#I’ve needed to be this entrenched in it mentally | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

roserobineva · 2 months

Note

Hi! Your page is so cute!

Would you please do a oneshot WLW of Abby and reader hanging out after a long day of patrol, they watch movies whilst a storm is outside?

I LOVE FLUFF <3

cheers big ears :3

A SILENT NIGHT IN

I hardly feel like I’m going to make it; With each step the knives dig into my soles. I’ve been out on the front for the past few days, and most of that time was spent on my feet. If I had spent any longer out there I would’ve deteriorated into a pile flesh, bones and sweat. So when the vine entrenched ferris wheel that graces the pier creeps into my view, I can’t help but feel relief wash over my sapped body. But even then, I consider whether it was worth the trek. I denied the more welcoming option of my bed, for a comforting presence. Three days since I had been dispatched to the FOB, three days without the company of my girl.

The first few weeks after the WLF took my cousin and I in, I was despondent to their fast pace of living. It was and still is a completely different world to the quaint, agrarian compound I was born in to. On top of that, we hadn’t been around such an amount of people in our lives; Seattle was a bustling city, and we were small country kids. But as I tried to keep up with the cyclic demands of my new superiors, my social life collapsed. My brain couldn’t cope with the needs of both. Abby was the one to save me from my sullen pit. I think, even if I maintained an intimidating demeanour, she could see my aptitude to isolate. She saw me. So she began partnering with me on paired patrols, inviting me to group meets, and despite my dejection I found her care and enthusiasm began to rub off on me. Eventually, I was out of my pit and we became close friends.

From then onwards, we would hardly ever spend time apart; She didn’t know it, or at least I hadn’t mentioned it, but her and my cousin are my glue. These passing days have been a test of my physical and mental strength, so you can imagine the beams of happiness that seeped through me as I see her pull open the aquarium doors.

“Hey you! You got my note?” Her face looks flushed with the same happiness that is embellishing me.

“Why else would I be here?” I spout jovially. She grins and gestures for me to enter. The decorations from Christmas are still strewn over the entrance hall; The giant model whale looks as if its wearing a glowing pearl necklace. The thought sends a ripple of joy through me.

Abby’s clement tone draws me out of my daydream, “So, how was your first weekend along the front?” She walks over to the front desk and perches on the edge, her gaze welcoming and warm.

I try to be honest.

“It was okay I think. Not easy, but not as terrible as I expected it to be. It definitely didn’t live up to your hellish stories.” I snicker.

She scoffs at my sass, “They’re not hellish! Just… honest. At least for me.”

“If you say so.” I chirp back.

We spend a moment in gentle silence, seemingly rejuvenated by each others presence. I take this quiet moment to absorb the entrance hall in its christmassy nostalgia. It feels like years ago I’d had a proper Christmas, but I doubt my ability to enjoy it now. An intake of breath shoots through the silent air, “I’ve got a surprise for you. I thought you might need a pick-me-up after all your hard work.” I see an excited glint shine across her eyes. I can tell she’s been waiting for me to arrive. I endorse her, “What? Really? What is it?” I struggle to contain my unceasing bundle of questions, her happiness is completely contagious.

“Follow me, it’s upstairs.” She places a guiding hand on the base of my back and softly pushes me in and toward the stairs. Her touch sends laps of tenderness across my skin. We enter the upstairs room, also still adorned with festivities and twinkling lights. A wonky, wilted Christmas tree with a haphazard array of baubles and tinsel is tucked away in the corner, waiting to be cloistered into its cupboard. A gentle scatter of snow dances in the evening blue. My eyes dance with them.

In my periphery I see Abby leaned against what looks like a large black box rested on top of a dusty cabinet. She’s doing a shit job of hiding it because it is immediately apparent as to what the surprise is.

“Oh my god. Abby you’re kidding me! Where did you find this?” I gush. Unable to form any coherent sentence, I run my hand over it’s dusty black casing of the TV in awe. I am unintentionally drawn back into my childhood, the memory of Sunday movie nights momentarily thawing my heart.

“It’s been here a while, Owen and I found it shoved in one of the cupboards so we thought we’d try and fix it up.” I fail to muster anything other than a radiant beam.

“Well… do you want to watch something?” She queries hopefully.

Before I can answer, reality crushes me. My next rotation is in less than 6 hours, despite only being back from the front for 4. I’ll be lucky to get a wink of sleep.

“Abby, I’d love to but I can’t-” Despite my harsh truth, her face is still riddled with roguery. My brow furrows in confusion, her mischievous appeal stopping me in my tracks.

“What did you do?” I question amusedly. She rubs the back of her neck, “I might have marked you and I a day off tomorrow,” she remarks sarcastically. She’s so pleased with herself. I see right through her.

Time slipped out of our grasps, and soon the evening had drifted across the milky sky, the only light emitting from the amalgamation of lamps and dim flashes from the TV. Tucked away under Abby’s arm, like an endearing dog, my eyelids grow heavy and enervated. Cosily I glance upwards, catching an obscured glimpse of her drowsy expression. I nudge into her side, breathing in her musk. She smells like home.

“Abby?” I muster through a wall of lassitude. She huffs out a mhm with breathy inflections. I take a moment, unsure whether she’s conscious enough to register my words. “I love you.” I muster. A small yet comforting laugh reverberates through her core, “Yeah, I know. I love you too.” Her words send a pang through my chest, one of guilt and pleasure. She’s so much like her. This grief passes over me swiftly as the rise and fall of her chest gently rocks me into a dreamless state. The storm had picked up since I arrived, and a howling bluster rattles the decrepit foundation of our aquarium. Natures harsh tune ushers me to sleep, the best sleep I’ve had in months, in the arms of the person I love most. In this moment, I’m the happiest I’ve been in years.

#tlou #tlou 2 #the last of us #sapphic #abby anderson #abby tlou #abby the last of us #abby anderson fanfic #the last of us fanfiction #fanfic #fem reader #wlw #fluff #abby anderson fluff #ongoing

39 notes · View notes

indiaalphawhiskey · 1 year

Note

tbh this may be my last straw, i've supported both H & L since the xfactor (vet larrie) but idk how much empathy i have left, i just feel dead inside constantly from the stunts and their choices, we thought L would have a break and be single and he chooses to stunt around with someone, as a queer fan they're both constantly just damaging my mental health, i've done my time and fought the fight and it's time to say goodbye to both of them, i just can't do this anymore i've got nothing left in me, i'm empty

I’ve said before that everyone has their own red lines, and the magnitude by which each stunt/choice affects each person is different and entirely individual.

I’m really sorry you feel so hurt by this one and that you’ve reached your red lines with them. I know how difficult it is to make the decision to let go or even just step back, but at the end of the day, your mental health is the most important thing.

If you need to walk away entirely, do so. Fandom will always be here if you feel like coming back. And if you can’t walk away (because I know the draws of the highest highs make that hard), I hope at the very least you can pull back enough to assess which parts of HL’s art/personas still give you joy and interact only with those — it’s what I’ve chosen to do.

I’ve found that being so entrenched in fandom, particularly, has dampened my joy around them both. I’ve found I feel most connected to them when I shut off the discourse and stop taking responsibility for how other people see them. Fandom conversations and discourse are taxing, to the point where it seems we’ve gotten lost in the weeds and forgotten what pulled us in in the first place, and it did me a world of good to shut off that part of this experience.

My boundaries are clearer to me now: I know they’re both good people who want to make art and have long careers in the industry, and they’re doing as much as good people can within a disappointing reality. I know they’re queer, together, and closeted. I know the decisions they make are and always will be colored by the limitations of their closet and their need to protect themselves and their relationship in a homophobic industry. Nothing else is up for discussion.

