Hey everyone! I’ve posted here many times. Short rundown is I have a mourning dove couple that uses one of my flower pots on my second floor apartment porch to raise babies on and we otherwise cohabitate together peacefully. They had their third brood (two babies) and by last Thursday one of the fledglings had left the deck for good. The other one however has not left. They CAN fly, and have left a few times, but they always return. Sometimes they even climb back into the nest. The parents are still taking their shifts and watching, and occasionally feeding. The baby is certainly wary of me if I need to go out to tend to my plants, it will scurry to the other side of my deck. But when I am not out there it will be up by the door window observing us inside. Is this just a “late bloomer”? Or is he being a bit of a lazy mooch? Is this bad parenting haha? 🤣 Maybe this brood is just like me and my sibling. I left home and he stayed put. 🙃
Side note: I’ve been avoiding just scaring the birdie off because I don’t want the parents to change their esteemed opinion of me. Yes I know that’s ridiculous.
EDIT: Also, idk if there’s a clear difference between fledgling and juvenile but I would say this is really more a juvenile at this point based on pictures and size.

Hey there. I’m in eastern Massachusetts and from dusk till dawn I hear exactly this.. “ooooOOOO… whoo, whoo, whoo.” It’s a followed by 10 seconds of silence then repeat. I think it might be a Great Horned Owl,but I’ve never found anything online that sounds like it with the 3x hoots at the end. Thanks.
Update: I’ve been educated. It’s a Mourning Dove.

Though our time together and friendship was short, I appreciate all the times you helped me smile. Look after the birds and bees for me. Whenever you hear a mourning dove call, I hope you think of me and it brings a smile to your face. You have a good heart.
Take care.

