Tags: [fandom] original: rock the cradle



It's still not easy to sleep. Or function. I spend a lot of my time thinking too much, or trying to avoid thinking. Both things often involve the internet. This time, I found something while I was avoiding thinking that sent me down the other path. It's just some random thing someone wrote up and posted, something someone found interesting enough to share. It's beautiful. But I'm lost in thought now.

It made me realize, everyone I knew, all the people in my memory that I loved, that I hated... they're all ghosts. They're gone. Me disappearing... dying... irrevocably changed them. Who they were when I was alive only physically resemble the people I remember. In my brother's case even that is... when he first walked into my hospital room I didn't recognize him. Not at first. The brother I knew was 9. He was a bit of a brat, but he was the baby, he got away with it most of the time, when Dad wasn't hungover. When I was gone, he went from the baby to the villain fuckup. Somehow. Somehow, dying made me Dad's favourite son and made Matt the loser I'd been. Cousins who'd changed nappies and cooed over how precious their little cousin was just a few years before became angry zealots, blaming him and then becoming vicious fame seeking cunts. Mum had been, for the most part, happy. Losing a child broke her heart, watching what it did to the rest of her family broke her spirit. Mum had a picture of her great-gran, who she looked just like as a young woman, and we all thought she'd age to look like her. There are so many more lines on her face, grey in her hair. She agreed to leave her home because it was killing her to live there. Her world was haunted and she had to leave to survive. My brother left for the same reason. The course of everyone's life changed because of me.

And my head is filled with ghosts. Flesh and electricity, water and memory, a machine making my reality.

I don't understand this reality. I don't know who anyone is, really. We're all in continuous shock over me being alive and in London again. Grown. I don't even know who I am right now. I am a ghost, living in the heads and vibrant in the memories of the people I left behind. No one knows what to do. Therapists, social workers, doctors. Physically, I'm fine. I manage to make it to appointments and fill out paperwork and do what I'm told to become a person in the world again. To stop holding on to the ghosts in my own head. Including my own.

It's really fucking hard. And I don't know how I can keep doing it.
black and white

(no subject)

One of the many things therapy is working on with me is facing my fears. I'm working up to actually being near an ocean again. It's a slow process. For now I've been instructed to spend some time reading, watching, or listening to stories of people being on the water. I know that sounds odd, but there was a specific article, some Ranker piece that pulls stories from Reddit about people sharing terrifying moments on the water. Fear and the water.

They range in actual terror. Some are brief and end well. There is at least one shark. There are three that send me to whatever horrified place my therapist wanted me to be. Bodies in the water. The overwhelming sensation of being called to jump in the water.

I'd gotten a little high to deal with the anxiety of doing this shit. You know. My prescribed way to deal with my anxiety. And right now I am really regretting it. Normally, I latch on to a thought and the high carries it off to something else. This time, well, it did carry it off somewhere else. But somewhere much worse. Bear with me, I have to put it somewhere in the world and everyone is asleep.

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black and white

(no subject)

I'd been reading about Lin-Manuel Miranda, just being fascinated by his work and actually pretty bloody amazed at how I can be so captivated by someone. Well Tory's girls noticed, and they said they were going to make me watch Moana because he did a lot of the soundtrack for it. They love it because it's a Disney Princess that's not a white girl. I figured what harm could it be, it's a fuckin Disney movie.

I got really, really cheesed off with Tory for not warning me about the subject matter. Warning me that there were multiple scenes of people struggling to keep from drowning in the ocean. A movie where the ocean is literally a bloody character. There were parts of the movie I had to close my eyes through, and lemme just say I felt like a pathetic fuckin child havin to close my eyes through a damn animated kids movie.

The girls were such sweethearts. They noticed when I got uncomfortable and curled up with me, givin me hugs. And after, when they were still tryin to make me feel better, knowin why I was reactin that way, they said "Maybe the ocean chose you, Uncle Andy" and "Maybe you're here to return heart to the world." They suggested that when I was ready to talk to people about what happened, it would make a really good movie and maybe Lin-Manuel could write the music for it.