Best of luck, dear. 💜 Anything that costs you your peace is too expensive.

#iaw ask #iaw anonymous

130 notes · View notes

anthropologist-on-the-loose · 2 years

Text

Ok, I gotta say it. I get real freaking tired of people bashing the Democratic party on this website every time something bad happens. Not because they’re above reproach (and there is LOTS to criticize about the Dems). But because of the prevalence of purity culture and black and white thinking on this platform, combined with the general “what’s the point of trying to fix anything anymore” mentality, the amount of “the Democrats are just as bad as the Republicans” honestly worries me. I think I’ve seen people more angry at the Democrats for not doing enough than at the Republicans for actually doing it in the first place, and I worry that not enough of the people yelling about it understand the pragmatism of YOU ABSOLUTELY NEED TO ACTIVELY MAKE THE EFFORT TO VOTE DEMOCRAT FOR ALL FEDERAL OFFICES.

You can dislike them as much as you want, but right now we are so far beyond ideals. We’re talking damage control, and not letting things get worse. I don’t care how secretly evil the Democratic party might be, it’s leagues better than the openly evil Republican party. And to be quite frank, I don’t trust a lot of the people tearing down the Dems to make real, practical efforts towards affecting change - because one of those real, practical efforts includes voting Democratic for federal offices.

Even if you want to destroy the entire political machine, you have got to realize that it’s going to be easier to achieve progress when you don’t have as many people struggling just to survive - and while the Dems might not be great at removing roadblocks, at the very least they aren’t actively building new ones like the GOP is.

*I specify federal offices because occasionally on the local level, there are options outside of just Republican or Democratic. But the federal and most state governments are solidly entrenched in a two-party system. It’s shitty, but it’s the reality and it’s what we’ve got to work with.

#this got longer than intended it's not brief and snappy but sometimes things that are important need a fuller explanation #us politics #in which i say things

260 notes · View notes

fdelopera · 2 years

Text

An Autistic Analysis of Moon Knight (or, Why Having Good Autism Representation Is a Revolutionary Act)

Sooo I was rewatching Episodes 5 and 6 of Moon Knight as part of my analysis of the show from an autistic perspective. These episodes affected me profoundly in ways that I’m just starting to be able to process and articulate. The end of Episode 5 caused me to have an … existential crisis. But paired with Episode 6, it also helped me reframe my perception of myself as an autistic person. Basically, it caused me to have a paradigm shift. And I want to talk about that.

If you want to see my other autistic analyses of Moon Knight so far, you can read Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3.

PART 1: My Experiences with Autism-Specific Mental Health “Treatments”

So, Episode 5 is hard to watch. We all know this. I think everyone collectively wanted to send Marvel their therapy bills after it was over. What I’d like to talk about in this post is watching it from the perspective of someone who has intersected with autism-specific mental health treatment. Like many autistic people, I have had psychologists who attempted to reach into me and pull pieces of me out in some misguided attempt to make me “whole.”

I want to clarify that I am someone who has not had a particularly good experience within the mental health system. I know that there are some absolutely AMAZING therapists out there, and so I don’t want anyone to think that I’m knocking the profession. At all. Therapy is an essential resource. I know people whose lives have been saved because of therapy. I just happen to be someone who hasn’t really been helped by the “treatments” I have experienced.

I also feel that I need to disclose that I have generational trauma around psychological and psychiatric treatment — my mother went through periods of psychosis when she was young, and her experiences in 1970s psych wards were about as bad as you can imagine. I know little bits and pieces of what happened to her in those settings, and none of it was good. Luckily, her family doctor was able to keep her from being committed (her psychiatrist wanted to institutionalize her).

So, when I was growing up, I believed that I couldn’t tell anyone about my severe depression, my anxiety, or my periods of dissociation — all of which stemmed from my autistic neurology, as well as the unending daily torture of being bullied at school and neglected at home. I was terrified that I would be locked up if I let anyone know how bad it was inside my head.

When I did eventually seek out psychological treatment in my 20s, it didn’t resemble the psych wards of the 1970s, thank goodness, but it was insidious and destructive in its own way.

I’ve spoken before about getting my first set of diagnoses, which happened when I was in my late 20s. The psychologist who diagnosed me gave me a large packet with my autism diagnosis and a list of comorbid conditions. She then said, “Well, this gives us an idea of what’s been going on for you. Now you can look for some resources to help you.”

I decided to follow her advice and look for help, but I was still afraid to go to an actual talk therapist, because I believed that if I opened up too much about my internal experience, they would have me involuntarily committed. I now know that this would never have happened (unless they felt that I was a danger to myself or others), but it was a misperception that I had at the time.

So, instead of therapy, I started to look for autism-specific resources that could “fix” me. I want you to understand that at that point, deep down, I hated the fact that I was autistic. I also had a deep and entrenched sense of self-loathing for my masked self. I just wanted to be “normal” and to live a “normal” life. I wanted to be able to have regular friendships. I wanted to work a regular job. I just wanted to exist in society as a “regular” person.

Autism is characterized by extreme gifts, but also some pretty extreme “deficits” — at least, they are deficits when viewed in the context of modern neurotypical society.

The program that I found to “fix” me was called the Perspectives Program. It had been originally designed to “treat” schizophrenic people, but they were now revamping it to “treat” autistics. The name was based on an ableist (and false) idea that autistics and schizophrenics lack "theory of mind" (i.e., the ability to understand another person’s perspective). It was a well-funded research program that was part of a major university’s psychology department. It all was very “official.” They said that they could help me “manage” my autism. I signed up voluntarily.

In order to be part of the program, I had to have another psych eval, which was even more extensive (and uncomfortable) than my first one. After they confirmed my autism diagnosis, the head psych allowed me into the study.

At this time, there was a big push in the psychological and psychiatric communities to try to “cure” autistic people of their autism. What this meant in practice was attempting to somehow restructure our brains to “function” like neurotypical brains. That was the aim of the Perspectives Program. Every week, I would go in and do hours and hours of exercises that were supposedly designed to get rid of my autism.

This push to “cure” autism wasn’t just coming from the psychiatric community. Actual autistics were towing this neurotypical party line, as well. John Elder Robison (an autistic guy and the author of Look Me in the Eye) had very publicly tried to rid himself of his autism. Back then, he was working as a shill for Autism $peaks — he served on their board as the lone token autistic person. Through his connections with Autism $peaks in Massachusetts, he underwent an extremely experimental procedure called Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation. It uses powerful electromagnets to zap different parts of a person’s brain while they are still awake. This procedure left him with increased emotional lability (i.e., mood swings), but it definitely didn’t “cure” him of his autism. Still, the message that he sent to the autistic community was loud and clear: if you’re autistic, you should consider trying to cut the autism out of your brain.

Now, of course, it is not possible to “get rid” of autism. Autism is an epigenetic restructuring of the brain that is often first apparent by the age of 2 years old. Autistic brain wiring is extensive and life-long. There’s no way to “remove” it. Psychology, psychiatry, and other therapies can treat some of the comorbid conditions, like depression, anxiety, ADHD, and sensory processing issues, but there is no way to “treat” autism directly.

So, as much as the Perspectives Program would have liked to have “cured” me, what the program really did was teach me how to mask my autism even better than I had before. I had started developing my masked self when I was around eight years old (when shit really started going downhill), but it had always been a bit haphazard. The Perspectives Program taught me how to strengthen the mask so that it could hide me from sight.

I learned how to disguise my autistic traits from these psychologists, who chalked up my “progress” to the program “working.” Nope, I was still just as autistic; the only difference was that I was spending more and more spoons on hiding it.

