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#it's good though! (tw for abuse)

ourfag · 5 months

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i think part of the resistance i’ve seen in response to the view of ed as an abuse victim—not just the view of izzy as someone who abused ed, but of ed as someone who was abused by him, as opposed to interpretations that pursue an image of Nuance and Complexity (unnecessarily, because their dynamic has heaps of both, but there seems to be a popular impulse to conflate complexity with shared culpability) by characterizing their relationship as being toxic/unhealthy in equal reciprocity, or as “mutually abusive” (oxymoron)—i definitely see the influence of racism there, but i think the racism is also working to amplify an adjacent issue where we tend to receive very specific cultural messaging about What An Abuse Victim Looks Like, and ed is excluded from a lot of that criteria.

he’s outspoken. he’s boisterous. he’s Very Cool and he Wears Leather. he’s physically bigger and browner than the person mistreating him. he spends the first season with a big grey beard, he’s covered in tattoos, he projects the image of A Man’s Man, to say nothing of his being a man in the first place. we see him get aggressive and we see him get angry (and sometimes we even see both at the same time). we see moments where he’s surly, prickly, insensitive, arrogant. his survival techniques and trauma responses incur collateral damage to other people, and in the second season this extends into affecting people we actually sympathize with. he’s extremely private about expressing fear. without examination, his professional relationship to izzy seems to position him as the one with the power slanted in his favor.

most damningly, we see him react multiple times to izzy’s abuse with physical violence. this is behavior that gets referenced all the time in the construction of narratives condemning subjects of physical abuse, let alone emotional abuse. which is why writing that intends for its audience to interpret a character as being unambiguously A Victim Of Abuse will often, for simplicity’s sake, avoid showing the character regularly engaging in anything of the kind.

and again, all of these departures from the image of The Model Victim are compounded by his being a man of color.

without any of the shorthand designed to point a big flashing arrow at his mistreatment, all we have left to work with are the words and actions we see from ed and izzy onscreen. who instigates conflict, and how does the other respond? how are they able or allowed to respond? how do we see them speak about each other to outside parties? does one go out of their way to control or isolate the other? what consequences does either party stand to face in saying “no” to the other? in acting against the other’s wishes? in trying to leave the relationship? when either of them attempts these things, how do we see the other respond?

i realize and appreciate what people are driving at when they garnish their analysis with disclaimers that they’re not saying ed’s just a poor innocent abuse victim, they’re not saying he’s a perfect angel who’s never done anything wrong, and that’s true, but these are points already contained implicitly in statements like “this show’s protagonists act like human people” and “ed’s emotional struggles are portrayed in a realistic and believable way.” my assumption is that these disclaimers are anticipatory responses to worst-faith interpretations of any discussion that attributes any victim status to ed whatsoever, so i definitely sympathize with their inclusion, but a (very small) part of me still worries about them potentially reflecting or reinforcing a belief that there is any way for someone to behave towards their abuser that imparts a responsibility for them to make right whatever damage the abuser receives, or for that matter any degree of ambiguity over their status as an abuse victim in the first place.

part of what i find so gratifying about ed as a character is that i don’t feel like the show’s writing is pressuring me to consider that ambiguity at all. which was a really nice thing for me to discover!

and tbh—did using ed to deconstruct The Model Victim even factor into the writers’ agenda?? ive got no clue. im guessing no? ??maybe?? probably not?? but if you create a main character whose central premise is that he feels trapped in a performance of exaggerated masculinity that he’s desperate to escape, and then you set him up with a character premised on embodying a tangible obstacle against that escape, then i guess that’s the natural shape your story’s gonna be inclined to take

#man thats a lot of words when i couldve just said ‘im not an ed apologist bc he has nothing to apologize for’ and yalld get the message #had to get it off my chest though #abuse tw #sorry about the verbosity Im Aware. Its An Ongoing Issue #this is actually after i went through and edited to make it as concise as possible #the good news is ive finally managed to limit myself to a mere half dozen commas per sentence #the bad news is all these words are mush in my brain now and i can barely tell if theyre actually saying anything #are any of these paragraphs related to one another? i dont fuckin know #i do know i agreed with them when i wrote them though #am i procrastinating in the tags because im nervous about posting this? maybe. shut up #im gonna go do todays wordle

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gooberino · 1 year

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Instances of Father being abused in the show: Flinching when grandpa swings his arm at him, showing he's likely been physically abused.