First/Previous
Since I knew there was a time before, I’ve wanted it, but that was child’s hope; even as a boy I wanted a dream. I wanted some divine being to enter from heaven and tell us all how it should be, but that wasn’t something I could ever count on—of course. Is there a god? I think so. I’ve seen those things and if they exist, then surely there’s a maker on the other end of it—god made both the light and the dark if the word’s to be believed and all we can hope for is a glimpse of the former. Even for a second.
The streets were soaked with blood and so many artillery rounds were fired into the sky—many I witnessed missed Leviathan—that I forgot what silence was like (not to mention the screams and there was a lot of that).
In the scrambling, I found I was reentering deeper into Golgotha and that wasn’t good. There was the ever-present thought that Maron was around every corner; the man had haunted my thoughts for longer that he should have and every time it was like an overwhelming force. It was simple enough after all, he was a piece of the past, a piece I could theoretically reach out and touch and that was what kept me to him.
In the fray of bolting citizens, I pressed myself to the exterior of a wall—I’d neared the stairs which once led to my apartment—and I kept out of the way of those that mindlessly went; some of those which rushed from the onslaught were those afflicted with skitterbugs and many of them either hobbled on blackened legs or—and this was rare—comrades or family helped to carry those which could not carry themselves. It was a baffling sight. A man carried a woman like a child (her toes had fallen off and her legs were black to the knees) and though he strode on with her, his own boots were caked with a mixture of blood and earth. An older girl led a young boy from the whirlwind of dust which was kicked up in the square; the boy’s eyes were whited, and his hands were curled to his chest, discolored. People, whatever duality there is, cared. There was not a drop of the apathy I’d learned and encouraged in myself.
I chewed like a mad dog through my bindings, and it was of little use; I yanked at the cord which secured my hands together and received rope burn in return. “Bitch!” I cussed the thing, but the flames in the sky were so loud, the bangs and vibrations from the artillery consumed all so it was like yelling in a barrel. I swung my hands out in front of me, feeling useless and felt a sudden urge to try again. I bit into the cord and repetitively motioned my jaw against the pressure of the cord, like I was going to saw through it with my teeth. Ha! Another yank is what brought my left hand free, but not without tearing a triangle of skin away from my wrist.
The cord dropped to my feet, and I looked around; a woman brushed past me, nearly toppled over my foot and I caught her by the wrist before she went head-over. She violently thrust from my grasp and screamed something at me. Another bout of flames burst from Leviathan’s maw as it circle-dove overhead. The heatwave from the blast exploded across my face so that I recoiled from the sky itself till I was on the ground, and I pushed myself from the earth and ran half dog-like from my place there at the wall. Where? It was hard to say where when every person that touched-by seemed to send me in another direction; in the madness, it was impossible to tell my course.
With time and effort, I found my way to the opening where the hydro towers were, three pillars which rose above Golgotha’s skyline, each one a testament to human resilience—engineers laborers toiled untold hours under Lady’s father to construct them. The hydro towers exploded into rubble as Leviathan slammed into them. Rock rained down as cutting shards and destructive boulders. A man lay beside my feet where he'd been pinned by the onslaught—white concrete kept him there by his chest—he gasped for air and blood already formed around him. In a moment, I looked away at the dying man, his half-whited eyes bulging at me. Meat hung from the left side of another man’s face as he cradled his head in his hand and moved like he was stoned and sat among the stomping feet; he slumped into the spot he sat and did not move till others came by him in a hurry and he simply fell onto his side like a toy animal.
The screams were too much. I looked to the towers, the nubs which had broken away like bad teeth against the red sky, and whole people fell alongside the rubble, limbs and showers of blood and Leviathan latched atop the towers and rocked its massive body so that the structures slipped directly from their foundations and tumbled over like pins. I ran and again there was nothing but chaos, nothing but mind-numbing wilder thoughts—it was grim and there wasn’t a place for coherency; it was all snaps of images.
In the mess of bumbling limbs, I pushed through to the hall of Bosses and there were people there already, rushing the stairs; the ground shook and I assumed it must’ve been the towers. The things demolished all in their path, and briefly, I saw the ramshackle structures which normally stood in their shadows come slanting over and people leapt from those places too and landed poorly and there was a cacophony of tremors through the earth—it felt as though hell should open.
The steps at the base of the hall were flooded and it was a fight to climb them as legs came high up from ahead and swiped at those behind and I kept my hands ahead of me to block whatever foot may come my way.
Wall men stood ready with their rifles at the tops of those steps and fired their weapons indiscriminately into the crowd. Bodies, big and small, piled atop the steps after a brief bullet dance and it came that I wasn’t only climbing stairs, but corpses; the warmth of their flesh as I clawed ahead remained and blood fog hung in the air. That grouping of wall men, casually lined before the doors of the hall were overtaken and they disappeared, their rifles cackled and came alive with muzzle flashes and the animal hands of the horde brought them to ground.
Us, the horde, funneled through those front doors and for a moment, in the thick walls of the hall, the outside world audibly disappeared; the blood and dust remained, but it was quieter save the shuffling feet and cusses of passersby I was carried deeper.
Those that worked the underground went quickly and I followed, and those ignorant followed for the sake of survival and it was not long till we stumbled into the Boss’s lair. With room, people dispersed like water through the tunnels and found dark recesses to tend their wounds or mourn whatever was lost and the explosive open air had been fully replaced by the quiet black oppressive mumbles of people taking stock of all those that had died. And all those that would. Every few moments, the walls shook, and dust fell from the ceiling fixtures.
A few haggard folks moved to the doorway which led to the damp room which led to the kitchen, and they slammed the door shut and latched it and began to check adjacent rooms for things to barricade the way.
“Stop!” said a man in the dim flickering underground light—I was surprised to see the man was me, “Leave it open! Others might need help.” I retraced my steps to the small faction that’d gathered there at the doorway. “You can’t just let them die out there. Let them in.”
“Shut up!” a skinny girl with her hair pulled back on her malnourished skull spoke gruffly; she choked, coughed—dust clung to her clothes—she’d been near the collapse of the hydro towers if I guessed. “Step off, or I’ll—