So, why did I keep going back to the program? It wasn’t an inpatient program, so I could have found a way to leave. Psychological research programs are required to let you quit at any time. Honestly, I ask myself that a lot. I could have dropped out of the program. But back then, I was such a people-pleaser that I was afraid of the psychologists being upset at me. I also knew that they would have tried to talk me into finishing the program so that I wouldn’t mess up their data. I think I felt that it would have been worse to try to leave and then be coerced into staying. At least now, I could gaslight myself into thinking that I was contributing to “autism research.”

But there was another reason too. I had friends in the program, people that I cared about. There was one person in particular that I was very protective over. They were more “overtly” autistic than me, so they were always being singled out and picked on by the psychologists. Whenever the psychs started zeroing in on my friend, I would try to deflect their attention away from them. I was afraid of what would happen to my friend if I wasn’t there.

After a year, the program was done, and the psychologists gave us our final assessments. Based on my scores, my autism was declared to have been reduced. I was closer to being “normal.”

It took me a long time to process what happened to me. In a way, I’m still processing it. I know that the program dramatically increased the shame I felt about being autistic. It also increased the “mask” that I am, making it a stronger part of my being. The mask is me. But so is the autistic part. And the autistic part was suffering.

I remember talking to a psychologist around this time, someone who was a facilitator in one of the autism support groups that I attended (these support groups were led by neurotypicals and were very ableist). She asked me, “If Autism Speaks is able to find a cure, would you take it? Because I think that you’d really benefit from it. Just imagine how much you’d be able to accomplish if you didn’t have autism.”

I felt so sad when she said this. Because she thought that the only “real me” was the mask. She perceived my “autistic self” as an invader, something to be removed if possible. She didn’t know that I am both. I’ve been building my mask since I was a child (I wasn’t good at it back then, but I still tried), so if I somehow “removed” my autistic neurology, I would be half a person, maybe less.

Most of the psychologists that I’ve known view my autism like a tumor, something that in an ideal world could be “taken out.” For them, autism is a brain defect that prevents someone like me from being “normal.” If that part could just be excised, then I could be “happy.”

But for me, my autism is at the very core of who I am. Yes, there are “deficits,” but there are also tremendous strengths and gifts that I absolutely would not have if I weren’t autistic. My autism is my superpower. But we’ll get to that.

Okay, so now that I’ve given you some background on my autistic experience of psychological “treatment,” I want to return to Moon Knight.

PART 2: Steven’s “Death”

I want to emphasize that what I’m going to discuss next in relation to Episodes 5 and 6 is from the perspective of my autistic experience.

I’m not a system, and I don’t want what I’m about to write to overshadow the experiences that systems may have had while watching the following scenes. I know that the end of Episode 5 was painful for a lot of systems, but probably in a different way than it was for me.

I want to share my experience of Steven’s “death” from the vantage point of autism-related mental health “discourse.” As I’ve said, most of the interactions I’ve had with psychologists have been centered around “curing” or “removing” my autism. And so, this is the message that I believed the writers were giving at the end of Episode 5 when Steven fell into the Duat.

It was nearly 4:00 a.m. on a Wednesday morning (yes, I stayed up to watch every episode as soon as it dropped), and as Episode 5 ended, I began to have a mental health crisis.

Because, you see, Steven had been the more identifiably autistic alter in the system, the one that masked the least. Steven was just like me. Or rather, he was just like my fully embodied autistic self.

And now he was dead.

Now, I’m very familiar with Marvel. I know that unless a death is 150% confirmed, chances are, the character is coming back. The logical part of my brain told me that Steven would probably return. They wouldn’t feature Mr. Knight so heavily in the promo for the show and not have him fight in the final battle that had been teased.

But the part of me that had gone through decades of hating my autistic self, the part of me that had tried to cut out the autism from my brain (as if such a thing were possible) – I suddenly saw what I had been doing to myself.

It was captured in the stony expression on Steven’s face.

I had been trying to destroy a part of myself.

And I had allowed all those psychologists into my head. I had given them my permission to subject me to their treatments. And even though the treatments were unsuccessful at “curing” me of my autism, it didn’t diminish the fact that I had wanted them to work.

I might as well have thrown Steven into the Duat myself.

And I felt ashamed and guilty for what I had tried to do to myself.

And then I had a terrifying thought. What if the Moon Knight writers were taking the side of those psychologists? What if they were trying to say that it was “necessary” for Steven to “die” in order for Marc to be “balanced”?

Why did I think that? Because the hearts "balanced" as soon as Steven turned to stone. With a definitive clang, Marc’s and Steven’s hearts stopped moving. Taweret confirmed it. And a moment later, Marc found himself in the Field of Reeds.

I started sobbing. Were the writers parroting the same kind of “cure”-focused psychological discourse that I had experienced? Even though that’s not how any of this works! It certainly doesn’t work that way with DID. Alters can’t “die” like that. And it doesn’t work that way with autism. You can’t forcibly remove part of yourself like that. And from what I understand from systems who have undergone forced integration at the hands of psychiatrists, it is a harmful process and it doesn’t work.

So now, it was 5:00 in the morning. I had to be up in a few hours to start my editing work. But I had to know that Steven would be back. Because if he weren’t coming back, that meant that the writers were telling me that those psychologists were right: “If you are visibly autistic, you are expendable. Only those who mask shall find peace and happiness.”

I couldn’t bear the thought of this show that I had come to love so deeply telling me that Steven had to be sacrificed for Marc and Jake to survive.

Then I made the mistake of going online, desperately searching for Episode 6 spoilers. I looked for anything that indicated whether Mr. Knight would appear in the finale. No one on Reddit or Twitter had any information. But the ableist discourse online from uneducated singlets had already started to pour in.

These are what the most common opinions seemed to be.

TRIGGER WARNING for ableism, singlet asshattery, and just general bullshit:

“Steven was the one who was keeping Marc’s scales from balancing. That’s why he had to sacrifice himself.”

“Steven’s job was to protect Marc, and he died doing that.”

“Now that Steven is gone, Marc can begin to heal.”

“Steven was like Bing Bong. Marc didn’t need him anymore.”

At that point, I basically accepted that I wouldn’t get any work done on Wednesday. I was in full-on grieving mode.

I wasn’t just mourning the death of a character that I had come to love, I was mourning myself, because underneath all the masking I do, I am basically Steven. I have the same mannerisms, the same kinds of special interests, the same ways of infodumping, the same obsession with antiquity, the same compulsion to collect enough books to overflow my apartment, the same (charmingly!) foul mouth, the same drive to come up with idiosyncratic yet practical solutions to problems, the same literal thinking, the same obsessive need to learn languages, the same terrible driving skills (though I do have my license), the same answered rhetoricals in my speech, the same need to point out every animal that I see, the same kind of courage (being terrified of something but doing it anyway because it’s the right thing to do), the same social awkwardness, and the same desperate need to connect with people. Plus, when I was younger, I had a little goldfish with a stunted fin (I named him Cucchiaino, which means “teaspoon” in Italian). Dammit, Steven and I even have the same favorite French poet (Marceline Desbordes-Valmore).

And here I had been, trying to destroy that part of myself.

This is why GOOD REPRESENTATION MATTERS, folks.

Until I saw Oscar Isaac portray Steven on screen, I thought that all those qualities I possess made me weird, awkward, undesirable, and ultimately unlovable.

Because nearly every other intentional autistic portrayal that I’ve seen on screen is either pitiable, punchable, or pathological (think Rain Man, Sheldon Cooper, or Sam from Atypical). These characters are certainly not heroic. Or loveable.

And yet, here was Steven, on screen before me, and he was both loveable and heroic. And not only did I feel that way; practically the entire internet had fallen head over heels for him. Here was proof — if Steven is lovable, so am I. If Steven is worthy of love, so am I.

