Custard Cup 4, Passionfruit 11: Circles
Title: Circles
Main Story: In the Heart
Flavors, Toppings, Extras: Custard cup 4 (winter: Winter, Tori Amos), passionfruit 11 (‘Twas blow for blow, disputing inch by inch, // For one would not retreat, nor t'other flinch - Lord Byron), malt (SC 235: "You don’t get second chances, don’t get second starts, never get replacements for a broken heart." - Seanan McGuire).
Word Count: 515
Rating: PG-13.
Summary: One of the problems with depression-- you're never really cured.
Notes: Taking a break from my research paper to jump up and down on my soapbox some more.
WARNING: depiction of depression in both story and linked video.
There was nothing quite like a skating rink fresh from the zamboni.
Olivia glanced to her right, got the rinkmaster's nod, and glided out on the ice. Such a smooth, easy feeling, the ice under her skates almost like air, the cool wind fresh on her cheeks. The skates braced her ankles, pushing back as she moved, right-left, right left.
She'd never skated before going to Smith. Her first-year RA, Joyce, had gotten a bunch of the freshmen together and taken them out to skate, as some sort of bonding activity. Olivia had gotten swept up in the group more or less by accident, but to her surprise, she'd enjoyed it.
So she bought a pair of skates.
She'd skated then for release, for an activity that had nothing to do with either of her former lives. She skated now for continuty, a connection to a life she'd abandoned willingly.
Or... not so willingly. She'd left because she'd felt so young, so small and broken, so lazyfatstupiduglyboring... She hadn't felt as if she had a choice.
Olivia sighed sharply, annoyed at herself. She was over this. She'd talked to her therapist about this. She was over it and she didn't need to feel bad about anything anymore. Not her mother, not her father, not even Jake's face when she said...
She winced at the thought.
Hah. Yeah. She'd just keep telling herself that.
She dodged around a slow-moving couple and picked up speed. The soft chilly air rising off the ice pricked small cool spots at the corners of her eyes that she refused to believe were tears.
Would she never feel better?
She felt raw, like all her scars had been ripped open the moment she'd found her father again. Not that she would ever take that moment back, but... she'd been happy. She'd found her place. And now she was loose again, disconnected swinging wildly with no ground beneath her feet, only ice.
Was this healing?
To her right, a young father bent almost double, holding the hands of his toddler as it wobbled happily against the ice. The child giggled hysterically and wove side to side, swinging in its father's safe grip.
Well, there was that. Her father loved her. She had that now, that tiny anchor of faith to cling to when the rest of her life spun out of control. He loved her. That went a long way.
But sometimes the voice started up again, nagging and angry-- lazyfatstupiduglyboring -- and the worst thing was that it was her voice, her own voice repeating the same old malicious lies. No wonder nobody loves you. No wonder nobody wants you around.
No, she told it, when it spoke up. No. Daddy loves me. Joanna loves me. People want me around.
And the voice would sneer, and start again-- lazyfatstupiduglyboring.
She'd thought she was all right. It was increasingly obvious that she wasn't, and never had been.
Her ankles were starting to hurt now-- she knew if she kept on she'd wind up with bruises and maybe blisters.
Time to go home.
Main Story: In the Heart
Flavors, Toppings, Extras: Custard cup 4 (winter: Winter, Tori Amos), passionfruit 11 (‘Twas blow for blow, disputing inch by inch, // For one would not retreat, nor t'other flinch - Lord Byron), malt (SC 235: "You don’t get second chances, don’t get second starts, never get replacements for a broken heart." - Seanan McGuire).
Word Count: 515
Rating: PG-13.
Summary: One of the problems with depression-- you're never really cured.
Notes: Taking a break from my research paper to jump up and down on my soapbox some more.
WARNING: depiction of depression in both story and linked video.
There was nothing quite like a skating rink fresh from the zamboni.
Olivia glanced to her right, got the rinkmaster's nod, and glided out on the ice. Such a smooth, easy feeling, the ice under her skates almost like air, the cool wind fresh on her cheeks. The skates braced her ankles, pushing back as she moved, right-left, right left.
She'd never skated before going to Smith. Her first-year RA, Joyce, had gotten a bunch of the freshmen together and taken them out to skate, as some sort of bonding activity. Olivia had gotten swept up in the group more or less by accident, but to her surprise, she'd enjoyed it.
So she bought a pair of skates.
She'd skated then for release, for an activity that had nothing to do with either of her former lives. She skated now for continuty, a connection to a life she'd abandoned willingly.
Or... not so willingly. She'd left because she'd felt so young, so small and broken, so lazyfatstupiduglyboring... She hadn't felt as if she had a choice.
Olivia sighed sharply, annoyed at herself. She was over this. She'd talked to her therapist about this. She was over it and she didn't need to feel bad about anything anymore. Not her mother, not her father, not even Jake's face when she said...
She winced at the thought.
Hah. Yeah. She'd just keep telling herself that.
She dodged around a slow-moving couple and picked up speed. The soft chilly air rising off the ice pricked small cool spots at the corners of her eyes that she refused to believe were tears.
Would she never feel better?
She felt raw, like all her scars had been ripped open the moment she'd found her father again. Not that she would ever take that moment back, but... she'd been happy. She'd found her place. And now she was loose again, disconnected swinging wildly with no ground beneath her feet, only ice.
Was this healing?
To her right, a young father bent almost double, holding the hands of his toddler as it wobbled happily against the ice. The child giggled hysterically and wove side to side, swinging in its father's safe grip.
Well, there was that. Her father loved her. She had that now, that tiny anchor of faith to cling to when the rest of her life spun out of control. He loved her. That went a long way.
But sometimes the voice started up again, nagging and angry-- lazyfatstupiduglyboring -- and the worst thing was that it was her voice, her own voice repeating the same old malicious lies. No wonder nobody loves you. No wonder nobody wants you around.
No, she told it, when it spoke up. No. Daddy loves me. Joanna loves me. People want me around.
And the voice would sneer, and start again-- lazyfatstupiduglyboring.
She'd thought she was all right. It was increasingly obvious that she wasn't, and never had been.
Her ankles were starting to hurt now-- she knew if she kept on she'd wind up with bruises and maybe blisters.
Time to go home.