I've never felt so simultaneously good and horrid at the same time.

(no subject)

(A/N: Cross posted from his personal journal, here. But he wanted it shared to other people as well

I've started to believe now might be the time for me to talk about what happened the other day. Weeks ago, now. The first of all my confusions, the launching point for my series of complete and utter incomprehensible situations. It's funny to put it that way, because in truth ever since I felt the sand on the tops of my feet, I was doomed to this. I was bound by the unknowing blankness of it all, by the massive weight of the life that lay before me. Collapse )

(no subject)

When Tory's girls are in bed, Tess, his wife, picks out a programme to watch that wouldn't necessarily be appropriate for the girls to watch. Today she started re-watching a mini-series called Alias Grace because she loves Margaret Atwood, and she said she thought I'd like it.

I'm not sure if I love her for it, or hate her for it. Before I go off into that, I have to go on a bit of a ramble. It's the Irish in me.

There's a lot that's gone on I haven't said here. Mostly because I think it's mad, and anyone who reads it would think it's mad. As it is, the people who are witnessing it and listening to me tell it are gobsmacked. I don't like my life to be so utterly unbelievable.

Mum was the third of six children, her older brother and sister had three sons between 'em by the time I was born. Granpa Mahaffey was chuffed at having a passel of grandsons to gather 'round his knee while he spun his own tall tales. He used to say, the key to a good story was for it to be just on this side of unbelievable, it would dance with the impossible, but never quite cross over. He was often a little drunk when he told his tales, but he was Irish, and most Irish men (and women) spent a fair amount of time with a drink in their hands. But he was always a happy drunk. It made him glow, an not just with sweat. It made his tales of per chance meetings with fair folk entirely believable, to our young ears. We could see their touch in his eye.

He was a man made to be surrounded by family. He got 12 grandchildren before he died. He died in his sleep, but I'm not even sure I knew what was wrong with him. But that night, every Mahaffey grandchild had a dream of 'im, every one of us woke up with his smiling spirit fresh in our minds. Not that we knew it then. But it was something we all shared after the services, while the adults were doing their adult mourning. Even those of us that din't quite get along, got along that day.

Matt has said these same cousins tried to petition the Pope to get me beatified. They were adamant about it, they desperately believed I should go on to be canonized. None of these cousins know I'm alive an' living in London again, because these cousins who'd shared the loss of Granpa Mahaffey blamed my 9 year old brother for my death, but went on to try an use 'im for their own 15 minutes of fame. They'd be tellin' my story 'fore I'd get a chance to make a decision.

I wonder if any of them felt my spirit come to them. They told everyone they did. They told everyone there had been a bright light that wrapped around me and swallowed me up before their eyes. Matt is of the belief it was all overblown, attention seeking bollocks. But I've begun to wonder.

There was a line in this show (I bet you forgot that's what started all this, din't you?) after her mother dies, after they wrap up her body and tie it with weights and dump it in the water, where she said that because she didn't open the window her mother would be trapped forever sailing back and forth across the hideous dark ocean...

I'm here now. I know that. Whatever happened to me, I'm here now. The dreams I've been havin were unsettling enough, combine them with everythin that's been happenin, plus this fuckin show... It's why I'm awake instead of asleep right now. Some appointments might get cancelled in the mornin.
Half hiding

(no subject)

I thought the strangest part of my day was going to be shopping for makeup with my solicitor and havin her try to cover up my black eye. Cause I mean, that's bizare, ya? It was funny. I nearly burst out laughin while she was prettyin me up.

See, I didn't want a lot of questions from my social worker, coz it's got nothin to do with anythin he needs to worry about. An it was fine, until I forgot I had it on and rubbed at my eye in the blokes office an he wanted to talk to my solicitor without me. So I went an waited outside while she did her best "it's none of your bloody concern."

