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alex ♥
19 December 2016 @ 04:54 pm
i read an essay by jenna busch and janina scarlet titled "the stark sisters: on trauma and posttraumatic growth".

it starts on bereavement, goes through each of the traumas the girls encouter, but focuses very little on the stifled grief that each sister goes through after the public and gruesome decapitation of their father. i wanted to expand on that, a little bit.

sansa has to watch from the front row, thinking her beloved joffrey will exonerate her father as she has asked, when he doesn't. she can't even scream because then cersei will know, joffrey will know, and she has no one to protect her anymore except herself. sansa suffers from disenfranchised grief, even though the loss was her own father, because she is not allowed to grieve. she is not allowed to mourn. her loss is stigmatized by the people who make up her social circle. she must grieve privately.

In the tower room at the heart of Maelgor's Hodfast, Sansa gave herself to the darkness.

She drew the curtains around her bed, slept, woke weeping, and slept again. When she could not sleep, she lay under blankets shivering with grief. Servants came and went, bringing meals, but the sight of food was more than she could bear.The dishes piled up on the table beneath her window, untouched and spoiling, until the servants took them away again.

Sometimes her sleep was laden and dreamless, and she woke more tired than when she had closed her eyes.


she suffers from disordered eating, depression, social withdrawal. she sleeps and sleeps and in dreams where her father is present, it inevitably ends with joffrey's words, ordering her father's execution.

sansa is able to grieve for a short period, perhaps a day or two, until the nightmare that is her bethrothed, an now king, joffrey, intimidates her out of bed, and when she resists, he has a guard beat her. everything changes for sansa after her father's death. she no longer sees joffrey as a noble, kind prince.


Sansa stared at him, seeing him for the first time. He was wearing a padded crimson doublet patterned with lions and a cloth-of-gold cape with a high collar that framed his face. She wondered how she could have ever thought him handsome. His lips were soft and red as the worms you found after a rain, and his eyes were vain and cruel. "I hate you," she whispered.


that same day, sansa is subjected to even more psychological trauma when joffrey forces her to look at the decapitated head that once belonged to her father amongst the other traitors lining the edges of the red keep.

however, sansa's strength and grace is her salvation. she looks at the head. she plays nice, gives joffrey what he wants, but until she is beaten once more at joffrey's order, she keeps her emotions inside.

He can make me look at heads, she told herself, but he can't make me see them."


sansa learns the cruelty of the world very quickly. her personality adadpts. to bring herself joy, she entertains suicidal ideation. she ruminates on how she could have prevented her father's execution, as if it was her fault at all. she takes her predisposed notions of goodness and trusts no one. she isolates herself, but in doing so, she learns to plays the game well. sansa seizes temporary alliances with those, like littlefinger, margaery, who may help her escape the inevitable fate of marrying her abuser. no one helps her without a price. she learns how to pay. she lets little finger have his way with her, stealing her away on the night of joffrey's poisoning. she learns to use her beauty and grace to disguise the emotional disturbance and traumatic stress she carries with her. she grows from it, becomes stronger, smarter, reflective, and reactive. arya grows too, a different journey, but the same growth, the same adaptations.

arya is amongst the crowd, seized by a stranger who protects her from seeing the action of death that takes her father. the two sisters suffer from complicated grief, but arya's is inhibited, she funnels all her energy into revenge. she makes meaning of her father's death by becoming obsessed with killing those who have betrayed her or led to her father's death in any way. she creates a list. she fulfills it eventually, after learning the art of killing. unlike sansa, arya doesn't look back. she survives by moving on.

She had cried in her sleep the night before, dreaming of her father. Come morning, she'd woken red-eyed and dry, and could not have shed another tear if her life hung on it.


arya is hardened, and that is, if i remember correctly, the last mention of arya crying.

