It's official: The normally melancholy, cynical, and deep writer you've come to know has been replaced by a hopeless romantic dolt. So sue me. I'm in love.
That being said, I haven't lost my edge just yet. When I realized I was going to sit down and write a sappy love poem about my boyfriend, I decided I wanted to kick it up a notch.
So I challenged myself:
I took the title's of my personal favorite and most popular pieces of literature here on deviantART, and incorporated them into the poem. Not only was this a fun challenge for me, it seemed like a fairly original idea, and it managed to inject yet another message into the poem:
My past (in literature and in life) has helped shape me to become who I am today, that being someone who is capable of loving and being loved in return, as well as being able to write the occasional poem or story relating to the experience.
And not be cocky or anything, but I like to think my writing has improved a little over the years.
Listed below are all of the pieces of literature that were incorporated into the poem above, in order of appearance in the piece. If you haven't read them yet, I hope you enjoy.
Aha, okay here's the story: So after finding out my next doctor's appointment was in 2 days I decided to start my new ADD medication (Dexedrine) yesterday that I was supposed to start about a month ago... Well, I was allowed to take 2 a day, which was how it was with my previous meds, so like my pre-meds, I took one Dex at 3:00pm and another at 6:00pm... I don't think 3 hours apart is long enough, because I ended up randomly deciding to start on this animation inspired by hours of Creepypasta that same day, and I ended up finishing some hours later at 2 in the morning... on a school night... I finally forced myself to go to sleep expecting a very sh*tty morning, only to find myself waking up 4 hours later feeling more than ready to start the freaking day... So the moral of the story is, 10mg of Dexedrine are VERY different from 10mg of Methylphenidate.
*sigh* Drugs, why do you have to be so the opposite of straightforward?
So about the outcome, This is basically Smile Dog changing from his dog form to his true demon form. That's how I think of him, I see him as a demon who can take the form of a husky. IT'S CALL IMAGINATION!! I haven't done much animating, so this is pretty choppy, but I keep forgetting how much I love to animate, so I think I'll be working with it a lot more I kind of felt bad about morphing this cute little guy into... well, what ever the hell this thing it ->
___________________________________ ~Made using GIMP
I've had depression for three years, and I used to hate the way my illness had changed me. I thought I could never be the girl I used to be. But my psychologist helped me to see that my illness can never change the inner me. In the end, I will have changed I will be stronger for this battle but my central values and the things that make me 'me' will always remain the same.
I am not my illness.
I have schizophrenia. People call me crazy, and avoid me, because I hear voices and talk to them. Maybe I am crazy sometimes, when I have an episode. But I'm not always crazy. I may be schizophrenic, but schizophrenic is not all I am.
I am not my illness.
The girls at school all tease me because I always stutter when I talk, and sometimes I try to speak but my mouth can't form the words. They call me retarded, dumb. I've never really had any real friends, all because I have autism. They can't look past my illness and see the real me, the 'me' who longs to be accepted like any normal person. I may be autistic, but I'm still human. I still have feelings.
I am not my illness.
I have bipolar disorder, also known as manic depression. Many people consider me 'unemployable', because of my illness. They say I'm 'unstable and unpredictable'. But just because I have bipolar, doesn't mean I'm unstable. I take medication to stabilise my moods, and though I have to take care not to stress out too much, my condition doesn't prevent me from working, and working well. I can actually be very efficient and organised with what I do. But people don't see it, because they never give me the chance. Bipolar disorder may be part of my life, but it doesn't define who I am or what I'm capable of doing.
I am not my illness.
The guys at school call me a wuss, because I freak out so much before exams I throw up and faint. They reckon I'm chicken. I can't tell them I have an anxiety disorder. They reckon mental illnesses are for weaklings. They don't understand. Anyone can be affected. Anxiety has been part of my life for a long time, and mostly I still manage to live normally. Why can't they see that?
I am not my illness.
I had a nervous breakdown two years ago, and it led to me slowly sliding into mental illness. I missed almost a whole year of school last year. Now I'm back, and even though I know I'm not meant to take things too fast, it bugs me that people treat me like I'm going to go crazy at a moment's notice. I know I'm fragile, but why do they have to always make such a big deal of it? I'm still the same person I always was.