There was this show back years ago from the US, with a line that's been swirlin around in my head ever since I stepped outside. This is where I felt it the first time: the universe was cocking the fuck-with-me gun.

I'm not particularly keen on explaining what happened right now. I know it's kinda bollocks to say all this an not say what happened. But I just... I just can't. We made an emergency call to my psychiatrist to get a refill on my anxiety weed. It's workin for the most part. I'm still thinkin about it a lot... it's why I'm postin this in the first place. But... I can stop thinkin about it when I'm high a lot easier.

An lemme just say this... if you're one to judge people who smoke up, if you're thinkin I'm just runnin from my problems an not doin it in a constructive manner, you can fuck off right now. Getting punched in the face has been the easiest of all the shite I've got to deal with right now.

I might be able to talk about what happened later. Not that anyone's gonna be anxiously waitin for it. But I'm hopin that sometime maybe I might be able to get halfway through the story without losin my shit.
Half hiding

(no subject)

Well. Tory an Cessie took me out for curry. I've never been a fan an they really want me to get into it coz it's fuckin huge now. Still not really into it, but it was alright. An we were havin a good time. Then Tory got a call from Tess, coz Benny, Cessie's husband, showed up at their house lookin for her. Said it was coz she was gone longer than he thought an her phone was off. She said it was fine, that she'd be back, an he seemed alright.

But we still cut lunch short. Cessie got all teary eyed talkin about how she missed my Mum, coz she was really more of a Mum to 'er than her Mum. An I promised I'd get 'em together, an gave 'er a kiss on the forehead coz it's comforting, y'know? That was when Benny showed up and clocked me right in the eye, screaming about gettin away from his wife.

So that's lovely. Got a black eye. Hopin it gets lighter before I've got to all my appointments on Monday.

Plus now I'm fuckin worried about Cessie. She says he's never touched her, but I mean... the guy that got punched isn't gonna trust the guy that punched 'im.
black and white

(no subject)

A/N: A reminder, that this is an AU already, so any posts are not taking into account current events

My dreams last night were filled with things I really shouldn't be dreaming of. It makes me feel wrong in so many ways, and makes me actually long for the nightmares of swirling darkness.

Andi, Tory and Cessie's daughter that they named after me, was the first person I was actually able to tell I was bi. I haven't been able to say it out loud to anyone. Even her Dad, who by definition was the first person to make me realize it. She introduced me to some of her friends... they call themselves queer now, which feels really odd. I feel stuck in a time before these kids even existed. But she took me to a cafe to meet up with them, to talk with people who didn't know me, who wouldn't judge me. They're all in their early 20s, and I have this bizarre split in my brain where I feel like they're cool older kids and also young, naive children. A 14 year old trapped in a 39 year old's body.

I dreamed of being a professor at the Uni they attended. And that one of them took a fancy to me, and I spent the entire dream fighting with myself over how inappropriate it was for me to fancy him back. I hadn't had a sexual thought at all, since I've been back, before that dream. And now I won't be able to go near 'em without feelin... awful.

It all felt so wrong. They all called me Uncle Andy.

Andi said I should talk to Tory. That he came out as bi about ten years ago. But she doesn't know how close her Dad and I were. Only me, Tory, an Cessie know that. We never told anyone. An once I was gone they didn't see any reason to start talkin about it. An the thing is, he hasn't told me he was bi. He still talks to me like... like nothing happened. Like the stories we told were true. No, we talked about it once. I asked him if Tess knew what happened with us, an he said he told her the same thing he told everyone else. He said if she knew what happened, she probably wouldn't let me keep staying with 'em.

I don't know if that's true. I know Cessie's husband won't let me near her without him bein there, but her husband is an abusive prick. Tess is lovely and reasonable an just because I have a past with Tory doesn't mean I have any designs on 'im now. I mean, apparently my mind fancies younger men.