“Or you’ll what?” I shouted.
The girl put up her fists, two lumpy stones, and in stupid response I closed the distance between us. With speed, her fist met my nose, and I stumbled back on my heel.
Without hesitation, I brought up my own hands and landed a blow to her stomach. She craned forward, gasped on repeat, and took a knee.
Blood wet my upper lip, and I wiped it away with my forearm.
“Move,” I said to the others by the door; there were two: a woman and a boy that was nearly a man.
The boy charged headstrongly, attempted a kick and I easily shoved his small frame against the tunnel wall; the hard metal sounded a meaty thud against his body and the woman launched unseen at me, raked her nails down the back of my neck, and tore at my collar. I kept a forearm to the boy’s throat and rocked his head with my free elbow. Once he wept and spit red, I let him go; the boy slid into a sit and I spun on the woman, shoving her away. My left leg began to give, and I used the wall over the boy’s head as support. I swung at her with a wild claw and my fingertips grazed her nose as she fell away to the opposite wall.
“Stop it!” I shouted.
She launched at me, and my leg gave out under her tackle, and I stumbled half-on the boy, my feet kicked helplessly at her, and the boy regained his composure and began to crawl towards me. We wrestled and then the girl I’d knocked in the gut rejoined the fray. I was done. They had me pinned and spat curses at me and took turns shoving my head into the floor.
“You’re going to get us killed,” shouted the woman, “Are you stupid?”
I grinded my teeth and tried to throw them off; I was overpowered and easily pressed down again.
The overhead lights flickered with another deep earthy vibration and the trio let go of me in an instant—I came up swinging my arms like crazy and as I went to kneel before propelling myself to stand, a hand rested on my shoulder. I spun on the hand and was met with the black mouth of a 9mm pistol—that froze me fast.
The owner of the weapon—a wall man by the look of her fatigues—motioned for me to stand and I did. Her eyes were far off and nervous and the metal shook in her outstretched hand. “Against the wall!” she barked at us; she was small-framed and youthful but full grown, and I could easily push her out of my way if not for the pistol. We went to the wall, and she moved to the door while keeping the gun drawn on us. She watched us and glanced at the door. “It’s latched! Who latched the door?” She asked.
No one spoke. The other three looked to their feet; I initially refused to rat, and snorted blood—my nose throbbed and by touch I could tell it swelled already.
“Well? Why’s it closed?” she asked the question more like a desperate child than a person with control. “C’mon!” The 9mm rolled limply on her wrist as she said the word, like she was attempting to draw the confession from us with the motion.
“There’s an attack. They’re killing everyone,” said the boy.
The girl and woman nodded.
“Who?” asked the wall man.
“Demons, muties,” said the boy, “Big stuff. Everyone’s dying.”
The ground shook as if to emphasize his point.
The wall man studied us for a moment, lingering last on me and for the longest and she took a long breath and let the sigh out dramatically slow. “I know you,” she motioned at me with the gun, “You’re that maniac. The one that tried to murder everyone.” Her eyes fell then returned and she put her weight on the door while maintaining the barrel of the gun eye-level in my direction.
“I ain’t gonna’ hurt anyone,” said. I briefly thought about smiling but decided that’d look worse.
“How do I know that?” she asked.
“Yeah,” said the boy, “He tried to kill us already!” His voice cracked with adolescence; the blood I’d spilled from his mouth coated the front of his holey shirt.
The trio nodded all together—everyone agreed that I was a maniac killer.
“They latched it,” I said, “Cowards.”
A thump came from the other side of the door which frightened the wall man and she leapt from the spot she’d leaned—it took several full seconds to realize her gun went off; there was a flash, and my ears rang. I stumbled from the knot of people and slunk a couple of feet from the space by the door. The girl—the one I gut-punched—collapsed to the floor while holding the right side of her face. The women crowded the girl, panicked, the boy sprinted past me and disappeared deeper into the underground, and the wall man stood there with a wretched blank expression. There was a long moment which hung in the air; I could not hear and then it came back, and it was the girl’s screams I heard first.
Upon stepping to them, I saw the prone girl had been shot just so—through the cheek. Her eyes rolled from likely spinal damage; whatever the angle, it seemed to have ripped through irreparable nerves and she bled a lot. There wasn’t any hope for that girl.
“Well,” I said to the wall man, “Finish it. No reason to make her suffer.”
The girl on the ground writhed unnaturally and caterwauled while the woman by her side attempted to calm her.
Greater became the sound of the belabored hands on the other side of the door; then a hollow-sounding gunshot came from the other side; were they shooting the door? Or each other? Another round—human screams.
The wall man shook her head. “I didn’t mean it. It was an accident.”
I tried to hold the wall man’s gaze, but she didn’t seem able.
With speed, I moved to the wall man, reached for the gun which dangled helpless by her side—her initial response was to flinch, pull the weapon from my reach; our eyes locked and I clenched my jaw. She could’ve killed me. There wouldn’t have been surprise from me if she had.
She let go of the gun and I nodded, and she nodded and the woman kneeling by the girl threw herself over her. “Please,” protested the woman, “Please don’t!”
With the aid of the pistol, I was given space, and nothing was said. I mentally prepared myself for the ringing which accompanied gunfire in small spaces, even tilted my head away with my free palm up and took aim and the girl jerked once then went still.
With the ringing going and sound returning, the drumming on the door returned, as well as the quiet weeps of the woman; she crawled to the wayside of the hall, pressed her back against the wall and rested her chin on her knees with her arms around her shins. She didn’t rock to or fro and hardly made any noise at all. But the small and quiet sobs remained faintly there.
First/Previous
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It was a werewolf centered book I read in 2013 or 2014. It started off with a funeral and the main character describing a woman's mourning clothing, she might have been the widow of the dead guy.
The main character (mc) talks to this older guy who keeps pushing the supernatural as an explanation for the man's death, more specifically a werewolf. Mc doesn't believe in that and won't accept it.
Mc gets a totem from some (romani?) Travelers that's is supposed to protect him from werewolves. He takes it with a grain of salt and leaves it behind somewhere
Then there's a werewolf attack, killing several people and describing the gore and smell in detail. The Mc is also attacked, but survives
Infected Mc heads to london and is put in an insane asylum. He is trapped there for almost month until he transform (in gory, painful detail) he then goes on a rampage through london killing and eating people.
That is all I remember from the book, I'd really like to read it again.

