Summer Rain's Diary

An OOC rendition of my life

This section is for players to post about things unrelated to the Standing Trials roleplay. You may talk about anything from world issues, to your personal life, to funny things you found on the internet. You are free to use this forum to express yourself as a player and not as your actual character. You can also post in other players journals so long as they give you permission to. Please remember not to post anything relating to pornography or anything with extensive use of profanity.

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Avrae Kyric
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Joined: Mon Sep 19, 2016 8:34 pm
Race: Aukari
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Summer Rain's Diary

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February 1st, 2017

Quote of the Day
"A goal should scare you a little and excite you a lot."
Song of the Day

Dear Diary,

I've never had an issue with talking to people. I know that this is online, and that this may be read, but I have absolutely no worry about it in my mind. I like the people on ST, and sometimes it's just really nice to get things off my chest. Of course, I won't go too personal, but I think it'll be good to come here and just talk.

I joined ST back in September. I was sixteen, and I had recently had a pretty big betrayal in my life. I had been the owner of a roleplay group, not entirely unlike this one. I put my soul into it. I was always working on it, always thinking about it. My main character was a boy named Oliver, and his Face Claim was Dylan O'brien. However, I had been going through some stuff in real life. I live with my gran (for reasons I may talk about in a future entry), and she got real sick for a while. She's my whole world, and for a time I thought I was going to lose her. Like any reasonable person, I slipped away from rp and instead focused on my personal life, and on my gran.

When I got back, my group had died. One of my pretty good friends at the time had left, and she was a big part of it. After she left, more people left, until it wasn't enough of a group to salvage. I got pretty... depressed, I guess. It was a really hard thing, to watch something I loved fade away. I blamed myself a lot, because it had been active until I left. I was the main part of the group, I had the main character, and everything halted and died because I left. A lot of other people, people I considered friends, blamed me too.

I kind of retreated, for several months. I actually spent a good four or five months doing 1x1 roleplays with my best friend, who is actually on this site, too. You may know her as Ailluin.

After those five months, I went back to my group, and I tried to restart it. And I invited the same old friends- including the main friend who had left. I had been trying to start the same idea- new. I wanted a fresh start, but with the old concept I loved. Unfortunately, most people my age are petty, and drama ridden. A lot happened and, to make a long story short, the people I thought were my friends destroyed the thing I loved. I had to watch my group get torn apart.

I tried to find a compromise. The problem was that I had a new group of friends and the old group of friends, and I wanted both. Maybe I was greedy, or maybe I just hoped for more than what was possible. I tried to make both groups happy, blend the new and the old.

I later found out that my old group of friends had really turned on me. They wanted to kick me out of my own group, to take it over for themselves. They wanted to just push me out. They were... saying some pretty nasty things about me behind my back, and like in most cases, I found out.

I kind of was broken hearted. I felt like I had lost everything I loved about roleplay at that point. Roleplay was something that got me through some pretty bad times in my life (again, something I may talk about in future entries), and with my own friends pushing me out of it, I felt like my only safe place wasn't so safe anymore.

For the next several months, I would only roleplay with select people, in 1x1 roleplays, on google docs. I had lost my trust in group roleplays. There were a couple of times when I wondered if I should give up roleplay all together. "What's the point? It never seems to pay off. Maybe it's just a waste of time." I would wonder. Keep in mind that this wasn't the first time, nor the second- it had happened plenty of times where roleplays caused drama, and tears, and fell through.

Sometimes I wondered if the happiness my writing gave me was worth the horrible, gut wretching feelings I got when stuff like that happened.

However, in September, my best friend Ailluin showed me ST. We joined on the very same day. And I've just got to say that I've never found a roleplay like this one. Sure, it's not perfect. There have been some issues since I've joined- like all roleplays, there's hiccups sometimes. But I swear to god, it's damn near close to perfect.

I have never found a roleplay that is as rewarding as ST. I've never found a world that is as immersive, and as special as ST. I've never found a group that is as player-made, where players have just as much input as the mods. I've never found a roleplay that is so original, so interesting, and so breathtaking.

Most of all, I've never met people like the people I've met on ST. This is a group where I feel like I've made friends, people that are talented and intelligent, people that I feel comfortable around, who make me smile and laugh day in and day out. ST feels like a family, and I very much want to be part of this family for as long as I can be.

I had a hiatus from ST, from early October (right after my seventeenth birthday on the twelfth), because of some life drama. I may talk about it in a future entry, but it was a lot to do with the holidays bringing my family together and it didn't end that well. Actually, it's currently still a big issue in my life.

On January 12th, a thursday, I was admitted to the hospital. I had been having horrible chest pains- so bad I couldn't even sit up out of my favorite chair in the living room. I was in the hospital for just about a week after being told that I had Keto-Acidosis, which basically means I was in a diabetic crisis.

Before this, I hadn't even known I was diabetic. They say it's usually misdiagnosed in teenagers. For a week, my life changed. I was taught how to deal with diabetes for the rest of my life. My gran couldn't stay at the hospital with me, and most of my family wasn't able to be around, so much of the time I was alone. It was the first time I'd ever been in the hospital, and the first time I'd been away from home for a week without family.