I am not my illness.
I have suffered from anorexia for my whole high school life. At first I got so many compliments on how skinny I was, which only pushed me further. Then people started to notice that I wasn't just pretty skinny any more, I was skeletal. They call me crazy, that I can't see myself for what I actually am. They say I'm delusional. I'm not delusional. I'm sick. I know what I'm doing is wrong, but I can't stop it. It's the illness. It's not me.
I am not my illness.
Ever since the girls at school noticed I had scars on my wrist, I have been the subject of merciless taunting. My friends have turned their backs to me; they say I'm crazy. They look at me with disgust. I'm not crazy though. Or at least, I'm not crazy all the time. I'm sick. It is an illness, this addiction. It's paralysing. I still cope though. I'm still me, whatever my illness. I'm still me.
I am not my illness.
I am not my illness. My illness is not me. I am above this. I am above my illness. I. Am. Not. My. Illness.
Edit: Oh. My God. OK, so I showed this to my psychologist, and she liked it so much she asked me to email it to her so she could frame it and put it on her desk for all her clients to see. That part is amazing enough. But yesterday she told me that one of her clients was so touched by it that they asked if they could have it, and they took it home and they keep it on their bedside table, and every morning they look at it and it helps them stay strong. She also told me that this person one morning just could not get out of bed, so they rang her, and she told them to pick up the frame and hold it to their chest and just tkae it one step, one leg at a time, and at the end they were standing, holding my piece of writing to their chest !!!!!!! There is no words to describe what I feel about that....
Edit 2: OMG I came third!!! Thank you so much everyone!!!
Only one of these is real - the first one, and it's me. The others I made up, but they represent very real, very possible situations when people with mental illnesses are confronted by others. Remember - there is more to us than our illness. Don't judge us.
My entry for 's contest: "I am not my illness." Click: [link] to see more information.
Chapter One: In which Our Heroes make another untoward escape, and Cavaldi holds a conversation with his liquor.
When Jacob had taken up the career of writing (as opposed to the hobby) he had assumed that he had also given up mobs. Mobs had been an unpleasant characteristic of the previous occupation his brother Wilhelm had had him engaged in (skullduggery) and though Will had ensured him that mob mentality was a necessary aspect of their line of work, they had the unpleasant tendency of turning on you at a moments notice.
Case in point, the current.
They had been signing books. Innocently, innocently mind you, signing copies of their new book inside a shop in Paderborn for a few fans. Well, more than a few fans, really. It looked as though they were famous again in fact, and it had been rather nice to get equal share of the attention with his brother.
It had all gone wrong, however, when one of the fans wasn’t content with a signed book. Oh no, she wanted a hug from Will, and Wilhelm had happily obliged. And then all the other fans saw, and they all wanted hugs as well, and they started fighting, and then some of the parents took it into their heads that something inappropriate was going on (it wasn’t, though Jacob wouldn’t put it past his brother) and now, well, here they were.
It wasn’t a large mob, but it was a mob none the less and they were running through the honeycomb of streets at a mad dash, rain pouring down like there was no tomorrow (which Jacob thought for them at least was an honest possibility) with it nipping at their heels.
“I thought you said…this sort of thing wasn’t…going to happen any more!” Jacob wheezed to his brother as they ran.
“Well, you see,” Will admitted, “that was sort of based on the idea that you weren’t a very good writer!”
“Oh, thank you very much!” Jake blustered indignantly.
“Look, I was wrong wasn’t I? Hence the screaming fans?”
“At this point (wheeze, pant) I rather wish you hadn’t been!”
Jake followed his brother as he ducked down a dark and narrow alleyway, to the confusion of the mob, which continued to search the main street for them. Will motioned to a full clothesline, and Jake got the nauseous feeling that it was time to disguise themselves as women and ride out of town again.
This was something that the Brothers Grimm had had to do, if not often in their previous careers, than at least with some predictability. Most of the villagers that Will bamboozled stayed bamboozled, at least until they were safely out of town. Once in a while however a job would go bad and they’d end up in much the same state as the present, hastily pulling on skirts and bustiers while on the look out for the glimmer of torchlight.