He still craves Grandfathers validation even after being competely dismissed by him multiple times. He wants to stand up to him but he doesn't have the strength to do so, so he slips into his old ways.

He becomes extremely depressed and self destructive when he's at first dismissed by Grandfather.

A more minor one but he clearly has trauma being forced to eat things he didn't like as a kid. It causes him to just regress completely back to the moment it happened! Kinda like PTSD.

#so yeah Father has gone through a lot of childhood trauma and probably has PTSD #I think it's profoundly interesting how Monty Uno has had the completely opposite reaction though #he's an amazing father who puts his son above everything and supports him #when he's not recomissioned he's still very loving and doesn't have the same need as Father to control him or use anger to get his way #They're good case studies for how abuse can affect people in wildly different ways :>#father knd #codename kids next door #codename kids next door father #monty uno #tw abuse mention #tw trauma mention

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galaxygermdraws · 11 months

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This was going to start as just recreating sprite art from Superstar Saga but then I just began doodling expressions. The top right doodles do go together and have to do with my backstories for the bros. And then there’s just an angry Luigi because...I wanted to practice faces.

(reblogs with tags/comments are appreciated. Asks are too! Thankyu)

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vesemirsexual · 5 months

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I finally read your yen/abuse post, and you’re completely right. But an additional layer: I think people in the Witcher fandom just don’t like “bad” trauma survivors who don’t become soft and apologetic and sweet (look at how the people treat lambert). I dunno, I’m in the middle of a work stretch and running on one brain cell but Yen is amazing and fantastic and I will die on that hill

I think abuse victims are such a hard topic in media because abuse itself is so nuanced and difficult to unpack in a realistic and respectful way. I think it’s natural a lot of people want abuse victims to almost “become greater/better people” from their abuse, whether that be kinder, softer, apologetic, sweet, brave, loyal. Because alternatively, if they aren’t, they might have behaviour that can be critiqued (angry, violent, scared, flighty, non-committal, etc) and critiquing an abuse victim does not feel good, at all. So either someone is the “good abuse survivor” and therefore they’re easy to praise and acknowledge as a survivor, or they’re a bad survivor and therefore it’s easy to kick their abuse under the rug instead of having to face uncomfortable implications about long-term consequences of abuse.

(I also think this probably strikes a personal nerve with a lot of people, which I completely understand. I’ve spent 5+ years in therapy now, but before that I can see that I would’ve been much more touchy and volatile about the discussion. It can feel like people are diminishing your experiences or lumping you in with what you consider to be “bad people” or even implying that you have “bad traits” because of your experiences. It’s an absolute bitch of a topic, so while it frustrates me I do get in many cases where people are coming from).

#katie txt #asks #i need to find a good write up about good vs bad survivors though bc it’s such a good topic to talk about #thank you!#tw abuse

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sentientsky · 5 months

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In the place where the foundations shiver with the weight of every ghost you’ve laid to rest beneath the floorboards / In the liminal, staticky place where you were first made monstrous (made hollow and whimpering and fickle) / In the place that tore you lengthwise and emptied you onto the front porch, you learn to swallow back the rage, hold it captive and writhing in your gut.

You learn your way around a set of teeth.

You learn the hackles-raised, jagged-mouthedness of a home without a scrap of heat. You learn how to pull each of your canines out by the bloodied pulp, all nerve endings and the blunted edges of grief.

You learn it because what other choice do you have? What’s the alternative, when all you’ve ever known is the dull scrape of your back against the wall, of your heart tearing clear through your chest?

And god, god, god (you pray to an empty sky). God, you’re so bitter and your bones are all galvanized under your skin, and it hurts. It fucking hurts.

And yet you’d sooner turn your own snapping jaws on yourself than risk learning what happens to animals that misbehave.