But now, he was gone. And I think I mentally went somewhere else for the next week. I have no memory of what happened for the next seven days. I have appointments, client calls, and work deadlines in my calendar that I must have kept, but I have no recollection of doing them.

The next thing that I solidly remember is telling myself that I really shouldn’t stay up to watch the finale, because I knew I couldn’t handle another tragedy happening at 3:40 in the morning. I tried to sleep, but I started to panic, and I knew that I had to watch the episode. Whether Steven lived or stayed dead, I had to find out.

I turned on the finale as soon as it dropped, and then several minutes in, Marc went back for Steven. I was pacing around my kitchen at the time, and I remember falling onto the floor. My cat was very worried about me, and he started licking my hand.

As I saw Steven frozen there, all alone in the Duat, I started to cry again. Because I knew that this was what I had been doing to myself. I had been trying to freeze the autistic part of me, the part of me that was like Steven. It was like when I was younger and I used to get ingrown nails. The doctor would freeze the nail first before cutting it out.

Then Marc gave his speech. The speech that ends in this line:

You are the only real superpower I’ve ever had.

That choice of the word "superpower" feels intentional here from a mental health standpoint. I believe that Oscar, Mohamed, and the writers were familiar with the kind of ableist discourse that my psychologists had used on me. And they were choosing to reject that discourse.

You see, that specific language is so important. Within the autistic community, as well as other neurodiverse communities, we often refer to our neurology as our superpower. I’d used this language, too, when talking with other autistics, but I’d never really believed it, not fully, because I still saw my autism as something that made me broken. But then Marc said it, and both he and Steven started coming back to life.

And I realized that, YES, this part of me that is like Steven, this un-masked autistic part of myself IS my superpower. Without qualification. Without the need to justify myself to anyone. And I started to thaw.

You see, I had already come to “accept” my autism years ago. But deep down, I had never reached the point where I could love myself BECAUSE I am autistic. It was an impasse, and I thought that “acceptance” was the best that I would ever experience.

But now, I saw Steven joyfully running with Marc, keeping his alter from stumbling, yelling “Hippo!” because (just like me) he needs to point out every animal he sees, and I realized, I love this character. And if I love this character, for all that he embodies, in all the ways that he is just like me, then I love myself too.

Moon Knight didn’t just help me embrace myself as autistic. It helped me celebrate myself as autistic. Because Moon Knight is, at its core, a celebration of a system, in which each alter has a different experience of autism.

And Steven, a canonical, intentional portrayal of an un-masked autistic person, is the hero of this show. And that is revolutionary.

Seeing Oscar Isaac talk about his love for Steven in every interview he gives about Moon Knight; seeing the internet fall in love with Steven and collectively mourn his “death” — because of this, for the first time in my life, I was able to see myself as an autistic person from an outside perspective that was loving and positive.

Watching Steven embody autistic experience so beautifully made me realize that I don’t have to mask so hard. I don’t have to hide who I am. I don’t have to constantly wear this costume of “performative normality.”

And yes, there will always be people like Donna that I work with — but fuck ‘em.

It is never worth compromising who I am to please other people for money, acceptance, or any other benefit that can be gotten.

The masking part of myself was designed around conformity, and so it has allowed me to blend in with neurotypical society. But in order to stay "safe," I bullied my autistic self into hiding. And then all the while, I profited off of my autistic strengths. I’ve held my autistic self captive, like an internal servant to do my work. I have masked as hard as I can to try and look “normal” to neurotypical eyes, and then when I get a work contract, I tell my autistic self, “Alright, nose to the grindstone, shoulder to the wheel.”

Because the "mask" of me can’t do this work. The mask of me can talk to neurotypicals, but it can’t do my editing and ghostwriting work. The autistic me is the one who writes books, which is what allows me to earn a living.

It’s time to be assertive and stand up for myself, just like Steven does. It’s time to allow myself to be. My autism is my superpower. Any accomplishments that I have made are BECAUSE of my autism, not in spite of it.

And maybe some of the neurotypicals that I work with will think that I'm weird and awkward, because I've definitely got some Donnas in my client base. One of my current business partners is a Donna. Who fucking cares. If they are really that put off by my autistic self, then I don't want to work with them. It's not worth the money if the money means that I have to deny the essence of who I am in order to earn it. If they can't see the amazingness of my autistic self, then they can piss off.

So Moon Knight really shifted my whole perspective on myself. I think I was already at a breaking point, but it was the catalyst I needed to get through that impasse. I’m in a very different place than I was just a couple of months ago.

So, I guess the ultimate lesson here is that representation matters. Good, positive autistic representation is vital. And it is revolutionary. Autistic people need to be able to see ourselves as heroes in our own narratives. No longer are we the pitiable, the punchable, or the pathological. We are courageous, we are heroic, and we are loveable.

If I’d had this show when I was younger, I think it would have helped me release that desperate need to “fix” myself. I know that I wouldn’t have let those psychologists get up into my head and try to rearrange me. Again, therapy in general is great, just not if the goal is to use shame to make you fundamentally change yourself. This show reminded me that I have many strengths and gifts. I’m going to focus on those now. And I’m going to stand up for myself as an autistic person in a neurotypical world. I now have a model of a heroic autistic self. I’ve got to protect that.

#moon knight #steven grant #marc spector #oscar isaac #mohamed diab #tw ableism

186 notes · View notes

luckydiorxoxo · 3 months

Note

It’s been THREE DAYS and I keep seeing Nicki did this, this and that and multiple threads, articles, etc all over the internet about Nicki’s antics and the only thing I’ve seen for Megan…..

“Megan tweaking on Victoria Monet”

https://www.tmz.com/2024/01/28/megan-thee-stallion-twerk-victoria-monet-nicki-minaj-feud-bigfoot-hiss-beef/

They say the BEST revenge is SUCCESS!

Megan is living her life and Nicki is having whatever type of mental internal breakdown and eventually is going to lose everything simple by being herself.

Nicki and her some of her barbs think the new Despicable ME 4 trailer is trying to silence her or some crap….WHAT?!

They doxxed some tik tokers for calling Nicki out.

They doxed the guy who had a beat she wanted.

Like this upcoming week is about to be a mess and I just hope most of her fans have common sense to understand whatever is bothering Nicki didn’t start with this “Hiss” song nor is she in her right mind thus a three day obsession At revenge.

And it’s not all of her fans, most are probably going …..umm wtf is happening? 😂 or they are parting ways due to her behavior the past few days.

But many of her barbs are precisely like her in the worst way and I hope those who end up behind bars due to her bs and their own choice to “defend” their queen, better understand Nicki ain’t doing shit to bail any one of them out of jail or going to show up to court to help if they end up in prison.

Stan culture needs to end!

I just think it's crazy how horrible people can be. Especially with a huge platform, it's crazy that her team is enabling her. It's dangerous for everyone else. I feel sorry for the barbz too because that fandoms is heavily entrenched in everything and won't stop defending her for anything.

4 notes · View notes

damnesdelamer · 2 years

Text

I’ve had some conversations recently in which the point arose that, considering how Reagan et al responded to the AIDS crisis, seeing the mismanagement of covid as at least partially intentional is not all that much of a conspiracy theory. I think we need to read this as an effort by capital to sabotage ground-level organising.

Covid has placed enormous pressure on working classes, as well as other marginalised groups, at a time when the class interests of those in power were threatened more directly than they have been for decades. Not only has the overwhelming narrative been the imperative to ‘get back to normal’, but this has been during - and indeed in direct response to - some of the largest popular movements for changing entrenched systems in living memory, especially in specific regions.

