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jandrichov · 2 months ago

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Further - Part II

Where I Fit

It was a good day. The kind that lets you forget, for a while. Until one sentence brings it all back— and makes you wonder if there’s anything after.

Hans and Henry spend their second day at the ruined homestead—hunting, working, mending what's broken. But not everything that needs mending is made of wood or stone. This is the direct continuation of Further – Part I.

Missed Part I? It’s right here.

---

The light came in quietly— not directly, but like a warm haze slipping through a half-rotted wall where the timber had long since given in.

Hans woke before Henry. For a while he didn’t move. Just lay there, eyes open, listening to the stillness. Henry’s breath moved slowly beside him, still caught in sleep. Somewhere by the door, Mutt’s paw twitched.

Hans sat up at last—carefully, so he wouldn’t shift the weight of the cloak they shared. His shirt clung a little to his back, still damp from the night’s heat. He ran a hand over his face, then looked to the side.

Henry was still asleep. Curled slightly toward him, one arm bent. The faintest crease between his brows—the one that showed when he dreamed and didn’t trust what he saw.

Hans exhaled softly through his nose. Almost a smile.

He stood, walked over to their bags, and pulled out the cloth roll they’d used the day before. Clean linen, a flask of water.

When he came back, Henry was blinking up at him.

“Morning,” Hans said, crouching beside him.

Henry groaned. “Already?”

“Seems like it.”

Henry stretched, winced, and reached for the shirt that had slipped down his shoulder during the night. Hans stopped him—gently pushed the fabric aside to check the wound along his ribs. It wasn’t deep anymore, but it still looked raw.

“Let me.”

Henry let his hand fall. “You just want an excuse to touch me.”

Hans dipped the cloth in water and gave him a look. “As if I needed one.”

That earned a sleepy smile. “Right answer.”

Hans was about to start cleaning the wound when Henry reached toward one of the bags. “Wait. Side pocket—there’s a small jar. Healing salve.”

Hans found it, pulled it out, sniffed it. “Smells like herbs. This from the healer?”

Henry nodded. “From Den. He said it helps… with healing. Wounds.”

Hans shrugged. “If you trust him.”

“I trust you to put it on right.”

Hans breathed out—something between a chuckle and a sigh.

He scooped out a bit of the salve and worked it gently into the skin. Then wrapped Henry’s ribs with fresh cloth.

They didn’t speak for a while. Just the sound of linen, quiet breath.

Then—without looking up—Hans said, “It’s healing well.”

Henry nodded. “Feels better than yesterday.”

Hans tied the last knot and glanced at him. “All done?”

Henry shook his head. Just once, sleepy. “M-mm.”

Hans frowned slightly. “No? What’d I miss? I cleaned it. Put the salve on. Bandage looks good—”

“You forgot to kiss your squire better.”

Hans blinked. Then his mouth twitched, eyes softening. “That in the healer’s instructions too?”

“Obviously,” Henry muttered, grinning. “Don’t ask him, though.”

Hans just looked at him for a moment. At the tousled hair, the glint in his eyes, the lips just barely parted.

Why is this brat always so damn irresistible? he thought.

He leaned in and kissed him. Not quickly. Not just a brush.

It was slow. Warm. The kind of kiss that gathered heat as soon as the other leaned in.

When he finally pulled back, he stayed close for a moment longer. Then he murmured, thoughtful, “We should head out to hunt.”

Henry nodded and drew breath to reply, but Hans cut in first: “After we eat, though. Properly. Otherwise—God help us—your stomach is going to scare off even the wild boars.”

Henry laughed. “No beasts would dare come near us.”

A few minutes later, they sat outside on the old stone threshold, backs to the wall, sharing what was left of yesterday’s bread and cheese. They ate slowly, half in silence, half in small smiles.

Henry had just started fastening his belt when Hans suddenly stood up. “Wait here,” he said—and disappeared toward the old orchard before Henry could ask anything.

He came back a moment later with a bundle of apples in his arms. They were small, early, a little bruised, but sweet with summer scent. He tossed one to Henry in a smooth arc.

Henry caught it without blinking. Like he’d done it a hundred times before. He smiled.

They sat back down, the apples beside them in the grass. Mutt lay by the door, head on his paws, eyes half-shut.

Henry reached out, pulled Hans a little closer, and kissed him. Not long. Just quiet.

Here and now. And here and now, everything was all right.