I can easily say it was a scariest, worst week of my entire life. And I know people have gone through worse, so I'm sure I sound like a wimp saying this. But so I was a wimp. It was still something that I never want to go through again. I've never been a very brave person. When I was little, I was too scared to ride a bike because the first time I did, my aunt let go and I fell, and the bike handle was so close to my face it could have taken out my eye. I never learned to ride a bike after that. I also never liked sleeping in my own room, so I used to sleep with my gran (and since my grandpa died, I have resumed sleeping with her, taking up his side of the bed, so she doesn't have to sleep alone after 38 years of marriage). That and many other things make me not brave.

It was a few days after I got home from the hospital that Incubus messaged me on skype. He reminded me of ST, and I came back. After my experience in the hospital, ST was like a shot of happy right into my heart. To see all the wonderful people again, who were just as welcoming as they were when I first joined, had me in tears of joy. To hear I had been missed meant more than I can explain.

Coming back to ST has made my life better than it has been in the entire time I was away. Jumping back into things was easy, and I've been busy with ST ever since. I feel like after problems with my own family, I've come home to a second family, and I don't know how to express how important that is. If I can stay here for a good long while, and continue to rp, and develop, and talk to such amazing people every day....

I think this is the start of a much happier year than 2016 was.
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            Avrae Kyric
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            February 3rd, 2017

            Quote of the Day
            "We might be the masters of our own thoughts, but we are still the slaves to our emotions."
            Song of the Day

            Dear Diary,

            Today I got the heartbreaking feeling that my mother doesn't love me. I'm sure she does... but it hasn't felt like it in... ever.

            My mother, for those of you that don't know, is Schizophrenic. She is a drug addict, as well. And she has made a lot of mistakes in her life. There are so many that I may end up doing another entry just to talk about her life.

            There have been several times my mother has let me down. For instance- I live with my grandmother. My mother lost custody of me when I was born. But she could have still been around. She was offered to live here, to take care of me, to be my mom. However, she ended up running off and wasn't much part of my life.

            Or what about the time that she called my uncle, who I was having dinner with. I hadn't called her in a few weeks, so when he answered the phone and it was her, I got really excited. I asked to talk to her, and my uncle mentioned it to my mom. "Oh, she only wants to talk to me because I called you. If she wants to talk to me, she can call me herself." She had said, before hanging up. The disappointment was clear on my face, and the guilt was just as bad. I had been really busy lately, but to have her say that was probably the most disheartening thing I'd ever had said to me.

            And then this week comes along. My mom is having a lot of issues right now, and the other day we had been texting. And I asked her one thing, and in response she snapped at me, was very rude, and jumped down my throat. Then, because it was late, I asked her to please stop texting me because I had to sleep. I had to keep my phone volume on because I had an alarm set for the morning. She texted back, "We should stop communicating, you're better off phoning your aunt every day." (as, right now, she lives with my aunt) just because I wanted to go to sleep. The next day she had told my aunt I had "yelled at her" (again, this was texting, not a phone call) and that I had "hung up" on her. According to my aunt, my mom ragged on me for hours. My mom can be a very... mean person. She's kind of like a feral dog. If anyone says anything she doesn't like, she snaps and bites. She's a difficult person who drives everyone away after a while. No one in my family wants to deal with her.

            I was so upset that she said that, that I didn't want to talk to her. So I haven't, for the last few days.

            Today, though, I answered the phone and it was her. I was really happy to hear from her, actually... until she gave me a very terse message to relay to my grandma. Then:

            "Okay... I'll tell her."
            *pause*
            "Hey mom, I love you-"
            *dial tone*

            So.. yeah. My mom hung up on me. I didn't get to talk to her, or tell her I loved her. Don't know why I'm posting this here but it really made my day drop, and I needed to share it. However, ST has a way of bringing my emotions up. Today, I was approved to be a peer reviewer. While my personal life is currently making me feel pretty low, as long as I focus on ST and the amazing friends I've made here...

            I'll be okay.
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                      Anomaly
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                      I don't think I can find words or images that could sufficiently express how badly I want to hug you right now. :(
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                                Avrae Kyric
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                                Aww, Anomaly. XD I'm surprised you actually read this. But don't worry, I'm okay. It's disheartening but it's also one of many issues I have with my mother. But imagining a virtual hug from my Swedish friend definitely cheers me up. <3
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                                          Summer Rain
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                                          Avrae Kyric
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                                          February 7th, 2017

                                          Quote of the Day
                                          "Perfectionism doesn't make you feel perfect; it makes you feel inadequate."
                                          Song of the Day

                                          Dear Diary,

                                          Sometimes I wonder why I get so anxious about things. Why I feel like something I'll do will be wrong.

                                          I work hard. I know I do. I've been told, repeatedly, and complimented on the stuff I do and get done. Like all the things I've been doing on ST. I'm proud of that, and I'm proud that I can help. Everything I do, I try to put my heart into. "Oh, don't write just a few lines on this development piece, write a whole three paragraphs." and "Oh, let's write 3,000 words into this CS personality." and "This reply isn't long enough, detailed enough. Has to be better."