Of course union action continues to make strides in spite of labour movements being largely calcified in the West toward the end of the last century, but I’ve read that BLM was the largest protest movement in American history, and this was at the same time as mass scale protests in India, Hong Kong, Mexico, which were not focused on race. This could have been (and indeed can still be) catylised into a popular internationalist movement for proletarian gains, but has been largely buried in favour of record profits for corporations, and obfuscated by merely symbolic victories such as the trial of Derek Chauvin, and the ongoing jangling of keys that is Donald Trump.

I’ve heard many say that BLM lacked a clear goal and that’s why it started to fizzle; well yeah so did the French Revolution, but it still stands as one of the greatest precedents in history of the power of regular people to exact vengeance against their enemies. In fact, the measures taken to mitigate covid, such as remote working, served to demonstrate our proficiency in self-organising, which by extension also attests that managers have no real function but to threaten and steal labour. And such organisation can be multi-pronged: we can at once dedicate ourselves to productive labour, ideological gains, and leisure, and ultimately these efforts will compliment and enrich one another. We may even call this praxis.

Sometimes, perhaps more often than not, the ends which protest seeks is to prove that victory is within our grasp. Casting the statue of Edward Colston into the sea may have done little to improve the material conditions of Bristol’s people of colour, but it undoubtedly improved people’s mental wellbeing, and empirically highlights that we have the means to effect the change we seek without appealing to bourgeois authority.

A better world is possible. But sometimes ‘better’ must be read as the comparative it really is. A world in which the Tories aren’t able to deport masses to Rwanda is undeniably better, even if we still don’t have a nationalised solar power grid and so on. And there will always be greater improvements to work toward, more practical gains to win. We ourselves must ply the bellows.

All of this is simply to remind us: agitate, because we need all your enthusiasm; educate, because we need all your intelligence; organise, because we need all your strength! Together, we can break their haughty power.

#class struggle #class war #class consciousness #workers movement #workers' movement #original #labour movement #proletarian solidarity #international proletarian solidarity

80 notes · View notes

desbianherstory · 2 years

Photo

Sharan Dhaliwal, “A Letter to My Aunty: I Promise To Live The Life You Couldn't Lead, Loudly“

Dear Aunty,

When womxn of colour are asked if there are any queer people in their families who’ve helped with their journeys, you will often notice an air of silence. It’s rare you see or hear these people. They exist, but it’s rare.

I thought I was the only (out) queer person in mine. I came out as bisexual almost two years ago, in an article for my magazine. I did it without telling anyone first. I was scared of what people might say. And having placed myself in a vulnerable state, I was aware of the isolation that would follow.

Among my relatives, I was already considered a lost cause for being ‘reckless’ with life decisions. Some reacted negatively about my sexuality, too – seeing me as a stain on the respectability of our name.

Then one day I heard about you.

You lived in India your whole life and I knew you mostly as the woman who had untreated schizophrenia. Only recently has your condition been diagnosed; before that, ableist terms were used to describe you. You were always referred to as “the mad one” in your lifetime. The diagnosis came after your death.

There were a handful of times, when I was very young, that I met you, on one or other of the many trips we took to India. You were labelled as dangerous and scary, so I found myself hiding behind my parents when we were introduced. I now remember the pain in your face.

You died in old age, a few years ago and it was only last year that I found out about the relationship you’d had with another woman. I remember saying, “No, you mean she had a girl who was a friend, not a girlfriend.”

I was interrupted with a simple, “No, Sharan. She was gay.”

Things are changing for my generation and those younger than me. But looking back, it was harder then for people in immigrant communities to come out, due to cultural or religious strongholds. It was – is – especially hard in families where there’s an entrenched need to please, whether because of lingering colonial mindsets or honouring back-dated caste systems. In my own Indian family, these things have held some people back from living their true lives.

You never came out. Instead, you were married at a young age and because of your mental health and abusive partner, you went through a divorce. Getting a divorce in those times was looked down upon – but because your schizophrenia was viewed as destructive, you were were branded as unlovable.

So you stayed single and isolated, until this other woman came into your life. She helped take care of you and from there, a relationship blossomed. You fell in love and were by each other’s side constantly. Then one day, the family found out. They stopped you from seeing each other and you died alone.

Anonymity even after death is something I wish to hold for you – your sexuality has rarely been discussed until now. But since I heard your story, I’ve felt a powerful energy. Knowing that someone else in my family was out there, in a relationship with a woman, has meant the world to me.

Now, in my relationship with my own partner, I know that every moment counts, because those before me suffered to get what I have. Every time someone tells me they don’t approve, I know I have the freedom to continue as I am, because I have your story in mind.

Despite all that you went through and your lack of access to the care you needed, you were able to have that moment of joy with the woman you loved.

I didn’t know you had paved a way in my family to conversations about being gay. For so long, I believed I was the only one. Nor did I imagine the young girl hiding behind her parents as she looked at you in fear would one day look at you as someone who validated her existence.

There was a queer woman before me. And the life she wasn’t able to have is the life that I will loudly lead.

Thank you,

Sharan

#Sharan Dhaliwal #indian lesbians #writing

68 notes · View notes

cutest-toddler · 4 months

Text

This is just a rant but idk if anyone will even see it so fuck it

It’s wild, aging out of the age regression community. Wasn’t something I thought would happen, but as soon as you’re an adult and do adult things, you’re suddenly barred from most of the community you grew up in. There’s a reason the age regression community is mostly minors and I do agree that the kink and agere communities should be kept separate for everyone’s safety. But it really sucks being caught in the crossfire, especially when the only people making fun little content are people that explicitly hate you. This is supposed to be a safe space but everywhere I turn there’s a reminder that I’m not wanted here, I’m too nasty and gross and adult but when I go try to find other adults there’s just,,, nothing. I aged out of the community at a time where there’s very little noncom content or activity and all the sfw kink stuff I can find is ddlg specific or otherwise too fem for my transmasc ass to feel comfortable or represented. I think most people moved to Instagram but I’d rather delete that fucking app than get more entrenched in it so that doesn’t help.

It’s not like the agere community is perfect, the obsession with pro- and anti-ship discourse and the way the community has always been violently anti-kink both shows the immaturity of (again, mostly minors) but also, more converningly, shows how a lot of chronically online and/or traumatized people are becoming more conservative and reactionary because the points are dressed up in social justice language. It’s honestly been harmful for my mental health for ages but the activity level of the agere community is what kept me here and overlooking the frankly disgusting parts.

This blog has been where I keep my regression resources for years now and I’m not giving it up or deleting anything but in unfollowing anti-kink or minor blogs or anything else that one or both of us would feel uncomfortable with that interaction I’m left with… nothing. No online community, no edits, no fucking stimboards cause apparently liking weird sex means you’re dirtying the whole place up by existing (you see what I mean about conservative mindsets?) and even random banners that state that your favorite character, specifically, would hate you for your “unwholesomeness”

The worst part is? I did everything Right. I found the kink community as a minor and respected their rules (because minors Shouldn’t be in kink), so I found the agere community and, for a few years there, would’ve agreed with a lot of the shitty anti-kink stuff being spread around (cause if you don’t you’re an Evil Accessory to Pedophilia!) and now I have to stand up and look around a rebuild from fucking nothing, once again. I haven’t even heard mention of dual-community littles in YEARS and it hurts knowing we used to have stuff but I just,,, missed it. There’s no more room for grey areas in this time of increasing polarization and the kids aren’t ok, they’re learning that sex is bad and immoral and people with kinks and fetishes are evil predators who can’t control their urges and desires or indulge in anything without their filth ruining any wholesomeness that was there before and it’s a losing battle to get in internet fights cause that’s never a good option, I’m more likely to be dogpiled than cause anyone to rethink their reactionary politics.