---

The sun was already rising higher, but the forest still held its quiet chill. Cool air drifted between the trees, birdsong carried from high above, and dry leaves and needles crackled faintly beneath their boots.

Hans wore his dark green gambeson—faded in places—with his bow slung across his back and a quiver of arrows beside it. He moved lightly, almost soundlessly, as if the ground knew him. Henry walked at his side, wearing a leather vest over his tunic, crossbow on his back, sword at his hip. Not armored, but not unready.

Mutt ran ahead, nose twitching, ears up, tail sweeping behind him. He darted to the edge of the woods now and then, sniffing at scents only he could read, then loped back to their side. They weren’t in a hurry. The morning was still young.

“What are we hunting?” Hans asked—half curious, half just to break the quiet.

Henry smiled faintly. “I’d stick to hares.”

Hans gave him a look. “How very noble of you.”

“And mostly,” Henry added, “so neither of us ends up on the gallows again.”

Hans narrowed his eyes. “It was a few deer. And it was a misunderstanding.”

“Sure,” Henry smirked. “And I turned the whole of Trosky Castle upside down to clear up that misunderstanding.”

Hans snorted. “And you got me out of it. So I owe you. Pick whatever hare you want today.”

Henry shook his head. But the light in his eyes stayed.

The forest began to open. Ahead of them, near the edge of a clearing, a small group of hares nibbled at the roots—three, maybe four—ears twitching in the sunlight.

Hans raised a hand. Stopped. No words. Just a gesture.

He drew his bow—slow, fluid. Held his breath.

Henry stood close behind him. Just as Hans was about to release, Henry leaned in and kissed him behind the ear. Lightly. But enough.

The bowstring snapped. The arrow went wide—clacked off a stump.

The hares scattered like drops of water.

“Henry!” Hans turned sharply. This time, the irritation wasn’t just for show. “At this rate we’ll hunt nothing—and I swear, I’m not spending the rest of the day listening to you say ‘I feel quite hungry!’”

Henry gave him a sheepish grin. “That does sound like me.”

Hans sighed—no anger left. Just exasperated fondness. “You’re impossible. I honestly don’t know how I love you.”

Henry gave him a sly look, then shrugged. “Talent.” A pause. “Or desperation.”

Hans shot him a look that clearly said: say one more word and I will shoot you next. But he was already smiling.

They walked on in silence for a while. Not heavy silence. Just easy. The kind that walks with you when everything’s still fine.

They paused again not long after. At the edge of a small rise, a single hare crouched near the base of a tree—alone, distracted by some low-hanging weed.

Hans didn’t hesitate. He raised the bow, aimed with care—then loosed the arrow.

The animal jolted once and dropped.

Henry didn’t move. “Good shot.”

“Of course,” Hans muttered. “Nobody breathing down my neck this time.”

Then he gave a short whistle and gestured. Mutt took off—quick, focused, sure. A moment later he came trotting back, the hare held carefully in his jaws.

“Good boy,” Henry said, taking the catch.

“Sometimes better than people.”

---

The sun had climbed higher by then. They settled under the wide shade of an old oak—backs against the trunk, the three hunted hares between them. Mutt sprawled nearby, tongue out, fully content.

Hans stretched his legs, arms folded behind his head. He stayed quiet for a while. Then, without moving, he said softly:

“One day I’ll teach him everything.”

A pause. “How to read tracks. Where the wind turns. How to find water even when there’s no well.”

Henry turned toward him. “Who?”

Hans smiled, still watching the canopy overhead. “Heinrich. My son. Someday.”

Silence followed. Not heavy—just still. The birds sang above. A leaf drifted down.

Henry nodded. But said nothing. And when he finally spoke, his voice was steady. Maybe too steady.

“We should head back. Process the meat before it’s too late— and not spend the whole day just lying under a tree.”

Hans looked at him. Differently now. But he didn’t ask.

They stood, grabbed the hares. Mutt rose without command and fell in beside them.

The path home was the same. But it didn’t feel the same.

They didn’t speak.

Maybe there was nothing to say. Or maybe there was too much.

---

It was quiet when they returned. The place felt still. Only Mutt darted about the yard with cheerful energy, as if their return was a victory in itself.

They laid their things out by the old bench in the grass. The three hares lay in a neat row. Henry unrolled one of the knives they’d packed—its blade was clean, freshly whetted.

“I’ll start from the belly,” he said calmly. Hans nodded. “Good. I’ll take the second.”