I won't cry, she thought, I won't do that. I'm a Stark of Winterfell, our sigil is the direwolf, direwolves don't cry.


even before her father's execution, arya's ability to survive is notable, with her first kill of the red keep stable boy, who surely would have raped and then killed her during the purge of house stark at winterfell. but now, after witnessing the death of her father at the young age of adolesence, arya's plunge into homicidal ideation is deep. unlike her sister, arya's disordered thoughts are executed outwardly, she ruminates less and spends less time feeling guilty unlike sansa. arya actively externalizes her aggression and sadness, much like a male would. let's not forget the added pressure of having to hide her who she is by pretending to be a member of the opposite sex. arya as she knew herself has to hide too, like sansa, but being the swordsman and tough girl she is, she is better at playing a boy than she ever was at playing the role of a girl, especially as dictated by society in westeros.

one of two things that differs between arya and sansa is that where sansa is completely isolated and trusts no one, arya is able to find unlikely support, being so far away from the keep. she finds a friend in yoren as they travel to the wall. he protects her by shaving her head and keeping an eye on her. she befriends the bull, or gendry, and reminds her of her brothers. she finds solace with him after he discovers who she is and keeps her safe by keeping her secret. arya even befriends the hound after she added him to her list for killing mycah, her only friend. she still lets him die from his wounds after a battle.

another difference between the sisters is that sansa is the only one to experience sexual assault, repeated rapes, and sexual torture at the hands of men, always men, of course. first from joffrey, the man sansa had loved and was devoted up until the second he orders her father's head to be cut off. then from the horror of being married to tyrion, and then from little finger's advances because she is the mirror image of her mother, catelyn, and finally from ramsay bolton, the worst of them all. it never ends for sansa, cursed by her beauty and family name. however deep the psychological trauma, sansa survives in these times through dissociation from her body and her collusions with those who seek to use her (as she wil use them for an escape) to advance their own means.

the only sisters of house stark see more than their fair share of pain, experience more trauma than any other female in the series, and yet, their ability to adapt keeps them safe. instead of succumbing to their inner desires (sansa's suicidal ideation, arya's reckless anger), they change and experience posttraumatic growth. their symptoms for post-traumatic stress disorder do not linger. they cling to the vestiges of their house name, remind themselves they are direwolves. they cling to the thoughts of the other, seeking solace in the fact they share the same blood, listening for words and whispers of the others' existence.
 
 
noise: kill v maim - grimes
 
 
alex ♥
01 July 2013 @ 06:40 pm
there is a fairytale that no one tells their daughters
a story spanning several millenia
the pages are torn
scattered across galaxies

there is a page inside you that you've never bothered to read
you don't know what it is

no one tells you this particular story because no one can
not yet
you will never be ready for the way she'll make you complete
you don't know about the agony that comes with that first kiss
the reddened crescent-shaped marks on your thigh will disappear by dawn
but the detail of their existence, the pain, the color, her eyes, the subtle shift in her smile on your lips, the smell of her
will never erase

the sun crawls over the edges of the horizon
on its knees along the cotton fields
slowly & devastatingly
in through the ends of your blinds that you always forget to pull shut
the sun begins to warm you
but the night has not yet drawn to a close
the moon is still bright & opalescent
it plays with the rays of light
& they tickle you awake
it's early, the light is harmonious
but you don't feel so
in fact, you don't feel anything
then you hear her voice
like a siren's song
she beckons you
her sonata is ethereal
made up of debilitating sighs & hands pressed over moans
a seductive melody that hums deeps inside you
vibrating in time with your sins & your sorrow
her song lures you from the sheets
leads you into the moonlit morning
there is no escape
even if you wanted to

her song may sound like it's coming from outside the window
but you know better

you must realize that you're still in bed
that this is all in your head

it's always in your head
she's always wading in the waters
sifting through cerebrum like it's driftwood
her silky lunar tresses leaving ripples
she pushes against the walls of your mind like spiderwebbing shocks
these waters are not shallow
these waters are milky white, deep, vast

you think you've read all the lore
you think you know what she is
you think you understand what it is to love

she rises up from the depths
dripping & crystalline & pure & solitary

you would like to imagine that she is yours
she is not a thing to be harnessed
to be held, maybe
but not owned