                                          It's occurred to me, however, that this might be to cover my own feelings of inadequacy. And I know this is going to sound like I'm being self deprecating, but I'm going to talk about it anyway because I feel like a lot of people might be able to relate.

                                          Feeling inadequate. Feeling like you're not good enough because you've gotten a lesser grade than you usually do on a test at school. Feeling like you were a bad friend because you weren't around when they needed you to be. Feeling like while you may succeed in one area of life, you fail very badly in others.

                                          I don't feel this way all the time. There's a lot of things I'm extremely proud of. I'm proud that I feel like I hold more intelligence than a lot of people my age (obviously not more than anyone on this site, all of you are geniuses), or that I care more about being knowledgeable. I'm proud in my writing, in my ideas and the effort I put into it. I'm proud of the morals I hold, and of the way I strive to live my life.

                                          But feeling inadequate... that's my drive. That's why I push myself with ridiculous goals like writing up 50 NPCs. I think that... being able to reach goals like that makes life a little easier. I can't explain the pride I get whenever you guys compliment me on stuff I've worked really hard on.

                                          Inadequacy also leads to my anxiety a lot of the time, I find. I get really anxious when talking to certain people, like the people on ST. I'm convinced all of you are better writers, and you are all so busy and so prepared for the things in your life. Most of you I find very brave, hardworking, and kind. All the things I strive to be- some of the things I struggle being. So I message you, and it's not always obvious that I'm anxious. I'm sure some of you have noticed that I tend to write long posts even when just replying to something OOC. I tend to over explain myself, or be excessively apologetic.

                                          I have a big issue with feeling like I'll say something wrong. Or that I will come across the wrong way. In my vlog, I said my biggest fear, the one I share with Avrae. But I have many fears, and one of them is that someone I admire will be ticked off by something I say. Or they will perceive me someway that I'm not, gaining a judgement about me that I desperately don't want them to think of me as. I'm the type of person who remembers everything- what was said, what tone it was said in. I feel guilty for twice the normal amount of time after bad encounters- and I feel angry for the other type of bad encounter. So when I feel like I've made a bad impression or I've done something to offend someone, it gets to me.

                                          I get really anxious. I have on occasion gotten pretty worked up over things, and I've been known to go back and edit what I've said before someone sees it, sometimes multiple times. I've also been known to go to a close friend and say, "This is what I said, does it sound rude?" or however I think it sounds.

                                          And sometimes I wonder if this is also a sign of feeling inadequate. It probably is, if I'm honest.

                                          So... here's a hard truth. What I'm about to divulge is something most of my family doesn't know, but it's been eating me up for months. Let me start with elementary school.

                                          When I was in elementary school... it was harder for me. In preschool, I hadn't been going to go. My aunt- who I lived with before my grandparents- hadn't been planning to start me in preschool. She was going to start me in kindergarten. But when we would drive around, I'd see the school bus, and I begged her to enroll me in preschool so I could ride the bus. Very quickly, I grew to hate preschool. I mean hate. I would throw tantrums, I'd refuse to get out of bed. I loved school, I hated having to go to school. Why not teach me at home, well into the afternoon after I'd slept in?

                                          In Kindergarten, I had much the same attitude but I had no choice. I had to go. This was the grade most people learned to read- and this is when my feelings of inadequacy started. I couldn't read. I couldn't even say the alphabet in order. To this day, I have not memorized the alphabet song and often look up the alphabet (I know most of it but I get tripped up on certain parts or I forget what comes before what, and when doing things like sorting knowledges alphabetically, I have to have that reference).

                                          I didn't learn to read until first grade. Everyone else in my class knew how. Every single kid. And I was technically a year older than them all too- my birthday falls on October 12th, and because of that I am in an earlier school year than every other kid my age. In school, I was always one of the older kids in my class.

                                          I did learn to read. And I think it was my inadequacy for it that pushed me. You know how some schools has kids count how much they read and give rewards for who reads the most? By the time I was in third grade, I was reading more books per month- and longer books per month- than every fifth grader (fifth being the highest grade for my elementary school) in my school. I was the best reader in the school. I did it tirelessly, and when they would come to count how many words you could read per minute and how well- I scored the highest. I'm damn proud of that. I'm proud that I learned, and that I was better than everyone else. That sounds awful, but it's true. It was the first time I was truly proud of something I'd done, and when my teacher told me I read better than some middle schoolers or even highschoolers, it was... well, it still is one of the top ten proudest moments of my life.

                                          But inadequacy came back. My biggest feelings of inadequacy were always intelligence related. For instance- I am horrible at math. Absolutely horrible. And I would get so angry- such a temper- whenever anyone tried to help me with it, because it was embarrassing and made me feel inadequate. I was an A & B honor roll student all the way up into fourth grade. In fourth grade, I got my first ever F-. It was in math, and it was one of the hardest failures of my life.

                                          There were a lot of factors for why I didn't work to get better like I did my reading- things to talk about another time. But I've always been very hard on myself for my downfalls. To name a few:

                                          - I don't know how to ride a bike. I did, for a while... and the first time I fell down, I almost took off my eye with the handle. It terrified me and I refused to try again.