They worked without hurry, but with care. The meat wasn’t plentiful, but it was soft and clean.

Hans was quieter than usual. He watched Henry’s hands—steady, precise. But something in his eyes stayed drawn tight.

After a moment, Hans stood, walked a few paces around the yard. Then something caught his eye in the corner of the ruined outbuilding.

He pushed aside a few fallen boards and called over with a grin: “We’ve got a smokehouse! Looks like it’s still usable.”

Henry glanced up for a second. “That’ll come in handy.”

“We could smoke a few of these—might last us longer,” Hans added, like he needed the thought confirmed. “Maybe get some more. Even fish.”

“Fine. Good idea.” Henry was already looking back at the meat.

Hans stood for a while, one hand resting on the frame. Then gave a silent nod.

They worked on. Now and then they passed a knife, swapped a cloth, wiped blood from the stone.

Spoke a few words—but only the ones needed.

Hans felt it. That silence between the words. Not peace.

He paused, knife in hand. Something sat in his throat. Maybe a question. Maybe just a word that wasn’t worth it.

He let it go. Cleaned the blade. Took another piece of meat.

---

When they were done, they strung two of the hares in the smokehouse and let the fire do its work. The third one they hung in the cellar, where the air was cooler. Mutt, full from feasting on the innards, lay on his side in the shade, occasionally twitching in his sleep.

The fire crackled softly beneath the smokehouse roof. Stillness had settled over the ruins—thick and quiet.

Hans looked around the space that, for now, called itself theirs. A blanket laid out on the floor, gear stacked along the wall, a barrel of water. And still—across from them—the open breach in the front wall, where boards were missing and the world looked in.

He rubbed the back of his neck and muttered, “Starting to look almost like home. If only it didn’t breathe through that damn hole.”

Henry looked up but said nothing. Just gave a nod, as if he understood—and maybe regretted it too.

Hans stood and crossed to the gap, laying a hand on the edge. “We don’t need it perfect. Just enough to keep out the wind. Help the fire a bit. And nights are getting colder.”

Henry was already pushing up. “I saw some tarp back there. Loose boards too.”

Hans nodded once.

No more words. But both moved—like men who needed something for their hands.

The hole shrank quickly. They nailed up a board, draped a piece of old cloth, and pressed it flush with the frame. Hans brought another timber, brushed it off, and held it to the side.

“This could fit right here.”

Together they pressed it into place. The wood creaked and settled. Henry gave a small nod, without looking up.

Then he straightened and said, “I’ll head to the treeline. There’s fir out there. We can wedge it in the gaps.”

Hans just nodded.

Henry returned carrying a full armload of fir branches. The sharp, fresh scent hit the air the moment he stepped inside. For a while, it smelled like the woods again. Like someplace calm.

He began packing the boughs into the spaces between boards. Slowly, with his fingers, pressing the needles into the seams. Hans didn’t speak. Just watched him as he worked, sealing off the quiet in the wall.

Before they started the meal, Hans changed Henry’s bandage again. He unwrapped the old linen, checked the skin. It was no longer raw—but not healed yet, either.

He smeared a little of the healing balm across the cut, then wrapped it clean. Henry didn’t speak. Only gave a faint nod when it was done.

---

Outside, the light had faded into dusk. The air was still, warm with evening. A few leaves dropped from the branches overhead, soft and aimless.

The hare filled the space with its scent—roasted over a fresh hazel spit, slightly blackened, crisp around the edges. At some point during their walk, Henry had picked a sprig of rosemary and a few juniper berries. He cooked the meat simply, but it turned out better than well.

They ate in silence. Mutt sprawled by the fire, paws in the air, belly up like a king after a feast.

Hans leaned back against the wall, legs stretched out, wine in hand. He looked peaceful. At ease.

Then he said, lightly—almost offhand: “If I could… I’d stay here with you. For good.”

For a moment, there was no reply. The fire popped softly, like it had drawn breath.

Henry didn’t move. Then said—quietly, but with certainty: “But you can’t.”

The words didn’t hang. They landed.

Hans looked at him. Said nothing. Then slowly got up, walked over, and knelt.

He reached for Henry’s hands. Held them. Lightly. Gently. And met his eyes.

“This’s what’s been weighing on you all day, hasn’t it… love?”

Henry blinked. Just once. Small. But Hans saw it.

“Today it was just the two of us,” Henry said quietly. “Like we were living for each other — just each other. Nothing else.”

Hans glanced at him — a quiet, searching look — then back at the fire.