Hi everyone!
I originally joined this subreddit after a pair of pigeons built a nest on the sill of the building across the alley from my office. I was hoping to do a little neighborly research about them haha
A few days after, I started placing a mix of (raw unsalted ofc) seeds and nuts on my fire escape with my plants and eventually noticed that I somehow attracted the exact same pair of pigeons (+their fledgling baby now!) since my office is barely a half hour walk from my home.
As I’ve come to care about these pigeons the Normal Amount™ and with the heat of summer already bearing down on us, I was thinking about adding a little water dish for them, too. Any ideas on things I could add to the water for them—if anything? Vitamin powders? Electrolytes? I’m happy to stop at the pet store if necessary!
If it matters, I get other birds, too. Mourning doves, sparrows, blue jays, etc. There’s a crow around here that I’ve seen but hasn’t stopped by (to my knowledge).
Thanks in advance!

The sword is without, and the pestilence and the famine within: he that is in the field shall die with the sword; and he that is in the city, famine and pestilence shall devour him.But they that escape of them shall escape, and shall be on the mountains like doves of the valleys, all of them mourning, every one for his iniquity

First the father, now the son.
What kind of man was Guiseppe Texas, father of Cellinia Texas?
The man murdered his own father, and according to Bernardo Bellone, their relationship was not "amicable" even before that day. The two of them drifted so far apart that they could no longer agree about the future.
But before looking into how they disagreed, what did they still have in common?
Texas: The way I lived my life in Columbia was no different than the way I lived in Siracusa. And what I saw in Siracusa was no different from what I saw in Columbia.

As far as she was concerned, she's always lived life the exact same way. But, to other people— She was just like a Siracusan.
Was she just like a Siracusan? She didn't know. All she remembers is what she once said to her grandfather:
'People who keep going on and on about how life in Siracusa is nobler, or about life in Columbia is nobler, are all full of it.'
To which he laughed heartily.
...she had once asked her grandfather this question:
'Isn't Siracusan morality just trampling on the lives of the people all the same?'

Fundamentally, a mafioso separates the world into Us and Them. The 'us', the famiglia, the family business, is held together by trust and loyalty. Family helps family, family protects family, family sacrifices for family, family obeys family.
Salvadore Texas is remembered in a photograph as a kindly grandfather posing with his daughter and the daughter of a family friend. The daughter of a man Salvadore would have killed, of a family he might have liquidated, if not for the pleading of the man's mother, a woman Salvadore might once have married.
How many other daughters did Salvadore sell on the streets as prostitutes as a side business? How many other mothers mourned the sons he killed to eliminate rivals? Because "them", the other, the outsider, is just an obstacle or an enemy. Not worth the justice or mercy extended to family, or the justice and mercy promised by the Columbian government and demanded by its common people.

