking hazards for wildlife and may be toxic if ingested.

So what do you do if you want to watch fireworks responsibly? Experts say municipalities are more likely to be aware of these dangers than private consumers. Their best advice is to stick to the shows put on by professionals and local governments, which tend to follow guidelines put forth by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, among others, about animal safety.

The National Audubon Society offers similar guidelines: “Commercial fireworks are concentrated in one location, rather than in several locations at once, which is what often happens in neighborhoods. This allows birds to take off and land again in a ‘safer’ location rather than continuing to flee noises coming at them from all directions.”

Sometimes I wonder why I don‘t try harder to move out, but the only answer I keep arriving at is some sort of morbid curiosity when mother will have enough. She hasn‘t magically become a better person, therefore whatever compelled her to hit and kick me out back then should still be present. I want confirmation that I didn‘t imagine it. And I want witnesses, and the step mother and step sister seem good enough. Pretty sure that I will pity them when the time comes, but not no. Step sister maybe. She has it worse in some aspects

I want proof that I‘m in the right to feel miserable about the memory alone, but I‘ll be fine with the actual event just happening again.

I just want someone I don‘t have to tell it to first, because I don‘t have anybody for that because I‘m a friendless loser who gave up trying to make friends when they all up and left the city or country or just seemed much happier with other people. And I want closure that it‘s fine to still kind of hate mother for what I remember her doing and what she denies even remembering.

It‘s so much worse that I know that they love me. They do, and I don’t even get to plead my case during arguments, and when I do, I waited too long because I resigned myself to keeping quiet before getting fed up because it never leads anywhere.

I... remember when I used to feel that way.

I'm so sorry you have to live like that, and that you're so mistreated that feeling like this became logical.

But... you are.

And you're worth so much more than what your family gives you.

Cold reading says your mother stopped kicking and hitting you because you're in her weight category now, and she subconsciously feels that should you want to hit back, you have enough mass and reach to do so.

Cold reading says your mother will never remember she was abusing you, because in her mind, she is blameless: you were "provoking her", and she never chose to hit you, she merely reacted to being provoked by a defenseless child.

You might or might not be validated some day by your mother, or stepsister, or someone among relatives or associates.

But I believe you, because I've seen too much stories like that, and I can also tell you the next chapter of this story:

It was never your fault.

It's still not your fault.

You shouldn't wait until they see human being in you. Run away. Find any other source of support, any other basis of survival. Run away and build the safety and happiness, because you have always deserved it.

You're not inadequate: they're sabotaging you.

Whatever they say you keep doing wrong, I refuse to believe it. I've seen people suddenly showing skills once they were shown them properly; I've seen people improving immensely once they got non-judgemental environment to exercise skills they were allegedly unable to learn; I've seen people learning skills once they got proper support for their illnesses.

I refuse to believe there is anything you could do wrong enough to justify mistreatment.

If this is about disrespect you get from your family, they might or might not change, but it won't be because you will finally satisfy their requirements; if it was possible, it would happen long ago.

If this is about any life skills, allow me to help. I'll gladly reinvent the whole way of doing any given chore until I'll find one that works for you; I'll gladly FaceTime you for whatever time you need and show step by step whatever skill you believe you need.

But please do not believe what your family instilled in you.

I was in the same place years ago. I thought the kind of thoughts you shared. And I know that you are no different from me.

We were both always worthy of respect. We were both always worthy of kindness. We were both always worthy of effort of understanding us.