“And when you spoke about teaching your son one day…” Henry’s fingers curled slightly, almost absently, against Hans’s palm. “I suddenly felt how much I’d want a life like that to be ours too.”

Hans’s fingers tensed just slightly in response. But he said nothing.

“A life we’d share.” “One where I’d be beside you — raising him with you.”

Silence stretched a moment. The fire cracked softly.

Henry started to speak — then faltered. “And I just…” His voice caught for a second. “…don’t see where I fit in this picture of your future."

He didn’t say it with bitterness. Or pain. Only a quiet kind of knowing.

His eyes stayed fixed somewhere near the fire.

“And I know it’s complicated. It’s not your fault. Or mine. It’s just… today, it felt sharper than before.”

Hans didn’t answer right away. He didn’t nod. Didn’t move.

Then he let go of Henry’s hands, sat down beside him.

He stayed still for a moment. Then leaned in and reached across— not as a gesture, but an offering— and drew Henry gently against his side.

No pressure. Just enough to say: you don’t have to carry it alone.

Henry didn’t lean in immediately. But he didn’t pull away. And after a few seconds, his body softened, let go, and settled into Hans. His head found his shoulder.

They sat like that for a while. Hans breathing into Henry’s hair.

And then, after the quiet had settled, Hans spoke. Low and steady. Like someone who’d held these thoughts for a long time.

“It’s complicated… but I can’t remember a time we ever let complicated stop us.”

A pause. A breath.

“And in my picture of the future, you’re not absent, Hal.”

Hans’s voice stayed low. But now there was something steadier in it. Like he wasn’t just speaking from thought— but from something already decided.

“When I get Rattay back…” He paused. “I’ll need someone to keep it together. To run the estate. Speak for me when I can’t. Stand in for me.”

Another pause—softer now.

“Someone who knows the world. Who people respect. Someone I trust. Completely.”

His gaze drifted to the fire for a moment. He hadn’t noticed how his hand had found Henry’s again.

“I can’t think of anyone better to be the bailiff of Rattay… than you.”

Quiet, then. And in that quiet:

“…If you’d take it.”

Henry looked up. Slowly. Like something weighty had just landed where he hadn’t expected.

“Bailiff?” he echoed.

“I don’t know, Hans… I’m not born to that. No title. No training. Running an estate’s not something I ever learned.”

His voice wasn’t doubtful. Just honest.

Hans didn’t flinch. His face stayed calm—certain, but gentle.

“And still you’re the first… no—you're the only one I’d ever want in that place.” His tone stayed quiet, but it held a kind of force.

“Because you know what matters. You listen. You act. You carry what comes.”

He paused just long enough to let it settle.

“I trust you completely, Hal. And whatever you didn’t study— just look at what you’ve done.”

Another breath, softer now.

“That’s not something books give you. That’s just you.”

Henry held his gaze for a long moment.

He slipped an arm around Hans’s waist. Held him close.

And said, with a half-smile:

“I can’t tell if your faith in me is more comforting… or terrifying.”

Hans let out a breath—not quite a laugh. He dropped his chin lightly to Henry’s hair.

“Hopefully both. That’s about the right balance for a bailiff.”

They sat like that for a while.

Then Henry spoke—quietly.

“I won’t let you down.”

Hans gave a faint smile.

But then his face grew still again.

“I know you won’t,” he said softly.

A short pause.

“But… Henry— there’s one more thing I wanted to ask you.”

He paused again.

Not because he didn’t know what to say— but because he needed to say it right.

“One day—if it ever happens. Whether it’s Heinrich… or a daughter.”

He looked at him.

“I would like you to be their godfather. Officially. Before the world. Someone who’ll stand by them. And someone who’ll stand by me.”

For a long moment, there was only silence.

Henry didn’t move. Didn’t look away.

But Hans could see the weight of it in his eyes. This had landed deeper than anything else that day.

There was no fear in him. No hesitation. Just… something that took time to settle.

He didn’t answer right away. Maybe he didn’t know how.

He just breathed in quietly. And kept holding him.

Hans didn’t rush him.

Then, almost in a whisper, he added: “I know it doesn’t change everything. It’s not a way for us to be open.”

A short pause.

His voice was calm—but every word carried its full weight.

“But it would make you family. To me. To him. Or to her. A part of the life that stays behind after I’m gone. And someone to protect them, if I ever can’t.”

Henry lowered his head for a moment.

