tw: depersonalization, feelings of lost identity (just in case bc. yeah), child soldiers
please for the love of the gods, proceed with caution. like genuinely
Jason pursed his lips, his gaze falling to his hands as he threaded his fingers together unsure of what to say, how to say it, if he should he say it. Years of restraint and forging and discipline weigh on his shoulders, clawing at his back, all the while chaining him to the ground he found himself suffocating under.
Even as he glanced at Reyna who stared at him expectantly, her eyebrow raised as her hand rested limply, lazily on the handle of her sword, the words were lodged in his throat and unable to push past his teeth.
Uncertainty is a weakness, Jason Grace. Lupa’s voice rang through his head. Remove it, shatter it then burn it until there is nothing left. Uncertainty will kill you. She reminded him firmly, strictly with authority and no concern for the fragility that was taken the day he was abandoned.
Jason had never been defiant, he has never found the courage to break the barrier of orders programmed into his mind, his body, his soul. As the system of his brain threatened to shut down, errors covering every corner of his vision, he swallowed thickly. His breath hitched as if his lungs ceased to function, his oxygen stolen. “Do— do you ever…feel like you’re not— not real?”
Reyna furrowed her brows, tilting her head slightly to the left and Jason could see her mind working at a rapid pace. Her eyes almost glazed over, a look so distant and so far as she thought and thought and thought.
Years forced to hold his tongue, play the role with obedience, he learned to observe. It wasn’t the observation of a predator that was drilled into the core of his being, chipping away anything but a killing machine. It was also the observation of simply just existing on the sidelines.
How certain people moved, their habits and their tells, the rubbing of one’s fingers against the palm of their hand, how tones never match their gazes. Eyes are windows to the soul and Jason knew then, not many soldiers of the Legion were human. Their eyes dulled over time, losing the shine and although most would smile and laugh and joke, it never reached their eyes. Guilt and remorse written over their expressions but never reflected in the empty wells void of water.
Jason watched silently as Reyna followed through the same struggle of wanting to speak but unable to say it unless she forced herself to. It was eerie, almost impossible, for his throat to feel scratchy and hoarse like he screamed and shouted for hours. He swallowed again, resisting the urge to rub his throat and grimace as he tasted the faintest hint of metallic iron on his tongue. As if he ripped the stitches that held his vocal chords speaking out of line.
“I—“ Reyna began, turning her head to the side to cough with the back of her hand pressed to her mouth. A flicker of emotion fell through and her face faltered from the usual blankness they each held. “I don’t— I don’t. I don’t feel—“
Jason nodded and they fell silent. He watched as Reyna lowered her head, her eyes wide as short breaths escaped her lips like she ran for miles and she couldn’t stop. She had. They both had.
Reality suddenly warped around them and zeroed in like cameras, they were aware and everything felt wrong.
Each inhale felt foreign, everything thought wasn’t their own and their bodies weren’t theirs to begin with. They remained standing, frozen and locked in place as they spiraled. Jason couldn’t see from his eyes the way he used to. His arms and his hands felt far away, fisheye lens placed over his vision to disorientate him and throw him off balance. He broke off from the act he was in, refused to read from the script given to him like he became a sentient robot.
But that’s what he was. It was what he and Reyna both were. Puppets on string, never deciding their own choices as they walked the plank over an endless drop. He was aware that each person there had free will, what they do or say or act determined their future.
Yet at this moment, like a deer in headlights, never breathing and stuck encased in glass, Jason didn’t know what to do with himself. Because in truth, fate determined his free will. And relief settled in his chest hours later knowing Reyna felt the same.
They were human but they weren’t human enough. They each lacked identity, basing their lives around the legacy they built for the world until Jason’s question acted like a wake up call. He was sure, though.
He was sure that he would never be more than a soldier but less than a human. Trapped in a loop of obedience and order, never to change or destroy, always to walk forward and refrain from jumping off the plank.
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remembering one of the times i was getting evaluated by a therapist to determine if i was "really trans" or not or whatever and he was like "so if you transitioned to male, how would you dress differently?"
and i was like "i.. dont know. I wouldnt?"
and he looked at me blankly and wrote something down and said "really? you wouldnt wear anything more masculine?"
and i realized i'd given the wrong answer so I just said "I would... wear... suits?"
and he smiled and wrote something else down like "ah! yes"
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there's a video on instagram of a man kicking his partner's door in. the top comment is (with over 4 thousand likes): "how about you tell us what you did to make him that angry?"
barring emergency, nobody should be kicking anybody's door in. many of us lived in houses where it was always, somehow, an emergency. there is a strange, almost hysterical calm that comes over you in that moment - everything feels muted, and you almost feel, however incongruently, like you should be laughing. you are living inside of "the emergency." oh my god, you think. i am now a fucking statistic.
there is another comment with 2.8 thousand likes: "if this was a woman doing it to a man, nobody would give a shit."
do people give a shit now, though?
barring emergency, the door should remain standing. the emergency should be panicked, desperate - "i'm coming in there to protect you." many of us know what it feels like when the emergency is instead "i'm coming in there to get you."
1.5k likes: "and yet you post this for notes. glad to see being the victim has become your whole personality."
hysteria is a word connected to womb, from greek. what you're experiencing is so senseless and inhumane that you (a rational creature) try to find any ground within what is irrational and cannot be explained. one of the most frustrating things about staying in bad situations is that we also lie to ourselves. we also ask ourselves - wow. what did i do?
women can be, and often are, also abusers. abuse is not gendered. abuse is not just a "straight person" problem. abuse does not have a face or figure or sexuality. you cannot pick an abuser out of a crowd. an abuser could be actually anybody.
and then so many people rally behind the man kicking the door in. here is something nobody should be doing, right? you want to ask every person that liked that first comment: do you ask this because you side with him? do you ask this because it helps you feel safe from this ever happening?
in some ways, you're weirdly sympathetic to the top comment, because it is the same logic you see frequently. the idea is that the average, normal, sane person doesn't just break down a door. doesn't just shoot up a school. doesn't stalk and kill women. doesn't threaten sexual assault. doesn't run over protesters. doesn't shoot an unarmed black person. doesn't scream at underpaid walmart employees. doesn't just "lose it". something had to have happened, right? because the default (white. straight. cis.) - that is someone who is always, you know. "sane."
(right?)
on a podcast, you hear a sane, normal, rational person. "if you piss me off, i'm going to need to hit something. sorry but i'm not apologizing. that's just who i am that's how it is." his voice almost sounds like he's laughing.
you think of the door, and how you were almost laughing behind it, too. ironically, every real emergency in your life has almost felt peaceful in comparison. fire, car accident, flash flooding - these felt quiet, covenant to you. you'd stood in all of them, feeling them pass over and up to your chin, never actually overwhelming.
but when the door was coming down, you had felt - is there a word for that? there has to be, a word, right.
surely one of us has figured out the word for that, i mean. it's such a large fucking statistic.
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