                                          - To this day I can't tie shoe laces, or bow ties, or any type of tie at all. I can make knots, and that's about it.

                                          - I have speech issues. Now it's not very noticeable but when I was little, I took those speech impediment classes. I took them for years, probably from preschool to fifth grade.

                                          - On a trip to San Francisco last year, I went to Chinatown. I thought I'd be able to handle all the walking. We made our way through the shops and then we went to eat. When we got out of the restaurant, we realized that to go back was steeply up hill. (San Francisco has a lot of hills and inclines) We started to make our way, and my legs were killing me. For those of you that haven't seen me or my vlog- I'm over weight. Right now I'm 275 lbs. My highest ever was 310, and I've been losing but it's a slow process. No, I don't have problems with eating. My problems have to do with a thyroid condition, diabetes, and a lack of exercise. Anyway, back on topic... walking a lot can get to me. Chinatown was our last visit after four days walking around San Francisco, so my muscles were already strained. We started making our way back and I was shaking from the pain of walking up hill so much. We made it three blocks before we asked someone how far it was to the trolley ride. They told us it was five blocks uphill... and I broke down. I started bawling my eyes out, shameful as it was. I was just so tired and so in pain, and I was crying so hard I could barely speak as I begged my aunt (who was with me), telling her I couldn't make it the five blocks uphill. I wanted to push through it, like people do. I wanted to just start walking and not stop- but I couldn't. I'm not proud of that, but I just couldn't. I'm sorry if you guys can't understand that. Anyway... we ended up walking two blocks, to Broadway st., where my aunt managed to hail a taxi to take us home. It was actually a good thing because we later learned it was late enough that the trolley we had been trying to get to had stopped running for the night, so we would have gone all the way there and then I would have been even more miserable, and we'd be stranded.

                                          I'm not proud of the things I've given up on. I'm not proud that I have a lot of areas where I am weak, where I am over emotional, and where I have my downfalls. These are some of the biggest inadequacies of my life.

                                          But the thing I haven't told anyone... I've actually lied about- something I try very hard not to do- because it proves my inadequacy.

                                          I dropped out of school. When I was in fifth grade, my grandpa died. And I will talk about that in another entry, but it was another huge chunk of my life that I am not very happy with. He had been sick a very long time, though. But when he died, I dropped out of elementary school. I wanted to stay home with my gran, to make sure she wasn't alone. But I also think I dropped out because my grades had been getting progressively worse the last two years before, and I had been having health issues. I think both were related to my grandpa getting worse. Those years... I had a temper. I was irritable all the time, and I was not dealing with my grandpa's death well... so I gave up.

                                          I entered homeschool. The first homeschool I got kicked out of because I was doing it myself with no help and- while they said my grandma would not have to get online- the truth was that my gran was supposed to be getting online to log me in and say I was doing the work. I didn't know this, and we had received no warning, until one day they called and said I had been kicked out of the program. I had been doing the work, but because my grandma had been unable to check on my attendance, they wrote me off.

                                          The second homeschool was... difficult. I took an easy path, doing the tests to send in, instead of the whole program. I knew most of what they were teaching, so I did it that way. But it also took me twice as long.

                                          I reached 8th grade... and I think I just gave up, again. I started reading about getting a GED, which is a test that people who haven't completed highschool take to get a highschool diploma. And I swore I'd finish 9th grade before I did so, but I didn't. I gave up in the middle of the 8th grade.

                                          You have to be 18 to take the GED. So I have told my family (other than my gran, she knows the truth) I graduated the 9th grade and that I will be taking the GED once I turn 18. I have at least half of that as honesty. So this... is a big inadequacy of mine. My lack of interest, of willpower in this area of my life, has always been a weakpoint. I will learn to drive- another thing I have a lot of anxiety about- and I will get my GED. But when I say I'm out of school because I graduated early, that isn't true.

                                          It's really hard for me to admit my faults and downfalls. Mostly because the perfectionist in me knows I could have done better. I could have worked harder. I could have pushed myself to walk those five blocks, or chose to go to middle school instead of dropping out to homeschool.

                                          Sometimes I even feel like it's my fault I got diabetes- though diabetes can be genetic and it runs in my family. Even skinny people get diabetes. Sometimes I blame myself for my previous roleplay groups dying. I even got so paranoid at one point because I would join a group and then, when I left, it would die. I thought I was bad luck, or that maybe I ruined it.

                                          I try to make sense of it sometimes. How I can try so hard in some areas- like learning to read well, or doing developments and doing them well- but then give up and be so inadequate in other aspects of my life. How can I be both a perfectionist and inadequate? I've tried to go through the psychology of it.

                                          Am I just lazy?
                                          Do I not care?
                                          Does it not get to me how much certain things matter?

                                          I don't know if I'll ever know. All I know is that I try to be a perfectionist to make up for being inadequate. I feel anxiety and guilt and regret and shame- because I feel inadequate. I don't know why I wanted to talk about this in this entry. Just that... It's been on my mind. My downfalls are always on my mind, and so are my prides.