So you make yourself small, you make yourself antiseptic and supplicating and placid. You domesticate every thrashing need to escape. You walk into a family dinner with darting yellow eyes: Cerberus with three heads, each maw zip-tied shut by your own hand. You show them the soft flesh of your underbelly—you show the whites of your eyes.

You bite back the terror, you choke on the wrath. Because what else is there to do? (inspired by this post from @actual-changeling. thanks for the gut-wrench, alex </3)

#not super happy with how this one turned out but i have too much work to do to keep futzing with it ugh #we'll return to good omens content after this short break sponsored by alex “hey dude WHAT THE FUCK” changeling <3 :)#okay tbh my relationship with my parents is a LOT better now and i'm grateful for that (though i shouldn't *have* to feel grateful)#(since being decent to your kids should be a fucking GIVEN)#but some fucked up shit happened that never ever ever ever should have happened #and im still angry ab it. i love my parents + things are getting better don't get me wrong #but there's still unresolved shit i think #(ooooh i am NOT good at talking ab this outside of a poetic context am i??? my moral ocd is kicking in like “mm you're doing smthg wrong!”)#(even tho im not????)#okay done traumadumping in the tags. jester hat goes back on teehee :)#not good omens #poetry #my poetry #tw: child abuse #tw: childhood trauma #tw: blood #my words #tw: body horror #on home #on childhood trauma #dog motif #poems

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razzle-zazzle · 6 months

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Whumptober Day 29: i only sink deeper the deeper i think

Scented Candle + "What's happened to me?"

2886 Words; Sit Still, Look Pretty

TW for forced drug use, forced helplessness, doll whump, emotional abuse

AO3 ver

“Hold still, darling.” Carrie tittered.

Dion huffed. He couldn’t even move if he wanted to; he still didn’t understand why this woman insisted on making that joke. It wasn’t funny.

Carrie finished up the eyeliner, leaning back to examine her work. “Oh, it’s coming together so nicely.” She hummed, putting away the eyeliner. She removed the headband, setting it aside and grabbing the brush. She hummed as she worked, some soft tune that Dion had never heard before meeting her but had long since grown to intimately hate. The brush was gently carded through his curls as she worked, in a way that only served to remind Dion of his mother.

Dion’s eyes pricked. He swallowed those feelings down. If he cried, it’d ruin the makeup—and while Dion would love that, Carrie wouldn’t. So he shoved the ache down as far as it would go, begging his mind to latch onto a safer topic.

The notebooks flashed in his mind. Good enough.

Dion needed to remember them, needed to keep Carrie’s past victims in his mind at all times. He had to stay strong, had to remember what awaited him.

Esperanza. Felix. Vera. Callum. Lesley. Tobias. Alicia.

Seven names. Seven notebooks.

Seven neat little graves in Carrie’s backyard.

Dion couldn’t let himself become grave number eight. He couldn’t. So even as Carrie braided back his hair, even as her touch both burned under his scalp and reminded him of his mother—

Dion wouldn’t fall for it. He wouldn’t let Carrie get to him. He wouldn’t.

Esperanza. Felix. Vera. Callum. Lesley. Tobias. Alicia.

So what if he’d lost his one good chance to escape that night? Carrie fell asleep long after he did—it was hardly a chance to escape. Just a movie night, upstairs, out of the diamond-wallpaper hellroom. So Dion hadn’t failed, or anything—he had just learned more about where he was, which would make his escape easier.

Carrie carding her hands through his hair as the movie played, humming softly under her breath, Dion leaning into her touch—

That night—that was a fluke. Dion was just tired, that night, too emotionally spent to fight Carrie’s hold. But he wouldn’t fail like that again, no way!

Esperanza. Felix. Vera. Callum. Lesley. Tobias. Alicia.

Dion repeated the names in his head, repeated their faces. His throat tightened. Carrie let go of the hair elastic, letting it snap into place at the end of his braid. She clasped her hands together, oblivious to the thoughts circling in Dion’s head. “There!”