Betwixt Father and Grandfather

As for Texas's perspective on things, her point of view would have been limited by her role in the famiglia.
If it was Salvadore's decision to send his son's daughter to Siracusano, rather than to allow Guiseppe to raise her up in his newer, 'Columbian' ways, then it was probably Salvadore's decision that Texas would be raised up not as a business woman like Giovanna, but as a warrior like himself. A 'heavy'.
Perhaps Salvadore felt he'd taken too loose a handle on raising his son, and sought to correct his mistake with his granddaughter. Perhaps interfering with Guiseppe's right to raise his own daughter only furthered the resentment between the two men.
But even in Columbia, a mafia will always eventually resort to a heavy to get dirty work done. So Texas probably DIDN'T live any differently in Siracusa than in Columbia, just as a truck is still used as a truck no matter whether you find it on a peaceful farm or in an invading army.
Still, the business that went on around her DID have some differences...

Generational Shift

Salvadore: The Columbian famiglie changed into opulent attire, took up residence in luxurious mansions, and stepped into the so-called upper class, thinking they had clearly delineated a boundary between them and Siracusa. 'Siracusa is barbaric, while we are not.' They spoke those words, thinking themselves superior to our homeland. Your father's been captured by this line of thinking too.

In her grandfather's eyes, the Columbian famiglie had soured. They'd do anything for the sake of profit, getting involved in the lowest businesses, committing murders with no morals at all.
In her father's eyes, the Siracusan famiglie had decayed. Passing up profit and opportunity, not fighting for their interests, limiting their progress for the sake of supposed morality. All of it was the pinnacle of stupidity.
In Texas's eyes, her father and grandfather were right and wrong.

Texas never elaborates on how what she thinks each man got right and what they got wrong.
But as I did in the previous post, I have to draw a curious connection.

...she had once asked her grandfather this question:
'Isn't Siracusan morality just trampling on the lives of the people all the same?'

Is that the "morality" that Guiseppe derides? Why would a Columbian wise guy see a morality of trampling on the common people as limiting a famiglia's progress, or getting in the way of profits and opportunities?
But if Guiseppe is referring to a morality of compassion and justice for all, where is anything of the sort evidenced in the famiglie of Siracusa? Or in Salvadore Texas, who raised his granddaughter as a living weapon, a cold-hearted killer of men?
As Texas thinks of the differences in the methods of her patriarchs:

In Siracusa, the subject may take their last breath on a dark, rainy street. The more one cares, the greater the pain.
In Columbia, a show of kindness by a mafioso often results in the subject becoming a chip in a bargain. The more one cares, the higher the cost.

As I said, the Columbian mafia shares the same fundamental contempt for outsiders and enemies as the Siracusan mafia... except in so far as they FIRST try to settle differences with a mutually beneficial deal, or at least a non-violent bargain.
To have any sort of restraint at all is, in itself, a form of compassion and morality. Of passing up the profit and opportunity of "the survivor takes all".
While the Siracusan way of jumping to "the survivor takes all" is indistinguishable from Salvadore's accusation that the Columbians would commit murders "with no morals at all".
And Texas believes both men were right and wrong in their accusations.
Perhaps she saw how their methodology differed only in emphasis. Perhaps Salvadore and Guiseppe merely disagreed about which situations called for making "deals too good to refuse", and which called for total annihilation.
And so each glossed over their own actions as fully justified, while the actions of the other were a completely inappropriate response to the situation. But the men were simply two sides of the same coin.

Guiseppe's Methods

But sometimes, a mere difference in focus and priorities can make quite the enormous difference, for those standing the farthest from the center-point of the scales.
And Siracusa wasn't prepared for the new Columbian generation.

