#unchecked

https://www.gofundme.com/f/btuqqt-save-my-familys-life

~Prof. J.R. Buchanan M.D.~

I want to love and be loved in a primal way. It doesn’t matter if you’re or I am at our worst, because we are together. It doesn’t matter if I’m good while your down or vice versa. I want your love. And I hate myself for it.

I have never been loved in this way and yet the urge for me to love someone this way is so strong it feels like it’s clawing up my throat and bursting open my chest.

I do not want it to be logical. I want it to be from deep within us and even if we want to stop it, we cannot.

I want to love someone but not in a sexual way. I want to love your smile, and how it brightens up the room and spreads like wildfire. I want to love the way your lips form when you say a certain word, something nobody else would give any thought to.

I want to love the way your hand fits in mine and the way you hug me like I’m your everything, just as you are mine. I want to give you my everything and have it reciprocated, I want you to take up my thoughts, and no matter what I do I cannot fight it.

But I am afraid. I am afraid that kind of love cannot be reciprocated, I fear I am unworthy of such a lovely soul connection.

I want to see you at your worst and for you to know I love you with my whole heart. That I would kill and die for you. That even when you perceive yourself as having nothing left to give and no desire to get up and even clean yourself, you know you can lean on me and I will carry you if I must. That I would truly do anything for you.

I want to be wanted. I want to take care of someone and have them take care of me. My love would be unconditional and unending.

But what if yours is not? I fear that risk. I fear giving someone my everything, my very fibre of my being and they just take it without ever returning the favor.

Like this visceral anger and hatred y’all have for Endeavor (and other similar fictional characters) is...understandable, but also...he’s not real. And he’s not your abuser.

My step grandfather was a monster and the only thing that slowed him down was age and time. But I don’t look at Endeavor and see James Melvin (yeah fuck that nigga I’ll put his whole government on the Internet)

But it’s like, fuck...y’all project so much on to this character (which ok fine) but it gets to a point where you start attacking innocent people in the fandom who actually LIKE the character and/or attacking the creator for fucking writing a story. Which is his JOB! He’s supposed to evoke emotional responses, but damn, at some point y’all need to be able to make the distinction between your experiences and fiction, and if something is too true to life that you can’t handle it, maybe you should step back from it until you can.

You have every right to hate or dislike endeavor and other people have a right to like him. But like, literally going AT people for liking him? Come on now y’all. Your experiences and your pain is valid, but find healthy ways to deal with it so you can engage with media without feeling personally attacked or offended and then turning that unchecked trauma and pain on people who don’t share your same experiences or opinions.

Oh, and acknowledging that Endeavor is trying to change or atleast recognizes his wrong doings and wants to atone for them, isn’t being an abuse apologist. It’s just a fact.

If you are someone who is excusing Endeavor’s abuse or suggesting he doesn’t deserve punishment or accountability for his actions, you are DEAD wrong (he definitely does deserve punishment)

[ having seen @mizzhydes ‘s snippet <3 ]

________________________________________

Down on the washed in New York’s light pollution and the last strands of daylight street below, an old drunk has just urinated on the wall. On himself as well, judging by the moves he performs as he sways away in the stinky, nearly-passed-out-and-drooling way. A scabby stray dog is sniffing around him in little of interest, more of a habit. Even the stray dogs get bored out of their skulls in NYC sometimes.

One person turns their head and follows the drunk with their gaze. Probably a tourist —  it’s come to Harry’s attention that the real New Yorkers are nigh pathological about minding their own business.

It’s that nice and quiet part of the evening in Queens, close to curfew for kids his age, and before what the media call “hardcore crime” starts happening.

There’s a knock on the door of the apartment inside of which Harry has started thinking of taking on the self-promise to open Prus’ The Doll, disregarding his mom’s curious look, one of too many. He just needs to know why Izabela was a “bitch.” Whatever that means. (Concluding from his mom’s yet another look, it’s not a synonym to “beach.”)

His mom’s voice comes muffled from the bathroom.

“Harry, would you mind? Miss May’s supposed to drop by!”

He puts the book carefully on the wooden coffee table and slides his feet into his Stitch slippers.

“Comin’!” He calls, scampering up to the door.

He pulls the doorknob without checking — he’s still not tall enough for the Judas — and smiles, expecting nobody else but Miss May from the door across the floor.

He finds someone of the opposite sex. And smaller. And with a sunny smile stretching a smooth, pale face.

“You’re not Miss May,” Harry says matter-of-factly, tilting his head and leaning against the door frame. 

“You can call me so,” the boy quips, heavy accent juicing his angelic voice. Harry frowns at himself for the comparison.

“No thanks?”

“Then it’s just Louis.” Louis draws out a hand. The way his wrist is angled pulls Harry’s attention, but doesn’t distract him from shaking the cold hand.