The only good thing to come of this is the fact that there’s a littles meetup I’m going to tonight and the beginnings of a little community where I live. My boyfriend actually sent me the fetlife link cause he’s heard all of this and more as he supports me and learns how to be a caregiver. So hopefully I’ll have less of a need for online community. But that doesn’t mean I’m not mourning what I’ve lost and feeling all the hurts that have added up over the years

3 notes · View notes

melodyofthevoid · 2 years

Text

A Moment of Regret

So @agntm0thman, I hope my entry is adequate. It’s been some time since I’ve written something in this vein.

He should’ve honestly seen this coming. He should have. It was a testament to… to something how torn up he was about this.

It was asinine.

Fruitless.

A complete and utter nonsense reaction.

And yet here Dib was, rubbing circles into his aching temples as he resigned himself to curling up into a cocoon and ignoring the world around him.

He just-

He’d been down this road before, not even that long ago. Experience taught Dib that flattery and compliments weren’t to be trusted. That more often than not, ulterior motive lay beneath words sweeter than honey (which sounded quite nice right about now but would require leaving the aforementioned cocoon). It was better to simply put his own goals first.

Plus the anonymity of some of the compliments didn’t exactly lead him to believing them.

But… he reached out to Dib about his work and seemed impressed. With all of the technical prowess he’d displayed given the fact that he was on the verge of near disaster at all times, he was impressed. It felt… nice to be recognized.

And maybe it was stupid.

No- no it definitely was. All Zib wanted was a means out and Dib fit the bill. He said as much. Repeatedly. After countless sleepless nights and desperate attempts to bridge the void somehow. Someway.

And for who?

Dib uncurled and eyed his computer, glowing blue in the dim light of the room. The one link between a world of void and dust and his own. Guilt and anger did their best to settle their differences via a fight to the death in his stomach.

The thought of even looking at his inbox right now gave him hives. He didn’t want to explain. He barely even understood how he felt himself. Used for certain, but-

God this was the same fucking mental rabbit hole he’d gone down the minute he’d closed that conversation. When the righteous anger outweighed the exhaustion and… other feelings.

It wasn’t a trip worth making twice.

Because he hadn’t been a complete idiot- it started on a level of purely mutual respect. And he’d agreed to wanting to be friends. Dib thought everything was okay and that it was going well for once.

Only for all of that good will to be boiled down to the “use” he served. Nothing more. After essentially watching Zib fucking die and shoving aside everything he-

A part of Dib knew why. It was the same thing he’d do, if it came down to a situation as dire and hopeless. Injured, starving, isolated and alone in an endless void with the only other being around being Zim inside his own mind. He’d want to keep others at arms length too.

Because the alternative was not a cost he’d want to pay.

It still stung though.

Maybe it was his way of trying to make sure Dib didn’t get too close. The other’s mind was an enigma, that was for certain.

Which left him with the question of what to do now. As much as the other did burn him, and as much as the betrayal stung (hah) idleness didn’t sit right either.

A sudden bang and a flood of light as the door swung open jolted him out of his pity party and there stood Gaz, scowl entrenched and a single brow raised as he let out a sound that was definitely not a scream.

Definitely.

“Alright you sad sack, enough of the blanket. You need food. Up and at ‘em.”

She pulled a bat from somewhere and despite the mild terror and his heart rate being somewhere in the stratosphere, it at least gave him a distraction.

And he was a bit hungry. He’d figure this out later. For now he’d comply lest she involve his other sisters.

He’d figure this out eventually. He always did.

#Invader Zim #my writing #wow it’s been a minute huh.#I suppose it’s funny #but what can I say #you’re fascinating characters #enjoy

59 notes · View notes

ina-nis · 1 year

Text

“It’s great you feel comfortable enough to share with everyone here!”

I do not! I feel like I don’t have a choice!

It’s a cry for help.

And I’m not being listened to.

I’m begging to be seen, begging to be witnessed, validated and reassured, but the help and support I receive is so detached and impersonal it ends up making me feel so much worse.

I’m putting myself out there. I’m reaching out however I can. I’m making myself vulnerable and approachable by sharing my story, showing my truth unfiltered, showing how I’ve been working towards bettering myself, too. I’m sharing the joy and the pain, it can’t get any more transparent or clear than that and yet...

The way I feel their comfort is so disconnected... because I keep on looking for things they cannot give me...

Even here!

Deep inside, I expected “maybe I’ll find some people I can get close to”. It’s been an year (and several years on my other blogs). There’s nothing. I know it’s not because I’m doing the wrong things or anything like that, I’m not.

It’s just that this is the wrong place to find what I’m looking for, huh? The right places are wrong for me, or so it seems.

What am I supposed to do?

What else can I do? What else should I say?

Heed to my cry for help. I’ve told you what I want, what I need, the things I’m struggling with, the things I’m working on.

I know I’m deserving of love, of lust even. I keep fighting internally, yelling at myself that this is not my fault and it’s not like I’m undesirable or unlovable - I know that’s a lie - I know the issue is that I’m probably looking in the wrong places and maybe for the wrong people but... there’s no such thing, is there?

It can happen anywhere with anyone at any point.

So what has to change is the way I look into things, huh?

And this is where things always get so frustrating... for example: of course the way I feel their comfort is so disconnected, it’s because I keep on looking for all the things they can’t give me! I just need to think about all the things they can actually give me! So simple!

Isn’t that a form of avoidance though?

Yes, sure, let me just focus on the things they can give me (that I already know they can and are not the things I am looking for) and that way, magically, I will not feel these awful feelings that are rotting me from the inside out.

Oh, so that’s called “reframing” or “looking on the bright side” or something along those lines?

It feels like avoidance because it is.

I avoid my loneliness to focus on something else while still lonely. It’s no wonder it doesn’t work.

“It’s because you’re so focused on being lonely/on your loneliness.”

I’m not. I’m constantly trying to focus on literally anything else but this. And what happens when you avoid something that affects you a lot? It gets more entrenched and feels even more intense...

Then the dialogue becomes more about how I can “embrace” or “accept” this, to which I retort: I love solitude, it recharges me and a very high percentage of my life and passions revolves around solitary activities, things I can do by myself. I have already accepted it, I have embraced it fully, it doesn’t make it any less painful or soul-crushing.

Ironically, I feel like the reason and hope I’m holding onto solely - regarding me being unable to “accept” a solitary life and give up on my longing and love, and literally stop struggling and swimming against the current - is the fact that I know, have witnessed, have lived with people who are awful, abusive and severely mentally ill who made little effort to improve. They have relationships! They have a support system, they have something to call family, intimacy and whatever else I’ve been seeking for so long.

I keep thinking if a person like that, if people like that can have all these things even though they’re absolutely fucked up why can’t I?! When I’m actually putting so much effort in treatment and improving my life for myself and to able to connect with others.

I can only imagine the types of relationships I’ll obtain as someone who is healing and trying to move forward and be better. They’ll be good ones.

That stuff gives me hope I’ll find someone for me. If they found someone for them, there will be someone for me too.

It’s probably a matter of time.

I’ll keep on crying for help. I’ll keep on reaching out, showing the joy and the pain. I’ll keep on doing what I can. I’ll keep on asking for what I need.

I’m doing the right thing.

I have to believe it.

#avpd #avoidance #avoidant #avoidant personality disorder #loneliness #inanis post

3 notes · View notes

96thdayofrage · 2 years

Text

The claim that mental illness produces such attacks implies that mass shooters are insane, as if they are disconnected from reality and act based on no rational thinking. This goes hand in hand with the common theme that these offenders “snap,” which suggests they commit impulsive acts of violence, bursting forth from nowhere. Both explanations are wrong.