you take a single step
her trust is devouring, splashes around you like a drizzle of rain
you feel like you are drowning
her words flood into you
her waves crash against your lungs & your heart
& your soul
you feel at home for the first time in your life

your breath is not your own anymore

you are inside her & she is inside you
this time when she sings, you sing along
she reads between the lines of your fingerprints
she tells you a story about the moon and the sun
how their orbits are not ruled by the sun's massive gravity
but instead held in place by love

you hold her in your arms and weep

when you finally wake, her hand is in yours
you heart is in hers

you thought there were no more stories you hadn't already heard
you were wrong
so wrong

love is not exclusive to a single planet
love cannot be contained in a book or a song or the deepest ocean
love will never be finite
 
 
alex ♥
     1. sons of anarcy; gen; jax-centric. 2. batman; joker/harley; joker/batman. 3. millenium trilogy; fluff; lisbeth/mikael. 4. the great gatsby; nick/judging you; jay/daisy; jay/nick. 5. x-men: first class; au; charles/erik. 6. supernatural; r; dean/cas. 7. sherlock; gen; sherlock/john. 8. #ysm; #kaitzin; 9: #ysm; wing!fic; #dirtypathogens   

1. jax breathes out and it's on days like this where a carton of cigarettes isn't near enough to calm him the fuck down. he takes a swig, sucks on the filter, breathes in, and waits. his head feels heavy. his life feels heavy. the nicotine thrills his blood, warms him a bit. it's never ice cold in charming, but somedays, it can get damn freezing. 

2. despite what others might think, joker's all about romance. he likes the idea of love. the way it croons at him through the bulletproof, shatterproof, fiberglass reinforced vinyl windows of his cell. he wants to hold it in his fingers (when he finally gets the threading in his shoulders loose enough to rip out of this alabastersnowwhitetightstraightjacket) and pet it like a bird, wring its neck with his two longer fingers, feel the snappy snap of death with the warmstickyjuicytasty redred blood drop through his fingers. he wants the finite feeling that encompasses the stickysick love he often feels deprived of. he wants dr. harleen quinzel wrapped in velvet, soft enough to pet, soft enough to bruise, soft enough to chew. he wants the bleeding, raw, defrosting kind of love. he thinks about bats and the love he must have missed out on and thinks, joker thinks he could find it there too, under the cowl, behind those eyes, somewhere in the bulbous, beautiful, bright brain of the bat. he loves love, really. joke's on everyone else, they don't know what they're missin' out on.

3. she's typing and typing and the click-clacking is her way of letting you know she's okay. she's warm. she's alive. she can feel you staring and the click-clacking stops suddenly. through her short bangs, her brown eyes cut into yours. she's a sucker for affection, and most of the times, you can't help but acquiesce to what she wants. you like it better that way, when she doesn't ask, doesn't say a word, but instead she just needlessly wants yet her pride just refuses to follow through. it could be a power play, you could use it over her, take advantage of her trust, her feelings, but you don't even linger on that thought. you just give yourself to her. you watch her blink, assess the current moment. she moves so that she's no longer laying under the covers, but sitting with her legs crossed. the inked 'salander' pokes through her hole-riddled t-shirt and it rides up when she moves, exposing her tattooed hip. she's still staring at you, wondering what you want, why you're still there. you move to the bed, pull away the sheets, and then you're on your knees, bending towards her, pulling her skin to your mouth and biting the subtle convex line of her hip. she scoffs, at first, but when you bite down harder, she's laughing with her small, white hands in your hair and you think, there isn't a single place you'd rather be, then here, with her.

4. nick doesn't say much. jay doesn't push. just leads. he leads nick like he was born to lead, like he was made of value and monetary worth. of course that isn't the case. it's a habit that he's had to work very hard to make feel like second nature rather than earned knowledge. nick is that wallflower sort of type, inquisitive, but silent, curious, but judgmental. at times, he is jay's only friend. which is why nick isn't angry when jay gets back from the buchanan's at around 4pm (before tom gets home from work) and seeks him out in the halls of his mansion. jay's hands are calloused, from years of service, he's pretty sure. nick could be wrong. all he does is assume, anyway. jay smiles at nick, and nick recognizes the smell of scotch from his breath, and then there's jay's warm mouth on nick's, and nick stops thinking, stops judging, stops recollecting altogether. 