                                          And I hate that the thoughts still crosses my mind-

                                          Will you think badly of me because I'm proud of things? Will you see me as a bitch for that arrogance?
                                          Or will you think badly of me because I am fat, and lazy, and inadequate, and uneducated? Will you hate me for my lying, or will you be disgusted with me for revealing these shortcoming of my life?

                                          Logically, I know you guys are amazing. Logically, I don't think you'll care. But that doesn't mean I don't get that anxiety, that irrational fear of what you think of me.

                                          Update: My mom finally spoke to me. Acted like nothing happened. She offered me $600 USD, something she can't afford that will eventually make her complain, or hold it against me. I turned her down because she- like she always does- is trying to buy my love. She doesn't see that, despite all her flaws, I already love her. And the fact that she tried to buy me off was... well. Let's just say it isn't a very good feeling.

                                          Sorry I keep doing these sad, pathetic posts. I'll try to make my next journal entry a little happier.
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                                                    Anomaly
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                                                    Someone told me once that "Someone who's only ever been happy throughout their life won't be able to write poetry", and I think it goes for most kinds of writing---art, in general. You'll see it a lot in writers and roleplayers in general... most of them have had it rough, one way or another, and it shows in what they create.

                                                    You won't be able to appreciate the good moments if you don't have something to compare them to, and you won't be able to truly share your happiness unless you know what it feels like to feel empty, or to be in pain.

                                                    Pain can be turned into something very beautiful when you conquer it. The way you write about yourself in your journal, so far, has been beautiful. I'm glad you're in a place where you're able to share these things so eloquently. <3
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                                                              Avrae Kyric
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                                                              Summer Rain's Diary

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                                                              February 16th, 2017

                                                              Quote of the Day
                                                              "The most painful goodbyes are the ones that are never said and never explained."
                                                              Song of the Day

                                                              Dear Diary,

                                                              Warning: May be hard to read if you've lost a loved one. It was certainly hard to write.

                                                              Before I start, I want to explain my song of the day. Lithium, by Evanescence. It's not really fitting to what I want to talk about, but... it's a song that means a lot to me, for a lot of reasons. As I may have mentioned in my earlier entries, my mother and some other members of my family struggle with addiction, which is one reason why the song holds a lot of weight with me. It also makes me think of depression, which is another subject I believe I have a good understanding of. And, in truth, my favorite character ever written suffered from manic depression. But this song is also one that I listen to when I'm in my darkest spots. I listen to it when I'm feeling rejected... I listen to it when I feel low. And I listened to it, for a very long time, when my grandfather died.

                                                              That's what has been on my mind this month. My grandparents raised me, and my grandpa... who I called papa... was the best man I've ever known. February is always a tough month for me, because my papa's birthday was February 3rd. He was an Aquarius. And I've tried to visit his grave every year on his birthday but this year I was unable to. That... hit me pretty hard. I've been wanting to write this for a while now, because I feel like my papa, and what I went through with him, is something that impacts my writing. It's something that was a very big part of my life, and I feel like it's relatable for a lot of writers. Or maybe just people, in general.

                                                              My papa was diagnosed with prostate cancer in 1994, five years before I was born. He was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease in 2002, when I was two. And he lived with it, until he died in March of 2011, when I was 11. It was 17 years since from the time he was diagnosed with cancer to the time he died, and I am 17 years old. The man I knew was not the man he was. I won't go on forever about him, but Charles- as was his name- was a 20 year veteran of the US Airforce, and an engineer that worked for a company called Space Microwave, and later E,G&G. Which I'm sure none of you will know anything about, but... he did important work and I am proud of that.

                                                              He was once a strong man. The kind of man who did everything himself, kept his demons to himself, so he never had to burden another person. But the man I knew was broken. When I was really little, he would ride bikes with me, and he taught me how to use a computer- one he had built himself. But as I got older, he got sicker. At first it was... moments of anger. Like any terminally ill person, there were times when he would snap. I remember one occasion in which he called me a bitch- I was six. But he had meant to call me a brat.

                                                              Then there was the adjustments. Getting a hospital bed for our dining room, a lift for our stairs, a new shower that didn't have doors, that he could just walk into. Then there was the hospitals, care places, nurses. I spent a lot of time in those kinds of places, with medical professionals. Some treated him well. Others didn't. There was one place that my gran and I went to every single day for a whole summer. The people wouldn't help a lot of the patients eat, so my gran would bring food every day to feed my papa. Among other issues.

                                                              Going through watching someone die- when you've never had anyone die before- is... hard. It leaves a lot of regrets, when you're a kid. Feelings of being a burden because your gran has both a sick person and a kid to take care of, for instance. Or when... your papa asks you to play chess with him, and you keep saying "Another time" because you don't really care for chess, and then that other time comes and it's too late. Years later, I would do anything for that other time. But then there's my biggest regret.

                                                              When my papa reached the place that he was going to die in, I... sat outside the hospital room. I wouldn't go in. I couldn't be near him, or hold his hand, or look at him. I would sit outside, with my laptop, and I would write. Writing, and the internet, was my coping mechanism. He would ask for me, sometimes. And I would go in, and give awkward smiles, and then immediately want to leave his side again.