Over the last decade, I’ve studied scores of mass shootings and looked deep into the field of behavioral threat assessment, an emerging method where experts in mental health, law enforcement and other disciplines work together to prevent planned acts of violence.

Extensive case history shows that mass shooters don’t just suddenly break — they decide. They develop violent ideas that stem from entrenched grievances, rage and despair. In many cases they feel justified in their actions and regard killing as the sole solution to a problem. They arm themselves and prepare to attack, choosing where and when to strike. Often this is a highly organized and methodical process.

The suspected Buffalo shooter, Payton Gendron of Conklin, N.Y., spent months becoming radicalized online and readying himself to kill, according to law enforcement authorities and written documents they say Gendron posted online. He acquired weapons and tactical gear, practiced shooting, detailed his ideological hatred of Black people and others, and surveilled intended targets.

Gendron had a history of troubling behavior, according to authorities, including a threat he made last June as a graduating high schooler to commit a murder-suicide. Under New York law, he was taken into custody by state police and given a psychiatric evaluation; the results are not publicly known. Gendron was released within two days, and authorities said he claimed to have been joking with his threatening comments — a form of deception that has figured into other shootings.

In 2018, a deep investigation of 63 rampage shooters conducted by experts with the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit showed that only a quarter of the offenders were known to have been professionally diagnosed with a mental illness of any kind. While it’s possible that some suicidal attackers may have gone undiagnosed, only three of the 63 perpetrators, or about 5% of the total examined, had a known psychotic disorder.

Blaming mental illness for mass shootings inflicts a damaging stigma on the millions of people who suffer from clinical afflictions, the vast majority of whom are not violent. Extensive research shows the link between mental illness and violent behavior is small and not useful for predicting violent acts; people with diagnosable conditions such as schizophrenia or bipolar disorder are in fact far more likely to be victims than perpetrators of violence.

Yet no person who commits a mass shooting is, in a basic sense, mentally healthy. So if we want to do more to reduce these attacks, we need to better understand the behaviors and circumstances that lead up to them.

Threat assessment experts have found that in a majority of cases warning signs are noticeable to people who are in the orbit of would-be shooters. These don’t fulfill any predictive checklist — as the public commonly expects due to the notion of criminal profiling — but compose a set of actions and conditions that indicate potential danger. They also reveal opportunity to intervene.

The warning signs include threatening comments, personal deterioration, patterns of stalking and other aggression, as well as fixating on guns, graphic violence and previous mass shooters. Many perpetrators express a desire for infamy, including Gendron, who allegedly described his own hateful screed as a manifesto and wrote of how livestreaming his attack would help get sensational media coverage.

Threat assessment teams seek to use constructive measures to steer troubled individuals away from violent thinking and planning. That can include fostering better social connections and improving a subject’s education, work or living circumstances. Case management often does involve mental health interventions, such as counseling or even a period of hospitalization if necessary.

A clearer picture of Gendron’s school and family background has yet to emerge. But as with so many past attacks, the initial case evidence points to a deeper trail of identifiable warning signs and a period of time in which effective intervention may well have been possible.

In a country saturated with firearms that are easy to obtain, mass shootings are a complex problem with no simple solution.

But making mental illness the bogeyman detracts from making progress on stopping these attacks. That’s going to take everything we’ve got: strengthening our nation’s gun laws, quashing a surge in violent political extremism, raising cultural awareness of shooter-warning signs — and, yes, investing in a lacking mental health care system to give troubled people the help they may need before it’s too late.

15 notes · View notes

gggoldfinch · 1 year

Text

vent about my wackass dad and my highkey daddy issues. it’s kinda heavy— feel free to ignore, I just need a place to put my thoughts and concerns. I might delete later idk

I’m convinced my dad would actually hate me if he learned more than surface level fluff about me…

It seriously shames me to talk about him and his beliefs, but I was just snooping on his camera roll (I know, I wouldn’t want it done to me, but...) and my mind is reeling. I’ve known for years he’s quite literally a Qanon conspiracy nut with some very concerning ideas, but it really hit me then that he Would Not Like the person I am vs who he thinks I am. The amount of hateful and hardcore conspiratorial “memes” I found on his phone seriously makes me sick to my stomach... Like, all the things he thinks are Evil (and not in an ironic way, like Serious thinks are Evil), are things I enjoy/ believe in/ surround myself with— ie: horror, the occult & witchcraft, the lgbtq+ community, non-christian religions, non-republican beliefs, etc. It’s kind of really bad honestly.

I’m the most “alternatively minded” person in my immediate family, but even my mom and brother are always caught walking on eggshells around him. We can’t watch movies with him, we can’t talk about what we enjoy with him, or show him things, because one way or another it always turns into him lecturing or being miffed about the thing in question being Evil or created by “Them” (ex: if we watch a cutesy halloween movie with a witch in it, it’s inherently evil and can’t be consumed as media). It’s so fucking tiring and I really can’t deal with it anymore. He’s never happy, always entrenched in this 4chan conspiracy bullshit, and it’s seriously a drain on the energies of my family, especially my mom and I. He’s never been the same since the 2016 election, when all this insane shit started, and I think his jobs and the people he works with have jaded him to the point of being unfeeling.

I love him, he’s my dad, and we were very close when I was a little kid, but he’s changed so much since then— unrecognizable when compared to the person he used to be. He’s also seriously concerning us with the state of his mental health (which he will vehemently deny seeking any sort of help for, in the event we even dare ever bringing it up). I’m just so exhausted really. I’m generally safe, as long as I don’t go spouting off about my “wayward” interests that could trigger him. (That being said, a little while ago when I joked I'd get bitchslapped if my Ghost merch was ever found, was not a joke at all, and I really should hide it in a better spot (I’ve been slapped before so I know he has it in him 💁🏻‍♀️). And don’t even get me started on what would happen if he found out I am queer/ non-christian... that would be hell on earth I think.)

I love my mom more than anything in the entire world and don’t want to leave her, but jfc I can’t wait to move out just to get a breath of fresh air away from him. anyway yea.. merry christmas or whatever 🤷🏻‍♀️

3 notes · View notes

gaypexredditor · 1 year

Text

i had to take a step back and seriously think about how much more paranoid and self-isolating i've become just over the last year and i can only see it getting worse. i think i was getting better for a bit but was demoralized by the way i was treated at the job i had in 2021 and then further lost trust in people after it really dawned on me the extent to which not only we were lied about the proposed solutions to covid but how this was enforced by other people my age. it’s funny because i in the fallout with my abuser i already lost most of my friends. but if i hadn’t, they would have pressured me into becoming overly concerned over covid instead and getting the clot shot and staying inside unemployed, pretend i don’t think lockdowns were a human rights violation, etc. which i guess is just another thing to be paranoid over. but it would have been under penalty of, say if i had had them as roommates, peace in my housing situation. everyone is so dependent now on the social graces of whatever “community” they’re in and i’ve seen people long before covid kill themselves after losing it. but really what it makes me think about is sure i managed to avoid being in a situation where i *need* a bunch of friends to survive like young people generally do now, but what about when whatever the next thing is that happens where people are put into a situation where they need to conform to some intolerable, irrational dogma to survive. like the hysteria after 9/11 seems really obvious to us now but not going along with it had real material consequences for people at the time. and i don’t think anyone could have predicted the public health angle with the new one. it’s just, how do i survive in a society that makes it almost impossible to survive independently and which has a power structure that is periodically transformed and further entrenched by new manufactured crises and the panics that follow them. i think i’ve been on a bad, possibly irreversible path mentally for about 5 years even if im Stable now

4 notes · View notes

meta-squash · 2 years

Text

A quick ramble about The Quick & The Dead

I’ve just finished reading The Quick & The Dead by Joy Williams and it was so good and I have a lot of Thoughts about the characters’ ways they confront the concept of death and also how none of them actually fit into the “quick” category that Nurse Daisy. I quite literally finished the book a few hours ago at work so this is a less formulated spewing of thoughts that I need to put down before they go away.