5. professor xavier wishes it would just stop. he wishes he were younger. or that his pupil would be ten years older and then maybe, this would be okay. but it isn't that way at all. his hands are longer than the boy's, the skin of them hard, and thick. erik's are limber, long still, and dirty, charcoal underneath his finger nails, scars along the purlicue of both hands. charles is supposed to be watching erik's fingering technique, making sure that the keys are pressed with correct timing, but instead he's caught on the grooves of new skin where the scars are formed, and before he can tell erik that he's not spacing his fingers out enough, he's asking about his scars, his own thumb running along the back of erik's hand. erik stops playing. charles can see from his vantage point (erik may be tall, but charles is still taller, and that shouldn't sting, but it does all the same) that erik's grinning marvelously. he doesn't tell charles about his scars, won't divulge anything real about himself ever, and maybe that's why charles keeps wishing impossible things. (he knows he could never stop this. couldn't even if he wanted it just a little bit.)

6. in retrospect, dean should have seen it coming. he's one to flirt, of course, but most people just flirt back. (mostly ladies.) the rest roll their eyes. (the dudes.) (he hasn't gotten laid in years, not since anna, not really anyway. hurried blowjobs in the back of the impala that were less than satisfactory don't count.) but of course, cas isn't most people. hell, he isn't even people. so yeah, when cas still has a boner after all that pizza man porn and meg, of all fucking things, dean casually jokes if cas needs a helping hand, and yeah, maybe cas takes jokes too literally, because the next he knows, cas is all blue eyes and aching warmth at his side. dean underestimated cas' strength once, he's not about to do it again, but cas isn't forcing himself, he's asking. and dean can't even muster up the pretense to roll his eyes when he holds cas' shoulder with one hand and the other hand is palming over his angel's dick. it doesn't take much, cas grunts a few times, grips tighter onto dean's jacket, his baby blues get brighter as he gets closer, and when he's actually there, dean has to hold his breath because jesus fuck the way cas' eyes are devouring him wholly, the way cas' throat swallows around dean's name as it has to work its way out of cas' throat with such reverence. dean comes shortly after, without a finger to his person, and cas holds him up, the way he always has done, and always will.

7. john wears stripes because he likes their simplicity. he sees the irony in that when sherlock is in the room. but he also wears stripes because he's always wanted to be a pirate. hearing mycroft say the same thing about sherlock's ambitions as a toddler throws him out of his zone and he has to stifle a laugh and a smile. he imagines them then, an uncanny pair: captain holmes and his first mate watson, sailing the arab sea on their ship, the scheherazade. he still sees sherlock playing his violin. dreary melancholy sonatas while the sky is dark and clear so the stars sparkle like diamonds and gold ore in the heavens. he imagines sherlock would still be as insufferable, would still be ruthless and surprisingly cutthroat. a perfect pirate. and then sherlock growls, and it echoes through buckingham palace, shattering john's thoughts. (AND THEN ERIN SAID TO SCRATCH ALL PREVIOUS REQUESTS AND WRITE HER WING!FIC. SHE SUCKS.)

8. kaity is small, tamzin notices. she is tiny and warm, and tamzin freaks out for a second, wondering if she could really deal with this actual human being in her life, and if she could deal with the magnanimity of knowing that kaity belongs to her in no small part. when kaity blinks her eyes open, tamzin still watches her, but only because she's been caught and to pull away would be awkward, and she doesn't want to be awkward. kaity smiles and tamzin smiles, and it may already be noon, which means that their time together is getting shorter and shorter, but they're here right now. and tamzin feels light, open, and all of it is because of this small adorable girl and she is never letting her go. time be damned.