Of course, this is all... on top of seein the last girl I ever fancied 25 years ago somehow pop up in London. She didn't see me, I don't think. But that's for the best anyway. I thought I saw a ring on her finger and plus... well, apparently I'm a perv. She didn't know me back then an she shouldn't know me now.
Matt Gig

(no subject)

I haven't wanted to complain. On social media I've been trying my damndest to be positive. Posting pictures of me and Eddie trying to wrangle Meatball, Jesper playing sitter while one or the other of us is sacked out. I should have posted more... real things.

Mum got sick a few weeks ago. She still volunteers in the clinics out there, so of course she was there when the worst of it was going on. Dad got sick shortly thereafter. They didn't get so bad they had to go to hospital, but they were close. Dad got worse off than Mum, though I've wondered whether or not that's just Mum being Mum acting like she's fine and Dad being the same whiny little shit he's always been when he's sick. They both looked bad enough for me to be worried they'd have to go. They're fine now. Mum wants to go back to the clinics... she wants to go help. Dad doesn't want her to, because there's still those stories about reinfection, about people who tested negative actually still being carriers and... I think he's just being selfish. He doesn't want to be alone. Malone men don't do well on their own.

I'm glad Eddie and I've got each other. But this is such a stressful situation. We're both recovering addicts in undergoing a level of stress that even your everyday average Joe is having a hard time coping with. Some of the pictures that get posted, by me or by Eddie, are when the other is on a video call with a therapist. Or a sponsor. I can't tell you how many times I've talked with Phil this month. We are all struggling. We are all craving an escape. And for a recovering addict you... you know the easiest escape. Dispensaries are open as essential services and I cannot tell you how hard it is not to swing by one when we've gone on supply runs, because weed is less burdensome to get than oxys right now. Even through the throes of addiction I refuse to entertain the notion of burdening medical professionals right now with my addict needs. Phil says that's at least something. I haven't gotten so bad off I've stopped thinking of others. Doesn't mean I don't still hate myself for this feeling.

I've got to pull myself together. Shockingly (ha), MTV wants us to webcast tales from the Malone house in self-isolation. People need to see they're not going through this alone, Matt.. I suppose they're right.
black and white

(no subject)

I'm back in London. Writing this from the spare room in Tory's flat. It feels... really strange. I don't know what I expected. I guess I thought I'd feel more like myself, less alien in my own skin. But it didn't work out that way at all. I mean, Tory has his own flat with a wife and two daughters. Three, if you count the one he had with Cessie. But she's 21 and in Uni. I mean. Fuck.

The two that live here are are 12 and 7. They had to move into the same bedroom so I could have a place to stay. So far they seem alright with it- I'm magic Uncle Andy. Not really happy about that, but I don't really have a choice. I don't have anywhere else to go. This city is my fucking home, except there's no one here for me to... be home with. I love Torry. His wife is sweet enough, his kids are fine. But it feels like I don't belong here. I still feel out of place.

When I got here, in Heathrow, it felt... it felt so strange. I mean, it felt fucking wonderful to have Tory and Cessie there. They hugged me so tight I almost felt normal. I mean, they changed since I saw 'em last. Obviously. Cessie had three fuckin kids. Shit, they both lived 25 fuckin years. When I closed my eyes while they were holdin me it felt almost normal. The emotions were there. They were there. But then we had to fuckin' move an everything felt goddamn weird.

Apparently Cessie's husband is a fuckin wanker. I mean, I figured he was back when I was still stuck in Australia. Every time we talked he was there, makin some fuckin face or sayin some shit. She said he's just jealous. Tory says he's a possessive prick. Took 'im years to trust her around Tory. 'Parently me not bein dead has made 'im completely lose trust in 'er. Like she'd lied the whole time. She doesn't think he's bein that bad. The Cessie I remember wouldn'ta stood for that bollocks.

Everyone's changed. London has changed. Fuckin England isn't even in the bloody EU anymore. I don't know how to even... think about everythin.