Then straightened gently, and leaned against Hans’s shoulder again.

His fingers found his wrist and rested there.

“Don’t say things like that,” he murmured. Not as a warning. Not as denial. Just a steady voice—one that stayed grounded.

“You’ll be here. And I’ll be with you. Whatever madness comes.”

His hand stayed on Hans’s—firm and quiet.

Then he said softly, “Do you know what it means to me— that you’d ask me this?”

He looked at him.

“I can’t imagine ever saying no.”

Hans smiled—soft and slow.

He leaned in and kissed him. Just once. Just gently.

Then rested his forehead to Henry’s.

He didn’t speak for a moment. Just breathed with him.

And then, with a grin curling back into his voice— “But don’t go spoiling the child too much… That’s my job.”

Henry gave a soft laugh. Just a breath—but it stayed. In his eyes. In his breath.

Then the quiet returned.

Not the empty kind. The kind that settles when everything’s been said— but something still lingers.

Henry broke it gently. “How come you’ve already thought all this through?”

Hans gave a small smile— but didn’t answer right away.

He let the moment stretch.

Then said: “I think a lot, Hal. About you. About us. About what’s ahead.”

A short pause.

“Not just a few days or weeks. Further.”

The word hung in the air.

Hans sat up slightly.

His voice steady. Eyes calm.

“I know Rattay will need a bailiff. And Heinrich… will need a godfather.”

He hesitated.

“And I… will need my Henry.”

---

If you want to continue with Part III you can find it here.

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redfacedpalindrome · 2 months ago

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and have you all considered that ferrari must be the red car on the grid at all times because that's 95% of the reason charles wanted to be a ferrari driver??? have you considered that the only thing he ever says about ferrari is that he saw the red car and knew he must drive it?? have you ever considered that the ferrari powers-that-be may fear that if he ever saw the car in some other fuck-ass color, the red may lose its hold over him?? what then??

#charles has undergone lifelong pavlovian conditioning #rossa corsa is literally his conditioned stimulus #they simply can never fully commit to a special livery #their drivers may wander away in the paddock #already charles is dressed like a vcarb driver #charles leclerc #ferrari #forza ferrari #crack treated seriously

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serpentface · 7 months ago

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Question about Couya! Since she is a bastard what are the reasons about her being brought into the main family by her father. Was it genuine care for his child or a way to save face politically/socially? Is her birth mother alive? Do you think she would have had a better life growing up anywhere else?

This is in large part due to how cultural perceptions and legal punishment of adultery varies between male and female citizens, looped into the very strictly patrilineal kinship system.

By legal definition, the word for 'adultery' applies only to situations where a man has an affair with a married woman, or a married woman has an affair with any man. Other forms of affairs (eg a married man having an affair with an unmarried woman) are wrapped into a broader set of sexual misdemeanors and aren't often charged or punished in practice, and the punishments are comparatively minor (if an unwed woman's father pursues charges, the man in the affair is likely to just pay a fine). On a social level, extramaritial affairs in general are certainly not Approved of and seen as lowly and dishonorable, but the average response is significantly less harsh/more willing to entertain Nuance with men than with women.

In this society there's differentiated shades of bastardry depending on the contexts of the child's birth, as well as a distinction for 'nameless bastards' (has not been claimed by their biological father or maternal grandfather, or claimed in adoption).

a) A child born to an unmarried woman via an unmarried man: non-issue for father, potentially serious social harm for the woman (especially if she has never been married and expected virginal, much less severe as a widow or divorcee). The child will not be notably disadvantaged in of themselves (their status will depend more on whether they are claimed and thus provided the social security of a family patriarch), the father will experience no hard disadvantages in claiming them.

b) A child born to an unmarried woman via a married man: mild sexual misdemeanor for the father carrying levels of social shame, even more serious social harm for the woman (often framed as not just loose but a manipulative Seductress of a married man). The child might experience minor to moderate social disadvantages, the consequences of the father claiming them are purely social and will not typically be severe. (Couya is this)

c) A child born to a married woman via an unmarried or married man: both man and woman have committed a crime and can be severely punished. The biological father can technically claim the child but will be disincentivized from doing so. This is the form of bastardry most comparable to the conventional definition, in that it is heavily stigmatized and has effects on concerns of kinship and inheritance.