She turned the chair so that Dion was facing the mirror, moving his braid to rest on his shoulder. The dress he was wearing was a picturesque blue sundress, with flowers made of bright yellow thread on the left shoulder strap. As Dion watched, Carrie added three flower hairpins to the braid.

He looked pretty. He looked healthy, like he wasn’t slowly losing his mind in this godawful hell. He looked like he’d come right out of a magazine themed around summer fashion—all that was missing was a bright smile.

Not that Dion would smile, even if he could. Grimace, maybe. Stick his tongue out like a child, possibly. Anything to ruin the perfect little image Carrie had so carefully built.

“I bought this dress the same day I first saw you.” Carrie commented. “Isn’t that neat? Just hours after getting this beauty and I’m finding the perfect Doll to put it on!” She smiled, bright red lips like a bloody cut around bone-white teeth. “Must have been destiny!”

Dion snorted, a low sound in his throat. It was the most he could do, really.

Carrie ignored his obvious disdain, instead gently pushing his mouth into a smile, splitting his face. She fussed around a bit, trying to get the shape just so—

She pulled away, presumably to get her camera, leaving Dion staring at the mirror. Smiling at it, like he wasn’t absolutely furious—

A sunhat landed on Dion’s head, Carrie staring into the mirror as she contemplated it. She tilted the hat this way and that, murmuring over which way would be the best way to angle the dangling blue ribbon tied. All that was missing was a convenient little breeze, and Dion really would look like he came straight from a magazine, pretty and perfect and fake.

Bile rose in the back of Dion’s throat. He was going to be sick.

Maybe that’ll show her, if you vomit all over this stupid dress, Dion thought viciously. He grabbed onto his anger and held it fast, as though it might shield him from falling apart at Carrie’s touch.

Carrie finally settled on how she wanted the hat positioned. Dion’s cheeks were starting to hurt. She smiled, dragging Dion’s chair over so that he was in front of the wallpaper. “Such a gorgeous doll.” She hummed, lifting the camera.

Click!

+=+=+=+=+

Dion curled up under the comforter, breathing slowly. The cuff around his ankle was a familiar pressure.

His throat tightened. His eyes stung, and Dion let the tears fall—there was no makeup to ruin, not now.

He stared out into the darkness, out into the hellroom that he’d grown so used to. How long had it been since he’d seen the sun? Since he’d been outside of Carrie’s house?

He didn’t know. He didn’t know.

Quietly, he mumbled to himself.

“Esperanza. Felix. Vera. Callum. Lesley. Tobias. Alicia.” he muttered. “Esperanza. Felix. Vera. Callum. Lesley. Tobias. Alicia.” He needed to remember them, needed to keep their names alive in his head for when he escaped.

When he escaped…

Dion’s chest ached. He missed home so badly—how long had it been? How was everyone doing? Were they missing him? Were they okay?

Dion didn’t know. He wished he could, wished he could leave this room and go home where his family was.

Esperanza. Felix. Vera. Callum. Lesley. Tobias. Alicia.

Dion would make it out. He had to.

He just wished it could be soon.

+=+=+=+=+

“This one will require a different background.” Carrie explained, lifting Dion from the chair with an arm around his back and the other under his knees. “So we’ll be using the upstairs studio!”

Dion’s heart threatened to pound his ribs to bits in his excitement. Yet at the same time, a sense of resignation blossomed in his stomach. He was on the full dose, tonight—his chances of getting away were next to nothing.

He was already all cleaned and dressed—another blue dress, this time, but instead of the pretty flower sundress it was much longer, nearly reaching Dion’s feet, with puffy white sleeves like seafoam. This dress was a darker blue—almost black—at the hem, fading up into lighter blue at the bosom. It looked like waves, much to Dion’s dismay.

(Water. Why was it always water? The curse wasn’t real, and yet Dion still felt queasy in this dress, still felt awful. At least when Carrie bathed him, shudder-inducing as that was, it was always short.

At least there was no actual water involved, this time. Probably.

Dion couldn’t put it past Carrie to find new levels of awful with every outfit.)

Up the stairs they went, through the green-striped halls and into a… sitting room? It looked like the living room, but it clearly wasn’t, lacking the TV. And the living room was down the other way.