Leontuzzo: One thing I learned from the Columbians is— If you want someone to listen to you, incentives can be more useful than violence.
Leontuzzo: 'The government is just the cloth draped over Grey Hall's round table.' Every associate of every famiglia remembers Signora Sicilia's lament. There was once a time when we never took stock of the vases and cutlery sitting on our tablecloth. But right now, it's something we must pay close attention to.
When the Columbians brought new things back with them, what disturbed me most was not their technology, but rather... How they do things nothing like we do in Siracusa.
They knew that Siracusa's officials were never going to turn their backs on the old guard of the famiglie, so they never required those officials to defer to them in public. All they needed was for them to turn a blind eye at just the right moment, or whenever it was convenient for them.
And what can we do? Getting rid of those officials won't solve anything.
Try to settle things with them directly? They're not stupid enough to give the game away.
Despite the not-insignificant amount of power and influence we have here, there is nothing we can do about them.
I believe that you, having spent a number of years living in Lungmen, should be more familiar with their way of doing things.
Texas: ...To the point I almost thought I was back in Lungmen.
Leontuzzo: Hah. But here in Siracusa, few people even realize how big the shockwaves from the Columbian approach might end up being.
You know, Signorina Texas, when I really dove into the nitty-gritty of this approach, to better understand it, the only thing I felt was... Admiration.
The weapons they deploy are profits and negotiations, not violence and bloodshed.
Wallach: What do the courts here in Siracusa have to do with the so-called law?
Look at it this way. In most Siracusan cities, standing trial and going to jail is a common coming-of-age ritual for a young mafioso. After that, his famiglia associates go pick him up, like a warrior returning home triumphant. Everything on the surface here is meaningless to those who live by the underworld's ways.
'A complete joke.' There's no other way to say it. But that's why we were able to establish ourselves here so easily.

Even the Siracusan civilians seemed to take notes from the Columbian upstarts.

Leontuzzo (speaking of Caracci): I just thought there were some similarities in the way I saw things and the way he operated. The days when problems can be solved with fighting and killing are over, padre mio.
He knew exactly how to deal with the famiglie, and that went beyond just being tactful. He knew how to help them under the table while also getting them to serve his interests. A lot of what he wanted to do would've been blocked by various famiglie, but in his hands, he always managed to get things done, step by step.
Rubio: [Caracci] showed me how to deal with the famiglie in a comically simple way— He offered them goods they couldn't refuse. Benefits.

Granted, for the last seven years, these have not been the methods of Guiseppe Texas, but of Donna Giovanna Rossati, the heir of the Texas legacy and empire.
Even so, she was very thoroughly a Columbian donna. She looked up to Salvadore as an icon, but he was dead. Without him around, the only Columbian wise guys left were of the same cloth and cut as Guiseppe Texas.
Giovanna had no choice but to return to Siracusa, to kiss Lady Sicilia's ring. But only because Guiseppe had made the decision to spit in Sicilia's face.
Guiseppe had no intention of infiltrating and subverting Siracusa with his Columbian mafia tactics; he'd fully intended to break free of Siracusa. Perhaps he was focused on turning such tactics against the local Columbian government.
Given Wallach's contempt for the sham Siracusan justice system, Guiseppe was probably in for a harder battle, though one with a bigger prize.
We'll probably never know.

Sunder's Arknights posts - a collection of links

Saw a mourning dove sitting on my bird bath and looking around—sometimes he would turn his head normally, other times he would bob his head forwards or backwards while turning his head.
Since bobbing is supposed to help stabilize their vision, I’m curious why they would do this while standing still. Best answer I can think of is that they’re stretching their neck muscles, or it’s just habit (but that wouldn’t explain why they only do it sometimes)
Thanks in advance for any answers!

We roar all like bears, and mourn sore like doves: we look for judgment, but there is none; for salvation, but it is far off from us.For our transgressions are multiplied before thee, and our sins testify against us: for our transgressions are with us; and as for our iniquities, we know them

I currently work trapping Mourning Doves in Kansas, but have lately been seeing many dead birds in the traps. Cause seems to be compies getting in them, as I saw one feeding on a dead bird in the trap once and have caught a few others. Anybody know a good deterrent (thinking of trying West Indian Lilac)?

I reckoned till morning, tha , as a lion, so will he break all my bones: from day even to night wilt thou make an end of me.Like a crane or a swallow, so did I chatter: I did mourn as a dove: mine eyes fail with looking upward: O LORD, I am oppressed; undertake for me

I found what looks like a juvenile mourning dove in my yard and I've been seeing it often over the last few days, when i approach it it doesn't seem able to fly. What do I do?