In addendum to this, if the adulterous wife's legal husband claims the child, this may be punishable if determined to be active concealment of adultery (which is also a crime), and has EXTREME social consequences either way. (Either you're a cuckold too stupid to notice that your wife has been skipping out on you, or you're a MEGAcuckold adultery-accessory willingly rearing another man's child after being horribly shamed by him).

(This is separate from adoption- a man who marries a woman with an unclaimed child after the fact (whether it was a product of adultery or just a general out of wedlock birth) and claims the child is an adoptive father, he is not concealing adultery or being cuckolded.)

A child born in an affair can be considered an heir to their biological fathers (descent and kinship is fully patrilineal and on a Basic level it doesn't matter who the mother is), and can very smoothly and legally be claimed when the affair was not considered criminal adultery. The concern on that front is social perception rather than material legal consequences or kinship issues.

Couya's birth mother was an unwed servant working as a housekeeper for her father Saizen, so the Crime of adultery did not take place. It would be considered a minor sexual misdemeanor, and the woman's father was not about to pursue charges against a nobleman who could Ruin him (and had also formally expressed that he would claim the child, which meant he would not be saddled with a nameless bastard granddaughter). So the concerns here were entirely social.

The affair might have started beforehand but the pregnancy that produced Couya occurred after his wife's third viable pregnancy ended in the premature birth of a underdeveloped boy deemed necessary to euthanize (and tbr would Not have survived either way). This was after Livya Haidamane had a couple early term miscarriages, two viable but very difficult pregnancies wherein one child was very weak and sickly for the first several years of life, and struggled to conceive every time. A lot of people are going to be at least a little sympathetic to a married man having an affair and claiming a bastard in this context. It's definitely ideal and practical to have more than two children, and his wife (while not outright infertile) clearly could not reliably bear healthy children. (The average response is going to be "Well he shouldn't have done it but like, I get it")

Couya being claimed by her father was a mix of genuine care and saving face. Initially it was MUCH more the latter than the former. Saizen made attempts to hide the servant's pregnancy and to keep his own wife out of sight during the late term (to prevent the baby appearing after his wife had been seen Extremely not pregnant). But there's some levels of care involved, he could very easily have fired the pregnant servant and had nothing to do with his bastard and she would have no recompense whatsoever. The choice to keep and claim the baby and ensure its entrance into the world bore as little social scrutiny as possible is an act of care for his own progeny.

This was Not an act of care for Couya's birth mother (beyond the fact that concealing her pregnancy would benefit her in hiding that she is not only Not a virgin prior to marriage but had a child). She probably would have been about 17-19 at the time and was fired a few months after giving birth, and most likely never saw Couya again after this point (if she did, it would most likely be in the context of seeing her as an adult Odonii in public and noting her to look Scarily familiar). She has an Okayish chance at still being alive, she'd be around 50 (and a person who survives the high infant mortality and birth casualty rates stands a good chance of hitting their 60s), though she could very well be a casualty of the drought+famine.

Whether or not Couya's life would have been better is kind of a mixed bag. She had an awful fucking childhood in large part because her adoptive mother Livya Haidamane hated her. (Livya was ultimately a pretty horrible person but not just like. An Evil Bitch. She had A Lot going on and Couya was a living breathing insult to her and reminder of like, every one of her dashed hopes and dreams). Couya is also autistic and presented very intense symptoms as a child in a society that is Not equipped for a mass-understanding and support of cognitive differences. But she still did have an immensely privileged life with profound physical/economic levels of security inaccessible to the vast majority of people in this region, including her birth mother. Saizen also actually Liked her and cared about her, he just wasn't a routine physical presence in any of his children's lives.

Had she been left with her biological mother, she would be in a very disadvantaged situation as a nameless bastard to an unwed mother. Her biological grandfather may or may not have been willing to claim her, and her mother would have great difficulties in finding a husband (which is ultimately necessary for the security of women in this society). I think her mother was a relatively kind person but not like, a perfect angel. She would probably have complicated feelings about her bastard daughter, especially one whose very existence materially disadvantages her and was very, very difficult as a child. So this probably would not have been a good situation for Couya either.

If you broaden the question to ANY other family completely divorced from the circumstances of her birth, yeah it definitely could have been better. But in her case it's like either "Life of grotesque socioeconomic privilege but in an abusive household" or "Life of profound socioeconomic disadvantages in a household that Probably wouldn't have been this abusive but certainly wouldn't be healthy". There wasn't really a good option for her.