Will hoisted Jake up by the ankle and they clambered over the fence, hastily, but hopefully inconspicuously making their way back to the stable of their lodgings to grab the horses and beat a judicious retreat.
This time the gods of luck seemed to be with them, in some small measure at least, as they made it back to the tavern without incident, and were able to throw their belongings together and leave. They didn’t stop to speak until they were galloping away on horseback, still dressed as women.
Will whipped his bonnet off, exposing his rakish blonde hair and grinned. “See, we got out of there alright, eh, Jake?”
Jacob scowled, adjusting his silver glasses on his nose. “Oh yes, well if you call being on the run out of town again ‘alright’, then yes. I suppose so.”
Will laughed. “Don’t worry Jake, we didn’t do anything wrong. This, my dear brother is just celebrity. As you well know.”
“I thought things would be different now,” he half whined. “I’d hoped we might have a bit of dignity.”
His brother tut-tutted at him. “A respectable writer, now whose ever heard of such a thing? Writers are just con-men in another outfit, or in our case, the same outfit.”
Most people found Wilhelm Grimm’s cocky grin infectious and inspiring; Jake had seen it much too often, he just thought it was obnoxious.
“You are an ass.”
“And what if I am? Relax brother, they’ll cool down, meanwhile, we’ll just go ahead to the next stop on our tour, right? No harm done.”
Jake slouched down in his saddle grumbling. There was plenty wrong, but there was no arguing with Will when he was this way, all exhilarated and suchlike. Jake had to content himself with a melo-tragical sigh, slouching down in his saddle, and pulling out a book of fresh paper, perhaps to pen a tale, perhaps only to avoid his brother’s gaze.
Dolore Cavaldi was staring at the bottom of a mug of ale; this was becoming an altogether too familiar pastime. Marbarden had been a dream, it seemed, something foggy on the edge of his mind, a hazy reflection that had come into focus so quickly after the exit of its Grimm Heroes. Or at least, as focused as anything in Cavaldi’s world got.
In the muddy glow of daylight Marbarden, stripped of its enchantment, it’s malignance, and finally its new heroes, became just another greasy hamlet in the woebegone German states. Cavaldi had found himself slipping, as the weeks dragged, on back into back into old habits and old harms. One afternoon he’d found himself chaining up the milkman in the dining room, holding him at gunpoint, and demanding to know what had been done to the morning’s cream.
Cavaldi had been run out of town that evening.
It had only been a minor set back, after all, and as Abigail, the woman whom he’d been sharing a cottage with, had shown no interest in fleeing Marbarden with the errant Italian, Cavaldi had not really counted it as a loss at all. That was, until fortunes conspired against him. He had traveled the countryside in as much style as his then waning purse would allow, and sought employment with the minor princes of the German states. The man who currently had Cavaldi in his service, was, in point of fact a Duke (though there was little difference in these backwater territories) called Jonas.
Jonas wore a hard, glittering iron circlet, and a hard, glittering smile that unnerved even the Italian half of the time. Cavaldi had the good taste, and good sense, not to enquire how the position of torturer had come to be open.
And so Dolore had returned to his family profession of pain, if with a slightly lower pay scale, and a little more of the Germanic lack of tact. His accustomed manic fervor had not diminished, no not in the least, but he found himself thinking between the screams, if there might not be something else he might be doing with his life, something perhaps with a little more elegance, and a little bit more appreciation.
What could taint a torturer? Fame? Adventure? A story?
And so came the drink. Of course, no one seemed to be able to tell the difference between a drunk Dolore Cavaldi and a sober one, at least, the Duke certainly didn’t give an clue that he did, but Cavaldi could tell.
A sober Cavaldi was a little more inclined to whisper meanly than to yell half-coherently, and a little more inclined to wonder about the justice of chains and whether he ought not really be the one strapped to the rack. At least, until he drank some more, and then the old Cavaldi would be back with bells on, at least, for a little bit. At least until the liquor started to settle in his stomach. And then he’d drink some more.