                                                              You see, Parkinsons is a hard disease. It's hard to explain, but it was like his joints froze up. His hands gnarled, curled fingers, shaking. I can still picture him sitting in his hospital bed, and he'd try to move and his whole body would just shake. It was terrifying. He didn't have it as badly as some, but I'll never get the picture out of my head. What made it worse, was that we were told that if he hadn't had the Parkinson's, he may have been able to get rid of the cancer. But because he had the Parkinson's, his body couldn't fight off the cancer enough. It did, a little, just enough to prolong his painful way of life. But it wasn't enough to get rid of it. It just... made him more miserable.

                                                              I didn't say goodbye. That's my biggest regret. I was so terrified of going into that room, so unwilling to see him so sick. He wanted more time with me and I thought I had time, so I stayed away.

                                                              There was a point, where he wasn't getting enough oxygen, and he had pretty much gone unconscious. And they said his oxygen was so low, that it was very likely he was brain dead. And I remember the one time I saw him like that, he had an oxygen mask on, and I remember thinking, "He would want to die." Because my grandpa valued intelligence over anything. If his brain had stopped working, if there was any damage- he'd be done. Shortly after, my aunt discovered his body had relaxed. His gnarled, shaking hands? They could be pulled out straight. His fingers could be moved, and he wasn't shaking... and his hands were cold. That was maybe three days before he died.

                                                              Of course, there was a point where I did want to spend time with him. It was after this point, but I wanted to be there. I begged to be there. But, for the first time ever, my gran sent me home. She was not in her right mindset, and I was 11 and couldn't defend myself, and my aunt- who had never been around but now was throwing herself into my grandpa's last days- forced me to go home with my other aunt.

                                                              The next morning, he woke up, briefly. And he gave his last smile. He looked at my gran, and he smiled. And she asked him if he loved her, and he nodded. And she told him it was okay to go. If I had been there, that would have been my chance to say goodbye, but I wasn't, and I couldn't. He went unconscious again.

                                                              It was that night, that I couldn't sleep. My aunt and I were laying in my gran's bed, at three AM, and we couldn't sleep. I was staring at the clock when the phone rang. My aunt answered, and she burst into tears not even a minute later- and I knew he was gone.

                                                              There's a lot of regrets with my grandpa's death. The most of which being that if it happened all over again, I'm not sure if I would be strong enough to have it go any differently. I just couldn't deal.

                                                              But my papa is not the reason I wanted to write this. I wanted to talk about writing, and how death impacts it. Anomaly recently said to me, "Someone who's only ever been happy throughout their life won't be able to write poetry". And I agree.

                                                              I have met many writers, and the majority of them have this in common. Some of the best writer's I know struggle with issues like depression. Others, Bipolar disorder. Some have bad situations in life. Some don't see much good in themselves. And some have merely gone through something. Like an almost death experience via car crash, a complicated romantic situation that leaves them uncertain, or... the death of a loved one.

                                                              I think that to write, you have to have empathy. You have to look at life, and understand its working. You have to understand:

                                                              Anger.
                                                              Passion.
                                                              Depression.
                                                              Grief.
                                                              Happiness.
                                                              Love.

                                                              And so many more emotions. Some come easier in writing than others, and some writers are more comfortable with certain aspects of writing. And I think that is because they know how it feels, they can sympathize with their characters and call on that time in their life when they felt that emotion.

                                                              I have never been a depressed person. I've never really been in a truly dark place. I've never been in a rage. I've never been suicidal. But I have an understanding of it, because I've seen it in my life, and in things people I love have gone through.

                                                              My mom, grandmother, and one of my aunts have all dealt with depression.
                                                              My papa, aunts, grandmother, mom, they've all dealt with anger that I have witnessed- even physical anger. Luckily never directed at myself.
                                                              My mom, aunt, papa, and grandmother have all been suicidal at one point.

                                                              In fact, my mother tried to commit suicide. As did my aunt, twice. And my papa... by the end, he welcomed death.

                                                              My point is, is that these experiences change you. They change who you are, who you will be. And, they change your writing. My grandpa dying was the birth of my writing. I had liked writing before then, but it wasn't an escape until he was dying. It became my way to deal, to block out everything. To block out... hospitals, and a sick, angry old man that I didn't want to watch die, and my own personal problems. And it became something I love. My first roleplay was in 2011, when I was 11, and right around the time my grandpa died.

                                                              And it doesn't get easier. They say it does but I'll be real- it doesn't.

                                                              I didn't cry at my grandpa dying. My aunt sat on that bed when we got the news, and she cried for a good hour. I held her- at eleven years old- while she cried, and I didn't shed a tear. I felt nothing. And then, at his funeral... my best friend at the time was there because her mother was one of papa's nurses, and we had been friends since I was six. And we... goofed off. We laughed. We hung out while the funeral went on around us, and I didn't cry. I got shaky when I had to give a speech, but I didn't shed a tear.

                                                              It wasn't until two months later that it hit me. I had gone to bed, and I was laying there, and I started to pray. Now, I'm not a religious person. But I talked to my papa... and I burst into tears. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't speak, I was shaking with how upset I was. And it happened again, and again. For months, I would just get so emotional at the drop of a hat.