#I think I've overemphasized the Social consequences of adultery/bastard children and underemphasized that committing #or abetting adultery is Illegal and punished pretty severely #But in this case nothing about Couya's birth was considered 'adultery' by societal definition and in being formally claimed by her #father (with no reason to question that he Is her father) the rest of her family is obligated to treat her as full kin wrt familial #obligations and inheritance #Livya Haidamane was also expected to fully behave as her mother and like. This happened after suffering through very difficult and #traumatic pregnancies. Delivering a premature son and watching him be euthanized. Then her husband IMMEDIATELY #knocks up a servant and most people around her are kind of like 'yeah not a great thing to do but I get it' because she was Only able #to push out two relatively healthy kids. And then she has to treat the Living Embodiment of all this as her daughter who happens #to also be an extremely difficult child.#This kind of changed the whole trajectory of her life and was not something she had Any means of processing or coming to terms with #and instead Coped with by severely emotionally abusing said child and pitting her against her disappointing son while idolizing her #eldest daughter thus contributing to the production of three really fucked up adults.#Also note that 'claiming a child' overlaps with but is not the same thing as 'raising a child in your household'#A claimed child takes the father's family name and is considered legal kin. This has very practical applications and means that #you and the rest of your family have lifelong legal and honor-based familial obligations to this child.#A father (or grandfather) may deign to raise a bastard without claiming them which can provide physical security but does not #have Kinship and its structure of familial obligations backing it. So these two situations can be materially different and affect #the trajectory of a child's life.

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sysmedsaresexist · 1 year ago

Text

Psych Critical

This post is highly related to this post, and I hope you'll read both. This was written second.

I've sent a couple asks to anti psych blogs talking about my own situation.

My goal isn't to change their minds, but to see what options they think are available to my family. Not every attempt at communication is an attack on a stance. I have real questions.

If there are other options, I'd love to hear them. I want these options to exist. I want more than what my family is going to get.

However, no one has responded to my asks. Maybe they think it's bait and I'm trying to catch them in a trick, maybe they don't know the answer, maybe they don't care (if you're one of those blogs, you've forfeited an opinion on my life).

So I'm going to post, under my own name, and ask again.

This isn't bait. This is my life, my every day normal. This is my father's life, every single day.

Psych Critical is a stance that I don't have a choice in. The psych system is only one thing that my family will turn to for help, and if we don't approach it first, it'll approach us on less kind circumstances. And that's genuinely what we're looking for.

Help.

And I think blanket generalizations like the above are about as useful as trash. I shouldn't have to hate myself and my family for needing help and seeking it out.

My father has something called NF (Neurofibromatosis). You might know this as "elephant man disease," though these are distinct disorders that are different from each other. It's the easiest way to describe it, though. He has tumors all over his body, inside and out, in his case. Visible lumps all over his body.

Unfortunately, these tumors are also on his brain. This causes him to have seizures, strokes, hallucinate, and have bouts of violence towards anyone and everyone. Specifically concerning is the voice of God telling him to punish his (now adult) children, and threatening to harm people based on the colour of their skin and religion. These hallucinations likely stem from the fact that he was raised as an orphan in the church (yes, it's exactly what you think).

There was a time when he could have gotten treatment, but we're past that. Initially, he refused. He was scared, I'm sure he didn't think it would end up like this. Now, he's unable to consent to treatment, and it's so progressed that surgery isn't an option. Chemo never was. To make matters worse, he's an alcoholic, to the point that not drinking will cause seizures and will likely result in death. Not to mention the damage to his liver that's slowly killing him. It's not functioning well these days.

There is no POA or will, and he's not able to consent to signing either. He will not go to any doctors at this point. You can't even have a conversation about this with him. Every plan he's set up on, retirement, pension, disability-- he calls them constantly to fuck around with it, cancel it, take his children's names off it, tell them he doesn't need it. They've stopped talking to him and will only discuss with my mother, despite there being no POA in place.

He is only going to get worse. He is going to die, and he doesn't understand.

My father is already dead. The man that raised me is gone, the man that cared isn't in that head anymore. It's a cruel soul using his body like a puppet until it finally gives out.

At this point... my siblings, mother, and I have had to cut him out of our lives. He's mean. He's so goddamn mean and cruel. His words cut harder than his fists, only because there's nothing left to him. He's skin and bones.

I don't know how much longer my cousin can let him stay there. Then what?

