Some RL rambles, recs, and ficbits

[hoosierbitch]

Hello, my friends! (Oh, god. Now I feel like John McCain. o.O)

A few days ago, speccygeekgrrl did an awesome awesome awesome thing. She did a podfic of my fic "Nightmares," and it's REALLY GREAT (download it: here). I didn't think I'd be able to listen to it without wincing and face!palming over my mistakes, but she reads it SO WELL! It's one of my favorite fics that I've written, and she made it even better. So go check that out! She's also done fics by asimaiyat and gyzym , they're all WONDERFUL, and can be found: here.

Then gyzym wrote sick!Neal fic that makes my world a better place. It's called "Out in the Cold," It's undiluted H/C, it has her trademark wit and smooth style, the amazing relationship between Neal/Peter/El (smart, in character, believable), and  THERE ARE NOT ENOUGH WORDS TO DESCRIBE HOW MUCH I LOVE IT. THERE REALLY ARE NOT.

And now for some RL rambles. The past few monthss have been a bit rough. I restarted my antidepressants recently, and the past few days have been a bit of a rollercoaster of ups-and-downs while I get used to them again. I stopped taking them a while ago because...well, I don't actually have a good reason. One of those stupid: "well, I'm fine now! I must not need these meds anymore!" thought patterns that make no sense. It's not serious depression (I have been functional), I know I'm lucky because a lot of people have it so much worse, but it still does have a significant effect on my life.

I didn't know if I was going to post about this. Which is weird. I mean I'm not really a shy person (have you read my porn?) but this, for stupid reasons, remains a bit of a taboo subject. I was trying to think of how I'd word it - have I 'had depression issues?' 'Been depressed?' Been 'dealing with depression'? I haven't talked about it enough to even know how to talk about it. I started as a moody kid and never changed. It's been over ten years dealing with it as something acknowledged and labelled in my life and I don't have the words to describe it.  So I thought I'd start talking about it, in the hopes that it'll help me deal with it more responsibly in the future. And it - it shouldn't be something I'm afraid to talk about. I don't want to be ashamed of it.  

Now that I'm coming out of my fog, I'm realizing that I've fucked up a lot of important thigns. And I still have a lot of shit to do, which is kind of overwhelming. I fucked up a lot of the grad school process because I avoided thinking about it, and thus didn't stay on top of it. I really need to get going on the job search, I'm weeks behind applying for apprenticeships (missed a lot of deadlines already, might not get letters of rec in time for the rest). When I was depressed, I just didn't think about these things - now I'm thinking about them. And I screwed myself over for next year. None of these things are good or easy - I mean, I really screwed myself over - but I woke up this morning and for the first time in months didn't dread getting out of bed. I'd forgotten what it feels like to start the day like that. 


*

On a more lighthearted note, I saw this and wanted to do it: Post a sentence (or paragraph) or two from as many of your WIPs as you want, with no explanation attached.

*

In this dream they have not yet burnt Merlin for his treachery. He begs Arthur to save him, he promises to heal Arthur's leg in exchange for a pardon. Arthur looks down at his right leg and only them remembers that he hurts. The pain spreads upwards while Merlin earnestly promises that he can take it all away. He has buckets of water in his hands (Arthur, I'm sorry, Arthur, you're on fire). Merlin's whispers get quieter and quieter until all he dreams is his father's voice they lie. They promise you what you want most in the world and then they take from you what you can't afford to lose

Merlin disappears and his father, benevolent in front of the pile of ashes, tells him that everything will be all right. His leg does not hurt when he wakes to midday light spilling into his empty rooms. It is, instead, terrifyingly numb.

*

"The men you work for - the men you claim to trust and believe in - they're crooked, through and through. Every one of them. I know - I've been in their beds, their homes - Peter, you can't be so blind - "

 

"I don't serve those men. I serve my country." And Neal knows they're two different things but Peter doesn't seem to know how to do one without the other. "I love my country."

 

I love you, Neal realizes, as Peter gathers his clothes, leaves his coins on the bed, and leaves him behind.

*

When he woke up it took him a moment before he remembered where he was. Before the last of his dream faded and he realized that his reality was the Burke's bed, was Peter's shoulder under his head and Elizabeth's legs twined with his. That he was warm, the bed was soft, he was safe.

 

Another minute before he told himself that this, too, was a dream. A beautiful one - maybe he'd paint it, years down the road when he needed a pick-me-up - but it wasn't his. The night before, yes. In all its pain and fury and promises, that he had lived fully and would claim as his own. But not this - the smell of Downy instead of dust, the softness of skin instead of silk, Byron's bed wasn't his either but it was empty.

*

"For such a desperate slut, Neal, you make a terrible whore."

 

Ash - I swear, I AM WORKING ON YOUR CHILE FIC!