                                                              It took a long time until that stopped. And even still, I cry about him sometimes. I cried on his birthday this month. I cried while writing this. It hits me, all the time. I still feel the guilt, and the regret, and I still miss him. I can still see him, sitting in his wheelchair in front of the tv. Or sitting in his hospital bed, watching the morning news, and I would come downstairs, or in the afternoon, I'd run in and tell him about my day at school.

                                                              I don't know if any of you have ever seen the American news program: The Today Show. But in the early morning, they have this guy on from Smucker's jelly. And on the jar, he shows pictures and names of people who have lived over 100 or so, and celebrated their birthdays at Smucker's farms. And my grandpa and I used to watch it, every morning. Never failed.

                                                              Now I can't watch it. I watch the today show but the second that Smucker's jar comes onscreen, I change the channel. There were other things, too, that are harder now. For a while, I couldn't eat the ice cream cones from Mcdonalds because I would get one after school sometimes when my gran would pick me up, and I'd always finish it before we got home, and my papa would tease me about not leaving him any ice cream (though we always brought him his own). For months after he died, we didn't go to Mcdonalds at all, because of the ritual of going there after school and bringing food home to papa.

                                                              And I've had to deal with the fact that he won't be here. He won't be here when I graduate college. He won't be able to approve of the guy or girl I marry. He won't be able to attend my wedding, or see if I have kids. He won't be here for my first job, or my first promotion, or to tell me if I'm doing the right thing in life.

                                                              And that's hard.

                                                              My writing helps. Just like it did when he died, it helps me. Whenever I miss him, I write. And that's why it's such a relief to write this. It took me a while, because it's really hard to talk about. I haven't talked about him in... a year, probably. Or two. It's hard to believe it's been almost six years.

                                                              But he makes my writing better. Losing my grandpa, going through the many years he was sick, has made me a better writer. A better person, even. I am not a religious person... but I believe you're given lessons in life. I failed mine- and I learned from it.

                                                              It's not an easy or pleasant lesson. But I'm glad I learned it. And I am glad I can come to ST, and I can write out any emotion, and tap into these memories, and it affects me.

                                                              Because writing requires empathy.
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                                                                        Patrick
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                                                                        Summer Rain's Diary

                                                                        First off lemme surround you with hearts, cakes, hugs, and snugs because that was definitely a heavy post. You have definitely been through a lot out of just one particular event, and I would daresay its because of that you're here today learning and growing strong. Its hard sometimes because we don't want to remember what it was like, to have to continuously face such a reality when we already struggle to live with it everyday.

                                                                        You're a good and strong individual for that love, for being able to express your thoughts on the subject here. This month has made it an official year since my own father passed away, so I can agree that I understand some of the pain and difficulty in being able to share or talk about it. Even now I've still little to say in regards to my father's passing, other than I miss him and wish I had the chance to actually talk to him before the end.

                                                                        But to the point of my post, rather than being a sap about it, is that you're actually right in terms of empathy. For us to be able to write, we have to be able to connect, to feel and understand towards other things. We as human beings are driven to feel connection between one another, and its because of our scars and our past we live and learn to better understand each other as well. I can't speak for everyone as a whole but the majority of us, we're not just writing stories or having fun here; we're literally spending the time we can to enjoy what we love with peers. We're literally connecting with one another on various levels here, and in turn even making friends because of those ties we make here in the community.

                                                                        So I'm always around via here or Skype whenever you need a friend or a buddy to talk with. :) Don't ever let regret or fear hold you back, and most importantly don't be afraid to reach out to others. You are most certainly talented in your writing, and will certainly go far later on in your life.
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                                                                                  Avrae Kyric
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                                                                                  Aww, Patrick! I'm so sorry I didn't see this until now! Or maybe I saw it and forgot to respond- one of the two. Thank you so much for the kind words! I am very sorry for the loss of your father. Which I know, saying that doesn't help much. When my grandpa passed away I used to hate the whole "I'm sorry for your loss" thing because it sounded so... not genuine to me. But now I think it's... all that can really be said.

                                                                                  But thank you. <3 ^_^ I agree exactly on empathy in writing, and in the strong community we have here on ST.
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                                                                                            Avrae Kyric
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                                                                                            February 24th, 2017

                                                                                            Quote of the Day
                                                                                            "There is no greater pain than to be helpless in the face of a loved one's suffering."
                                                                                            Song of the Day

                                                                                            Dear Diary,

                                                                                            My mom is doing something that could potentially kill her, and there's nothing I can do.

                                                                                            For those of you who don't know, my mom is Schizophrenic and has a history of drug abuse. She's been clean for a while now- though exactly how long, I can't say. Not more than five years, though. My mother has had a long history of screwing up her own life. She's lost homes. She's been homeless, she's risked her life, she's attempted to commit suicide. She's done stupid things when high or drunk- like one time when she came home drunk, and wanted to hold me as a baby, and my gran wouldn't let her (because she was drunk) so she called the cops on my gran and told them my grandmother was with-holding her child.