9. erin isn't an extrovert by any means, but she's not exactly shy.

not around alex, not around lucy/sarah or ramona/nicole. so, when she excuses herself from lunch without so much as a precursor or an explanation, alex shrugs. when erin refuses to come down for a game of life, alex tries not to think much of it. but when erin bails on their movie date, alex worries. she's the one that usually can't make it. it's never been the other way around. ever.

luce tells alex to wait it out. but alex doesn't do waiting. not about things that worry her anyway. there are a million things that alex fails at and waiting sits at the very tippy-top of the list. she paces the kitchenette, skirting around the rest of the girls with a feeling of unease.

she texts erin but after three hours and no reply, alex says fuck it to no one in particular and while she usually allows a modicum of privacy when erin wants it, she has no qualms about opening the door to their room.

erin's not there. she's not under the bed, she's not in the closet, she's not behind the dresser, or behind the michael fassbender as magneto life size cut out. when alex pulls herself out from under the bed, she reaches for her phone in her bra and dials erin's number. the panic is starting to hurt, sends small shocks of adrenaline through her and then she hears erin's ringtone from outside the window, and alex swear she's going to go to jail for killing her girlfriend. but by the time she's out the window, she's forgotten everything ever.

someone sits perched on the edge of the roof sheathing, or at least alex figures it must be someone because she can't really tell because whoever it is is covered in black, sleek feather. it's human, that much is for sure. toes are sticking out of the end of the wings, dusted by feathers. where the wings form out the skin of the back, they're pale, nearly translucent, but as they near the edges, starting at the secondaries, they're dark as nature can allow. alex exhales a fuck, and suddenly, feathers everywhere, fluttering, flapping, and it is so very much erin. alex doesn't know what to say. erin just looks disappointed, and alex knows that nothing she could ever say would mean anything as much as erin needs it to mean, so she just puts one foot in front of the other, trying to focus on balancing on the 25-degree angle roof, and getting to her girlfriend as quick as she can. and when she's there, erin steps back and alex rolls her eyes and moves to hug her anyway, tries to let her know that she didn't have to hide. erin's wings feel like blankets and they smell like linen when they pull around alex's back. alex really hopes erin understands. she hears the small 'sorry' come from erin's lips and alex presses a kiss to her collarbone to tell her that it wasn't necessary at all.

after a couple weeks, it's like erin's always had wings. they're not always there. which is convenient (for erin,) and also disappointing (for alex, because for some reason, alex really likes that her girlfriend has wings like a harbinger of death.) but they resurface when erin's emotions are too much to handle. (unlike x-men's archangel, alex notes. to which erin just rolls her eyes as if to say, "really, alex, you just want to say you're dating an x-men. i'm sorry i'm such a disappointment." and then alex has to grovel for a week, even though erin's not really upset. in her mind, she's totally a mutant. even if her wings don't shoot feathers out when she's feeling threatened, also unlike a certain archangel.) either way, some days they wake up and erin's wings are out and she feels cramped, being in bed for so long, that alex will wake up, get their things, pack a lunch, and they'll take the day off to go to the abandoned quarry, or sometimes, the beach. it's good exercise for erin, to get some wind beneath her wings. alex takes pictures with christin's camera and when erin feels relaxed and ready to land, it always takes alex's breath away.

then again, everything else erin does has the same effect.

10. there, you horrible wench, mellamonaranja.
 
 
alex ♥
28 April 2011 @ 04:43 pm


comment to be added, yo.

reasons whyCollapse )
  1. hi. i'm alex. i'm 20, going on 21. and some times, i write fanfiction, just so you know. mostly, one direction, merlin, some youtube slash, a little inception and supernatural. although i am prone to pretty much writing anything if i like it enough. 
  2. this journal is locked mostly because first and foremost, this is a personal journal. i keep most of my entries behind cuts, unless i'm dying or i forget to. most of my fic is tagged as fiction, so, hopefully things are easier to sift through. beware, 95% of my stuff is incomplete. but if you pester me enough, i will definitely write something. 
  3. top fandom right now: one direction. but just wait 'til merlin and doctor who come back. :P