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The day I died but Somehow Stayed

23th of February was so normal it hurts. It was the 23th day since my 26th birthday and 24th day since I’d finally started treating my MDD.

I don’t remember what it was that I ate. I don’t remember what song on Spotify was the soundtrack of that day. I have physical memory though - my whole body feels sore and hard to move because of the hiit exercises I started doing. It was painful to breathe, let alone walk or sit or even laugh. 

I have a mental memory - I was scrolling through concerts’ ads hoping to see some rad bands performing in Kyiv in late April. My sister will have turned sweet 16 on the 28th, so I wanted to make that day a memory she could go back to every time she feels upset or broken or unable to keep pace. Be careful what you wish for, they say. Now I wish I did. As my little angel will never forget her sour 16 she met under russian occupation in Mariupol, dreaming not of Black Pink or Maneskin singing to her in the flesh, but of taking hot shower after 2 months of living in the basement of the Culture Palace she once used to go to dance classes. Once. How unfair this “once” was just 90 days ago. An eternity. 

I have a memory that makes me angry and sick - an echo of a conversation me and my partner had that day. With my taking antidepressants I was also trying to finally try living again, first time after 6 years of isolation and self-destruction. We were planning to go to the Philharmonia and I was thrilled - it felt like I was going to meet the Queen, no less. Social anxiety will do it with you, beware.

I remember myself whining about the new Batman movie and how we’d rather go to the cinema if only there was any decent title. You see, I love Batman. The me from the 23th did, at least. The me who was complaining about going out to listen to some music live. 

And that’s where I feel like throwing up. That’s where I get angry with my past-self.

How easy life was for her. How she took for granted the possibility to wake up to cars honking and birds tweeting outside along with a bunch of I-don’t-know-who-but-they-are-hilarious users on Twitter doing the same.

I want to scream at myself, say “why am I suffering now so much, why do I cry every night and beg the gods to take me in my sleep and not with a GRAD fragment splitting my throat open or cutting off my limbs or burning me alive in my own bed, why my concern is not that about how to find the money to finally get my mom to Prague on her birthday - cause she always wanted to visit Europe - but how to find a way to fucking just hear her voice and know she is still alive there, in Mariupol, for now she is still breathing, why am I supposed to live through this hell same way dozens of my Ukrainian ancestors did just because there’s a MONSTER neighboring my country, why am I to be exterminated just because I’m Ukrainian wanting to live in MY country and speak MY language, why the people I used to call relatives and friends who live in russia are telling me I just have to “bear with it” and “get denazificated” and “be corrected and thus saved”, why they deny every missile that hits my street or say I deserved it because I live in Ukraine, WHY?”

WHY DO I STILL REMEMBER HOW IT FEELS LIVING IN THE EVENING OF THE 23TH OF FEBRUARY?

I went to sleep at about 3 am. My body was sore and I was annoyed thinking that tomorrow I had a training scheduled. It’s a YouTube hiit marathon so I’d better not skip it.

It was about 4 am I fell asleep at last thinking about the fanfic I was writing to unwind. My personal lullaby. 

And it was 5 something when my partner startled me into the reality. Fully dressed, in his Bershka parka and winter Martins. It was dark in the room and I couldn’t make out the features of his face, all covered in shadows. He was silent, probably waiting for me to fully wake up. But it suddenly felt like I’d never closed my eyes at all. The alertness was overwhelming. 

When he opened his mouth to explain himself, I already knew what happened. That moment is still the one I’m trapped in. The one I died at and got myself buried in bomb shelter with kids crying and the old praying all around while the constant bombing laughs at them, knocking at our doors to let the “russian world” they brought us in. 

My love opened his mouth and I think I will never be able to escape the word he whispered.

It wasn’t “war”.

It was “russia”.

Synonyms.

pic: our basement hideout at the first day of the War. People are settling in. Very cold and dusty and overall terrible. Still better to die under shelling. 

Well shit, Helluva Boss stans saw my post about this.

"Maybe the people posting Octavia hate are like trolls".

If it's was a trolls than explain to me, why many people hate Octavia.

I really want know because you don't know what the fuck are you talk about.

Also Helluva Boss stans please leave me the fuck alone, if you disagree with me, fine whatever but from fuck sake, don't harassing me over i share about this.

At the beginning of the full scale war, there were scary news about russians preparing 45k body bags, mobile crematoriums and new massive burial methods.

But they never take their dead soldier’s bodies.

Those body bags were for us. For the civilians.

Those mobile crematoriums were for us.

Those massive burial methods were for us.

Just because we are Ukrainians.

I know we're ignoring canon right now, but can. Can we just talk about Dabi's ending for a second? Because like. What the fuck? This guy's been suffering his entire life. From being abused by his father, to being kidnapped and experimented on while he's in a coma, just to escape and go home to find out his worst fears have come true, his family abandoned him, they never really cared. Then, he spends the next 8 years homeless, where he damages his body so much to the point he's being held together by staples? How painful was his daily life?? No wonder he wanted to die. His life was hell. And now, he spends his last days alive trapped in a fucking fish tank, in excruciating agony (you cannot tell me he isn't in any pain. He has no fucking skin left, along with his other injuries. Not to mention the emotional and psychological trauma once again inflicted on him). He doesn't get to choose whether or not he wants to keep living through this nightmare. He doesn't get to choose whether or not he wants Endeavor to visit him every day. No one asks him his opinion on any of this. They decide for him, and he doesn't have the strength left to protest. He can't move, can't talk, can't do anything. All he can do is sit there, watching on helplessly, with the knowledge that after his death, his family will once again leave him behind and forget all about him. He'll never see the League again, the only people in the world who actually loved him unconditionally and never saw him as a problem or a mistake. He has to die with the knowledge that he failed. His family won't ever truly see him as a person, and he never, not once in his life, got to be happy.

“Run! To the bunker!”

Last days of the uprising. The greatest and the most despicable all leaps for freedom. He swore he voted against it and yet his honour did not let him abandon the men and women he had fought for for the last five years… and of course he joined the fights. How could he not? It was his duty. Somehow, on those chilly September days he found himself reminiscing about his life and his choices. The good and the bad, the ones he regretted and the ones he had found joy in. Just an old man reflecting on his decisions even though they did not matter in the larger perspective. In the end it all led to one September day. When t h a t  d a y came, paradoxically, he was and he was not ready. And yet, without a second thought he led his men through the flames into the bunker, as the sky fell on him. A single foolish Pole for whom the world had truly ended.

ah yes, did i mention he literally died in ‘44?   

Hetalia Historical Week- Day 3

Up in Ashes

@historical-hetaliaweek​