Instead, this room had a chaise lounge as the centerpiece, with a large screen set up behind it. There were a few cabinets and shelves to the sides, but they were far enough from the lounge itself that any photos taken wouldn’t include them.

Ugh, Dion hated that he was already thinking in terms of the photos Carrie would undoubtedly take. He hated that he knew anything about Carrie’s process—hated that he knew anything about her at all.

Carrie laid him out on the lounge, arranging one of his arms to rest his hand on his forehead like he’d just fallen dramatically onto the thing. Dion snarled in the back of his throat, but Carrie was already fussing with the train of the dress and how it flowed off the edge of the lounge onto the floor.

Carrie hummed, moving over to the shelf on the left. There were candles sitting on it, though Dion couldn’t see the labels from where he was sitting. Carrie opened a drawer, pulling out a box of matches.

The candles started to burn, setting the area aglow. Dion watched as Carrie lifted one up to set on the small drawer next to the lounge, the scent wafting over to him.

It was kind of… citrusy? But also a little spicy-sweet. It was kind of familiar, the way it tickled Dion’s nose.

Carrie was still puttering around, setting up the scene for her little photoshoot. She draped a green sheet over the screen, straightening out the wrinkles and folds.

Dion’s arm was starting to hurt. The candle continued to burn, the scent sharp against Dion’s nose. It was a little lemony, too, he realized. Really familiar.

All at once, it hit him. That scent—

Dion’s eyes stung and his throat tightened. He knew that scent. That was… that was magnolia. That was the scent of his mother’s perfume. He could picture her now, coming out of the caravan after getting herself ready for the day, the scent yet to be washed away by the daily toils and struggles. He could even picture his father pressing kisses to her neck, and picking up the scent as well, until both of his parents smelled like magnolia perfume—

Dion’s breath hitched. His throat tightened. A fresh wave of homesickness washed over him, squeezing his chest. How long had it been? How long had it been since he had seen his mother’s face, heard her laugh, felt her hands carding through his hair? How long before he would ever see her again?

(What if he never saw her again? What if his last memory of her was her reminder not to dilly-dally when he walked off for the nearest payphone?)

His face was wet. His eyes burned.

At once, Carrie was on him, dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief. “Shh, shh,” She murmured gently. “There’s no need to cry, Doll. You’ll ruin your makeup.”

But Dion couldn’t stop. And he couldn’t explain, either, couldn’t tell Carrie that he was crying over a scented candle because it reminded him of home—

Not that he wanted to tell her anything. She didn’t deserve anything from him, so even if he wasn’t utterly unable to move he still wouldn’t tell her why he was crying.

(He wouldn’t be able to through the tears.)

Carrie huffed. “Really?” Her lips pursed, and her hands fell to her hips, like Dion was somehow the one in the wrong. “Dolls don’t cry, darling.” She huffed.

But Dion wasn’t a doll!

Still, Carrie persisted, even as Dion’s sobs became audible. After a while, she gave up, letting him cry and ruin his makeup.

He wanted to go home. He wanted to go home.

(He wasn’t certain that he ever would.)

Carrie watched, tilting her head. “Wait…” Her frown disappeared, and she made a frame with her fingers. “Oh, that might work!”

Dion sniffled. Carrie went back to fussing around with the room, then left it entirely. Dion’s sobs were the only sound in the silence, muffled by his inability to open his mouth.

He wanted to go home.

But more than that, he was tired. Eventually, he ran out of tears to cry, his eyes stinging and his throat raw. He wanted to go home. He had no idea how he’d ever accomplish that, how he’d ever get away from Carrie.

Carrie came back, the camera around her neck and a case in hand. She looked Dion over, for a moment, then smiled. “Yes! Oh, doll, I should have known you had something special up your sleeve!”

Dion wanted to vomit. He didn’t cry on purpose!

“This will look so much better, with just a few adjustments…” Carrie leaned in, opening the case and pulling something out—more makeup? “Just a few little touch-ups…” She mumbled, re-applying the lipgloss and redoing the eyeliner. “Oh, this will look so lovely!” She closed the makeup case. “Your makeup running from the tears, the tragic posing… it’s perfection!”