At some point, he will need to be forcibly committed and treated, if only to make him comfortable during his final... years? Months? Days? Because of the unique circumstances, there's likely not a drug that can help curb any of the symptoms. Drugs might be able to get him off the alcohol, but he's not going to like that at all, and that's not what's causing the hallucinations. His memory only gets worse by the day. Simple daily things like using the stove are becoming more of a danger, because he keeps walking away and forgetting.

I have about as much choice in this as he does, and the sooner he's committed, the better for everyone, including him. I mean, he can continue to stay out, and pass out on the streets trying to get home from the bar after getting kicked out for starting fights or getting angry when he's cut off. I don't know if or when he's going to forget the way home, and even if I try not to care... I'm scared.

I fear the day he's picked up by the police. I want him in the legal system even less than the psych system, and I think he'll fight any police that try to approach him. This is a man that, I promise you, would rather be homeless than denied alcohol.

This is not my biological father. He came into my life when I was only 1 year old. My biological father was, surprise surprise, also an alcoholic. He was in a drunk driving accident before I was born that killed other people. He was the driver.

My step dad, the only dad I've ever known, scares me sometimes.

I don't want to be the child of two murderers.

So I ask again, what do you suggest? How is this ableist? Your focus is psychotic people, but that's not the only people in these facilities. That's not the only disease that they treat. I read a couple posts from a linked resource (it's tumblr posts, let's not lie), and one of them mentioned something akin to outpatient treatment. @trans-axolotl because I'm using your post. I actually appreciate the "I don't know" of your answer.

It's a lot better than, "you're ableist for even thinking about this."

Friendos, I don't have a choice but to think about this.

This seemed silly to me, though, because psych wards already act like that. Many of the patients leave during the day to work, shop and visit family, and return at night. Rinse and repeat for them, every day. There's a surprising amount of individualized treatment, freedoms, and steps for each patient.

But not everyone can adhere to that. If my dad got out during the day, he would be drinking, and this would exacerbate the symptoms. He's a dick when he's drunk on the best of days. It's why my mother divorced him originally, before the hallucinations started.

A dry house wouldn't work, either. The places this man has hidden alcohol... he's like a squirrel, it's just everywhere, and he comes across them like,

Inside the WALLS, my guys. Hidden in the basement, the wall goes up to uncovered beams and there's a gap, and he hides them down behind those walls.

Do you know how many spiders are in there? He can fucking drink them, he wins that battle. Touché, dad.

When they tear the house down in the far future, I'm willing to bet they'll find a full liquor store down there. And again, the first time someone says, "you can't bring that in here," he'll turn around and say, "then I'm not going in there, diddles," because his fucking language part of the brain is broken and no matter how many times you explain that "diddle" is a CSA word that you can't just use randomly like that, he forgets.

When I first got married, I had him over to my apartment to spend a few nights. The amount of alcohol that got into my house... I don't even think he brought boxers, just alcohol, and it ended in a fight, and I made him leave. After that, he refused to come visit me. He's never been to my sibling's homes. It was the final straw for me, the things he said to my husband are unforgivable. I keep watch from afar now, talking to my cousin about him.

I said a few paragraphs up that the man that cared is gone. Sometimes, I look back, and I'm reminded of all the doubts growing up that he ever really cared. But I still care, and loving him is painful. The fear of what he's going to do next is even worse.

I want to finish this off with one of my... I don't want to say favorite, but this documentary was one that helped me, a fair bit, when it came out. I'd genuinely like the opinions of anti psych people on this documentary, and the true extent of violence and self harm that some patients display. Heavy trigger warning for severe self harm and violence toward others. Obviously.

For some of these patients, do you see another option for treatment? If not psych wards, what do you suggest happens to some of the patients in the video? What role did the staff actually play in some of the events portrayed?

youtube

As a general reminder, this isn't to change minds but open dialogue.

"Psych crits are ableist," is a pretty harsh statement considering the number of people in similar positions to myself. I feel like there's a huge disregard and ignorance for the violence that real people are experiencing.

Again, I'm psych critical, I don't accept the system as it is now, I think there's many improvements to be made. I think there is a need, in a very not small number of cases, for this type of system. I understand and appreciate the intersection of race, poverty and mental health that leads to anti psych sentiments, and I agree. There is a large number of people in psych wards that shouldn't be. This needs to be addressed.

But how do you reconcile both? I can't figure it out. I don't know.

#anti psych #psych critical #real life example #tw csa mention #tw involuntary commitment #not to mention that I'VE been in therapy since i was 4 #i certainly didn't have a choice in the system's lifelong involvement in my own personal life

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