I'm incredibly quiet in public, one time in middle school a girl told me my silence makes her uncomfortable. Which totally hasn't affected me years later, haha nope. But at home? With friends and family? God I'm LOUD. I yap and yap and yap. I also have adhd which does not help.
My mom has had a lift time of me standing there just rambling about things I like while she looks at her phone and I pretend not to be hurt. I'm not mad that she does that because she's the only person nice enough to sit there and listen to my bullshit when its like 11 pm and my meds have worn off for the day lol.
My dad eventually tells me to shut up, which kinda sucks cause he kinda seems like the only person who understands me sometimes. He definitely has adhd too. He likes a lot of the things I like because he's the one who showed me them in the first place. I think he hurts me the most.
My sister also had adhd, I don't talk to her a lot. Were not exactly close but were also not like estranged. I just don't think she likes me some times. I think she loves me at least.
My other sister I've gotten really close to in the last couple of months. I'm home for the summer but when I was at college I would call her, ask her how she was and then spend like a good ten minutes talking about whatever, and she would let me. She's the closest I've gotten to ever feeling like someone is 100% invested in a convo with me.
I only have 2 friends. On of them I met online and she lives across the country. The other one is basically my brother but he goes to a different college, has 5 million friends, and we can be complete opposites at times.
I see so many like stories or videos of people talking about friends or partners rambling about things that they like and that they love it when their friends/partners do it. They like that part of them and I just wonder what it would be like to have someone look at me and feel that way. I know my family loves me but I know there's a lot of parts of me they don't like.
I have social anxiety. Crowds make me go catatonic at the worst and at the best I'm overwhelmed and on the verge of tears. I can barely talk to people in class. I'm almost 20 and I've never kissed anyone or been in a relationship.
I don't think I'm ugly, I think I'm average and I do believe that sometimes I'm even pretty or handsome if I try hard enough.
I don't know what I'm talking about anymore. And before anyone who is nice enough to talk to me on this post asks, I am in therapy. I probably sound depressed as hell, which I am, but I am remarkably better than I have been.
But I'm not making this post to vent about my negative feelings, I'm doing it to make myself feel better.
I'm smart. I am very smart. Im smart as hell. I'm a kind person. I listen. I'm a good friend. I think one day I'll have more friends, I've been told that cause I have adhd, my brain hasn't caught up to people my age but god damn it I'm almost there (thats what my therapist says lol). I have cool hair.
I know I won't always feel this way, life didn't end when I was 16 and suicidal. Or 17 and suicidal. Or 18. and now I'm almost 20 and fuck I always thought I would be dead by now.
I'm alive!! Isn't that fucking wonderful? IM ALIVE!!
I love getting tattoos, I'm going to get more. I'm going to a rage room for my birthday and my parents will give me books and socks (I love books and socks) for presents. My dog is going to sleep in my bed tonight and keep me awake with her kicks and her snores. Tomorrow my cats are gonna scream at me for dinner like they always do.
I'm going on vacation with my family later and my best friend is coming for the first time. I'm going to a concert with my sister later in the summer too, and then I get to go back to college. My college is my dream school, I applied as early as possible and it was the only college I applied to, I got in. My dorm for the up coming year is on the first floor so when my family and my best friend help move me in, we dont have to carry stuff up any stairs. It's also a single. Isn't that wonderful.
I'm getting my first real job soon. Isn't that wonderful.
I love my college majors (double major), I love my back yard, I love the lake I live by, I love the mourning dove that lived outside the window of the dorm I was in last year and would wake me up at 6 am every day cause I sleep with the window open.
My relationship with my dad can fucking suck but that man was my first best friend. My mom is the coolest person in the world. I'm the youngest so I never pay for shit and I probably never will. My relationship with my sisters has only been improving and I would die for them. My first tattoo was a matching one with the both of them.
I honestly did start this post to vent about how I genuinely feel so lonely a lot of the times but it just kinda changed into this? I'm such a pessimist but sometimes the happiness just jumps you. I'm sitting in my house, I just ate my favorite ice cream that my sister bought for me after eating food she also bought for our family (again, I will never buy anything ever). My sister and my mom are doing their weekend ritual of watching whatever show all weekend together and my dad keeps appearing like a ghost from the basement and making jokes. My other sister is away in her apartment but I know she is safe, happiness just jumps you sometimes.
I'm still so so so sad and depressed and sometimes I still want to die but I will feel better. One day. And it feels like that day is only ever getting closer and closer.