Starting with Annabel and Carter, who are both running away from death, literally and figuratively. They move out to the desert after Ginger’s death (Ginger, who also died running) and they are both materialistic, shallow people, although Ginger is the most shallow of all. They both avoid thinking about death specifically, but are still trapped by it. Carter is haunted by Ginger’s literal ghostly form but desperate to rid himself of her while Annabel clings to her memory but Ginger refuses to see her or reveal herself to Annabel. And Ginger herself is dead but not-dead, stuck in this weird afterlife ghostly place where her power seems to be only psychological manipulation, at least where Carter is concerned.

Sherwin is obsessed with suicide but unable to commit it, because he is philosophically suicidal without anything to back it up -- mental or physical suffering -- except maybe a weird unlikeableness that he can no longer cover up by the end of the novel. He’s obsessed with the conceptual nature of death, but his body is not aligned with that. His suicidal desires are finally enacted by the outside force of Ginger once he thinks he identifies with her. Also his death by mirrors is simultaneously the “shameful/embarrassing” death by cutting that he attempts only once, and a literal tripping over and landing over and over in his own reflection -- Ginger doesn’t have a reflection since she’s dead, which means even though she “kills” him, he is only falling into his own reflection, and we never even see or hear her react to his death.

Corvus is dead-but-alive, but not like Ginger. She’s trapped in a suffering body and mind and completely entrenched in grief but unlike Sherwin she’s not suicidal in the same way. Instead she wraps herself in death and suffering as something to take into herself. Her limbo of not-death is a mirror of those in Green Palms, but since she is not dying instead she is taking up the care of those who are dying without cognizance of death. She is adequately living Jasper’s “conscious death” concept. But I think it’s also a mirror of her parents death, who drowned so suddenly, compared to the length of time it takes the Green Palms residents to die. Which means she gets to care for these patients in a way her parents didn’t get care.

Alice is the one who is a foil to Ginger -- both are stuck “in between,” forced to wander and never be accepted anyplace. They are also both extreme forces of personality with abrasive aspects and intensely strong (if badly directed) morals. Alice I think is the most alive of all of them but only because she’s not dead but not not dead. She not preoccupied with death like the rest because she’s too busy thinking about nature and the ecological damage of humanity. She cares more about beasts than humans (which is why she cares so much for Corvus, who is less and less human).

Randy’s relationship with death is all twisted up in the monkey in his head, the monkey that died to save his life but lives on half-paralyzed in his brain. His death is random but is also a sort of “ninth life” moment, he survives his fourth (I think?) stroke but is killed by a reckless hick as he tries to crawl out of the desert. His death reflects the monkey’s death - he’s tied up as an “experiment,” Alice’s first real shot at eco-terrorism, but it doesn’t go well. She thinks she’s punishing him for the death of the sheep but really she’s punishing him for the death of the agitated dissipating monkey. I also think it’s interesting that he spouts all the bullshit about totems working in the store but his literal totem deserts him at the last second

Alice’s grandparents are foils to the patients in Green Palms. They’re waiting for death but they’re cheerful and cognizant mostly. They’re at home but focus on the vacuousness of the random television reality shows that are not at all like real reality. Those in the home are drifting and empty, saying things at random because they can’t remember their own minds, but what they say often sounds almost like something that would be on those reality shows.

Emily is obsessed with the process of death - the injured things that struggle to cling to life and then experience a last breath. Her preoccupation is the other kind of in-between, the struggle, the continuation and undulation until it stops. She cares about animals’ suffering but she’s also young enough that the literal suffering and the conceptual suffering are very different. She will drive around with a dying animal in the backseat under a blanket but she protests the loneliness and fear of the taxidermy animals in Stumpp’s museum.

Stumpp preserves “life” in his taxidermy animals but really his animals are preserved death because they aren’t posed lifelike, they’re mounted and therefore their lack of life is all the more obvious. His parental attraction to Emily is really interesting because he specifically notes that he was never interested in watching the animals he hunted die. He shies away from the memory of the polar bear that he killed so close he saw its reaction at its own death. Emily’s fascination with death fulfills an aspect he was missing.

Alice is the only main character at the end who does not advance or retreat. She does not die (or “die”) like Randy, Sherwin, or Corvus, but she also does not move forward like Annabel and Carter or Stumpp and Emily (who are each halves of a pair). In the last section Nurse Daisy asks her if she wants to become a child again, and she doesn’t really get to answer before she gets locked out. And when she’s walking across the desert she thinks about the elephant who was pregnant but whose baby killed them both, and Candy who was not really pregnant but only delusional, and then during the candlelight vigil thinks of the dream of unknown animals that carry you away.

Alice refuses to react “properly” to grief, which makes her unusual because she does not want to return to a childhood or to the womb, since she’s aware of the futility. There’s a difference, though, between wanting to return to childhood and wanting to return to beast. The last conversation between Alice and the Candleman he tells her that “True compassion is a wordless hope for effecting change.” Alice is most alive because she is least aware and least concerned about her own life. She’s not empathetic, not in the traditional sense, and she’s bad with people, but she cares in a way that is outside herself. She is the only one who continues to rail against the futility of caring and of protest. And yet she is also the most trapped because by being able to accept the futility of life, the other characters are able to either accept their grief or run from it without looking back.

There is a difference between returning to childhood and returning to beast. Returning to childhood, despite potentially being happier or more innocent, returns one to helplessness, lack of autonomy, and lack of control over life. Emily rails against this as best she can as an 8 year old but she’s still very much under the control and manipulation of adults. Corvus returns to a somewhat childhood, except that it is a willing abandonment of autonomy for the monastic-like life of the acceptance of grief and death. In Alice’s dream of unknown beasts carrying one away in their mouths, there is a desire for that autonomy, that freedom, but when one wakes the creatures have “not brought you back,” because everything is forever changed by grief and death and growing up.

What’s interesting is that none of the characters in this book are really “alive.” None of them are really living life, even the ones not bogged down by grief or ghosts. They’re all trapped in a sort of unaliveness, the desolation of desert but an anthropomorphizing of the barrenness. They’re either trapped in their own heads or their own bodies but there’s no marrying of the two.

My favorite thing about this book is the way the dialogue between characters occurs. None of them are on the same plane, none of them are able to connect with each other except maybe for a few brief moments every so often and even then it’s slippery. Everyone is dead in different ways and therefore cannot connect with each other in the same way. Characters talk past each other even when they’re having a conversation, as if each of them is actually responding to an imaginary conversation they wish they were having rather than the one they’re actually having. They’re desperate to connect and to care but none of them are facing the right direction. The consequence of any of them actually finding some sort of connection is finality -- Sherwin identifying with Ginger kills him, Corvus connecting with Nurse Daisy cloisters her away in Green Palms, Stumpp’s connection with Emily potentially continues the cycle of animal death but in a very different way, Carter’s connection with Donald severs both his and Annabel’s connection with Ginger. But only Alice is left wandering, outside. Leaving the house before her grandparents wake up, wandering the desert, locked out of Green Palms, throwing rocks over the wall of the museum, and even her conversation with the Candleman isn’t a proper connection, it simply reacquaints her with the concept of growing up, of estrangement, of being taken by beasts and not returned, awake somewhere strange and unfamiliar and wild, without a guide or a “pack” or even a totem.

#misc meta #the quick & the dead #joy williams #these are just some initial ''just finished reading'' thoughts #maybe i'll add more later

3 notes · View notes