This Cavaldi was not drunk enough, though he’d been sitting in the finest pub his grace Duke Jonas’ territory could offer for several hours. This Cavaldi was shouting at the barman for another round, and god help the man who questioned him, as it would be off to the Duke’s snail and viper pit, so help him, god. So help him, god.
The torturer chucked his empty glass right over his shoulder and on to the head of a wine besotted German ponce sitting behind him. He pulled the mug full of thick ale toward him, and glared into it. Another round or two and he might be threatening the pint as well. Wouldn’t that be a lark?
The thought made Cavaldi chuckle, a dark, menacing thing, it started in the back of his throat, in the bottom of his belly, and it grew, a cold, mirthless cackle, a full blown maniacal laugh. The other patrons, drunken as they were, edged away from the Duke’s mad torturer, and avoided his gaze. The barman adjusted his apron nervously, eyeing the dark haired, olive skinned foreigner with mixed intentions. He might have kicked Cavaldi out, if not for the Duke’s wrath, and if not for the fact that the Italian’s seeming incomprehension of exactly how much a pint of beer cost.
Gradually the torturer’s gaze became hazy again, in a stupor over his ale, and the barman’s attention drifted back to those customers who, if they were out of their skulls, were only thus because of his establishment’s fine ale.
The Brothers Grimm thought they had seen the last of adventures; Angelika thought she’d seen the last of the Brothers, and Cavaldi thought he’d seen the last of just about everything, but a strange letter from Romania signals the start of a new mystery.
The doctors see a patient A girl made of pills A girl of facts Formulas And broken ends My parents see my mask One no one should wear They see the smiles The daughter they know as theirs My friends see a shadow A fallen friend They think there is nothing to do And leave me be I see a girl Little and scared Who wants to be better Holding her bear I am not my illness My illness is not me What can I do When no one else sees?
life sucks some times. there just isn't enough windows to see how to help. for #NeverBeAlone if anyone needs to talk I'll listen if anyone doesn't know what to do just ask help is easiest to afford when the helpers anonymous
It was dark, that faithful night, When we found our friend had lost the fight. We remained unknown to each other, Until you grabbed your pride. You came to my abode, Guessing I was alone, And made your promise, To be there even if I loathed. "And if they get me put this stake, Through my heart." you said, Your words mixing like wind, Fire, and dust. For you knew my pale complextion Wasn't just there like a gift. I hid the bite marks in the coat, Hoping, and praying, you'd never look. For I was one of them, It was by force you see, For some reason, Vampires can't resist young blood like me. "And if they get me,put this gun to my mouth" You whispered cautiously, Placing the weaponry to my chest. I only looked into your sad and anxious eyes and said, "Vampires will never hurt us,love." And soon, Placing my lips to you neck, Your blood chilling and your breath left. Tonight,you were a part of me, Owned by me. For the vampires never hurt their kind, Even if they are left behind.
Well,I was at my Coffee House performance,and then this comes into mine when I see this guy that looks like a vampire.Based on MCR's "Vampires Will Never Hurt You". I hope u seriously like this. The picture makes me think Bob is somewhat a vampire,but I do not own this.I forgot whos picture it was anyway.Just read!!
it was halloween and charlotte was dressed as an obnoxious pumpkin, because her mother tries to make her a normal child.
(and charlotte will whisper that normal children smash pumpkins, not wear them.)
when charlotte was seven she decided that she would swim far out into old pine lake, and hold her breath until the colors in her eyes turned purple, like the bruises that slid down her thighs and touched apon her fragile feet.
(and it was then that charlotte realized, that no one would be around to save her, and that just wasn't the point.)
charlotte decides to be called "char" because it sounds like something silent, and distant. when you say a word so many times in a row it just doesn't sound the same anymore.
(because charlotte wasn't the same,anymore.
charlotte's first boyfriend knew her as char. to him she was a ray of sunburst that consumed a frail skeletal shell of twisting freckles, and bruises turned brown.
(because the name charlotte sounded so much worse when pressed through chapped lips.)
and one day, char will be asked what her favorite color is. her fingers will dig into the wet grass, and her hair will glow in the green-blue sky. char will remember charlotte, and the water seeping in through her nostrils and into her lungs. with closed eyelids, charlotte breathes.