She stood back, lifting the camera. “Absolutely perfect, darling.”

Click!

The candles continued to burn.

+=+=+=+=+

Dion walked a circle around his room, moving purely for the sake of it. The chain attached to his ankle dragged behind him, scraping along the floor—Dion didn't care. He was too tired to care.

He had turned on the bathroom light, after the lights in the room had flicked off, if only so that he wouldn't feel like he was being swallowed alive by the darkness. The bright yellow light cut into the room through the doorway, allowing Dion to see in the gloom.

He continued to pace, restless energy buzzing in his limbs.

How long had he been here? How much longer did he have? The notebooks flashed through his mind—Esperanza, Felix, Vera, Callum, Lesley, Tobias, Alicia—he had a year and a half at the most, four months at the least. He really didn't want to be stuck here for more than a year—but would he make it out in less than four months? Could he make it out?

He didn't know. He didn't know, and that frustrated him more than anything else.

Dion passed by the vanity, only to stop. He turned towards it, looking at the mirror, looking at this reflection—

What had happened to him? Where was the death-defying acrobat, where was the confidence? The longer he stared at his reflection in the gloom, the less it looked like Dion. He could so easily picture the makeup Carrie might put on him, could so easily imagine away the signs of stress on his face. That man in the mirror—that wasn't him. That was someone else, someone who Dion could never be but was getting ever and ever closer to—

Dion wrenched his gaze away from the mirror. He resumed pacing, continuing in his lopsided circle until exhaustion dragged him to the bed.

He ended up pacing for quite a while.

+=+=+=+=+

“Thanksgiving is coming up…” Carrie hummed, digging through the wardrobe.

Dion started. But—if that was—

He’d been taken on October 3rd. If it was already close to the end of November…

Oh god. Oh god.

Dion’s breath hitched. But he was still spent from two nights prior, still too tired to summon any new tears. He’d been here for nearly two months. Two months!

The notebooks flashed through his mind. The dates—Carrie never kept a doll for less than four months, never longer than a year and a half. If Dion could trust that she’d be the same with him, then…

Then he had two more months to get out of here, minimum.

As tired as he was, Dion wanted to cry so badly right then and there. Two months, and he’d only left the hellroom twice. Two months, and he still had no idea how he was going to get out of here.

Two months, and his resolve was already slipping—

Carrie started to dress him, oblivious to Dion’s crisis. Black boots went on over dark red pants. A loose white shirt with buttons at the neckline went on next, though it was quickly covered with a stiff red button-up jacket with flared sleeves.

Carrie buttoned up the jacket with care, straightening the collar. She smiled, grabbing the headband to hold Dion’s hair back. “Hold still, doll.”

Dion huffed. Oh, how he hated her. It wasn’t funny the first time, and it wasn’t funny now. But it did yank him right out of his spiral—two months!—so, as much as he hated it, he was at least a little thankful. But not really.

He didn’t pay attention as Carrie carefully applied makeup—this song and dance was long past the point of familiarity, at this point. Two months! Two months of being dolled up in this shitty little hellhole! Dion wanted to scream—

But he wanted to get slapped even less.

Carrie finished, removing the headband and moving onto his hair. She used a comb to pull it back, teasing out the ends and then pinning them in place with hairspray. She was letting it hang loose, this time, brushed back in a way that looked windswept, with just a few locks hanging forwards to frame his face. The moment she was done, she turned his chair so that he was facing the mirror—

Dion’s blood ran cold.

“See?” Carrie beamed, “Oh, I just knew you’d look lovely in red!”

Dion stared at his reflection with rising horror. At the dusky red eyeshadow and liner, at the red jacket with the folded collar—

At the bright red lipstick on his lips, the exact same shade as Carrie’s. At the bright red lipstick like a bloody cut, on his face and hers.

Carrie was already moving him away from the vanity, arranging him on his chair for her photos—

Dion was going to be sick. The image stuck in his mind, of him and her with matching red lipstick, of red red red around his eyes and on his body like so much blood, like one big danger sign—

Click!