                                                                                            In 2013, my mom moved from Nevada to Arizona in an attempt to get away from some bad influences that were living with her, mooching off her, and doing drugs with her. She could have gotten an apartment in a senior living/mental living type place, but she refused. Instead, she moved into a trailer, and she suffered through it. She had her stuff in a storage she couldn't get into, she had to deal with the summer heat and winter cold, and she was not healthy enough to get things done. While she was in Kingman she had a problem with her heart and had to get stints put in. I was unable to go and see her when this happened.

                                                                                            This year, she moved to Kansas to live with my aunt. However my mom is... difficult. When she was in Arizona she swore she'd get housing in Kansas, get her health taken care of, all that. Once there, her story changed. She wanted to stay with my aunt and my uncle- who she doesn't get along with- for over a year while handling her health issues.

                                                                                            My mom can be manipulative. She likes to have something happen with one person, then say something different happened to another person to make the first person look bad. She would make a good real life Sintra. Or maybe Audra. Even a female Aelig, actually.

                                                                                            Once in Kansas, she cause problems and it quickly became clear that she had manipulated leaving Arizona to come back to Nevada. Specifically to go back to the place with bad influences and drugs.

                                                                                            My aunt is her payee- meaning she handles her money and stuff. My mom's cell phone is under my aunt's name. And for a while, my mom was causing so many issues that she wanted to take control of her own money and get rid of her cell phone- thus ensuring no one would get ahold of her once here. She also is a very touchy person. For instance, when my aunt was on the phone with me tonight, she kept driving around the block around her house, because she knew if she got home and my mom saw she was on the phone with me, my mom would get all bent out of shape wondering why I didn't call her. It's the same story every time.

                                                                                            Back to the point of the matter... My mom is scared of flying, and unable to fly alone. My aunt, having just took weeks off work to come to Arizona and take my mom to Kansas, can't get any more time off and doesn't have the money for the flight anyway.

                                                                                            So she plans to put my mom on a bus. She doesn't want to, but she has to because there's no other option- my mom is hell bent on coming back here. A car ride from where my mom is to here is 20 hours. A bus ride, with multiple layovers, is nearing 40 hours across multiple states.

                                                                                            My mom could barely get on a bus to go to the store in Arizona. She couldn't even make it from her trailer to the trailer park's office without getting out of breath. She's a sick woman with a weak heart and a body rotten from drug use. Not only that, but my mom is the type of person who can't be unsupervised. Chances are she'll meet someone and take sympathy and give them some of her money, or something of the sort. She's as easy to manipulate as she is a manipulator.

                                                                                            My aunt fears that the bus trip will kill her.

                                                                                            Not only that, but she can't live with us when she gets here. My gran won't allow it because of how much trouble she is and my gran isn't very healthy either. So she is going to be living in a homeless shelter in Vegas. A homeless shelter than only will allow people there during the night- my mom would have to leave every single day and walk around- when again, she can barely get around as it is. She has no ability to have a job, she has no car, and she's expecting to live in the cold and the heat and all the elements.

                                                                                            She has a bad habit of letting her things get stolen, too. So chances are her laptop and phone will be gone soon after she gets here.

                                                                                            I've been sick with worry about this for the whole month. I haven't been sleeping well, or eating well, and I've had multiple issues with my mom- from fights with her to hearing about the stuff happening at my aunt's house to fighting with my gran.

                                                                                            Tonight I got an idea to help, at least a little. I came up with a plan because I'm almost eighteen. I have money saved up... so I told my gran I want to fly out to Kansas, collect my mom, and fly us both back. Then I want to take a taxi with her to the homeless shelter- one not in the best area of town (actually, it's in one of the worst)- and help her get settled before taking a taxi back home to my gran's.

                                                                                            I see no fault in this. In truth, I would do it if I was eighteen, without question. I have never gotten to help my mom with anything, and while I know she can't live with us and I agree with that, I know the least I could do is help her get here safely. I have the money for us both, and it's not the first time I've taken a plane, nor is it the first time I've taken a taxi.

                                                                                            It IS the first time I'd be taking a plane alone, to get there, however.

                                                                                            My gran is refusing. She doesn't like the idea, and I knew she wouldn't. We got into a huge argument tonight because I am almost eighteen, and I believe it is my choice. It's my mom. If I can't help my own mom, what use am I? What kind of person does that make me? What kind of daughter?

                                                                                            There are people like my gran, who are ready to write people off and just not care what happens to them. She's been hurt by my mom a lot, and she doesn't seem to care if she kills herself making a stupid choice.

                                                                                            I don't want to be that type of person. When my mom was in the hospital, I felt awful that I couldn't go see her. All I could think of was- what if she dies? What if she dies and I'm not there?

                                                                                            My mom already thinks I don't love her. I can't stand the thought of her dying, thinking I don't love her. I hate the idea of her being on the streets, struggling, and I'm doing nothing.

                                                                                            The least I can do is make sure she gets here safely, if nothing else- and I can't even do that. All because of eight months. Eight months makes me useless, and helpless.

                                                                                            It's the worst kind of guilt.
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