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gaybullies · 5 years ago

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so, people keep insisting on calling henry a psychopath or sociopath. but neither of those things exist. neither of those things are in the dsm.

but you know what is??? paranoid personality disorder!

and you know what everyone who has done some sort of dig-deeper shot at henry’s character has come to the conclusion of?

that he’s scared. all the time. of everything. of everyone. he’s scared of being. everyone who has analyzed him Gets That.

that’s the core of what paranoid personality disorder is.

and not just that, folks.

he shows basically all the signs in some way and at some point or another.

“Paranoid personality disorder (PPD) is a type of eccentric personality disorder. (Cluster A) An eccentric personality disorder means that the person’s behavior may seem odd or unusual to others. An individual with paranoid personality behavior is very suspicious of other people. They mistrust the motives of others and believe that others want to harm them. Additional hallmarks of this condition include being reluctant to confide in others, bearing grudges, and finding demeaning or threatening subtext in even the most innocent of comments or events. A person with PPD can be quick to feel anger and feel hostile toward others.“

personally, i think this should be in the anxiety cluster, as it feels closer to ptsd than schizophrenia ( it being grouped wiht schizophrenia is why it’s in this cluster, not the anxiety cluster) but, im no professional, and regardless, this all says everything i’m trying to get across here. (source)

“The cause of paranoid personality disorder is unknown. However, researchers believe that a combination of biological and environmental factors can lead to paranoid personality disorder.The disorder is present more often in families with a history of schizophrenia and delusional disorders. Early childhood trauma may be a contributing factor.“ (source)

the symptoms this site lists are as follows (its the same source as the last two, but im getting to other sources)

believing that others have hidden motives or are out to harm them

doubting the loyalty of others

being hypersensitive to criticism

having trouble working with others

being quick to become angry and hostile

becoming detached or socially isolated

being argumentative and defensive

having trouble seeing their own problems

having trouble relaxing

it literally says in an intro paragraph that hes scared of the losers, like, he thinks theyre a threat, and thats why he attacks them so much.

he doubts the loyalty of vic and belch, resorting to trying to scare them into following him. even just speaking up against something he does is soemthing he takes as being disloyal. and that ties into that whole being hypersensetive to criticism thing, too. I havent seen him working with others, but i can imagine its not the prettiest. hes definitely argumentative and defensive as HELL. detached and socially isolated? sounds about right to me, but i could be wrong on that. he definitely has trouble seeing his own problems and trouble relaxing.

lets get into the next source.

will try to cut out too many repeats, though.

“The essential characteristic of people with PPD is paranoia, a relentless mistrust and suspicion of others without adequate reason to be suspicious. This disorder often begins in childhood or early adolescence “ looks impotrtant. this one also states its more common in men.

“These generally unfounded beliefs, as well as their habits of blame and distrust, interfere with their ability to form close or even workable relationships.“

sound familiar?

Are reluctant to confide in others or reveal personal information because they are afraid the information will be used against them.

Are unforgiving and hold grudges.

Perceive attacks on their character that are not apparent to others; they generally react with anger and are quick to retaliate.

Have persistent suspicions, without reason, that their spouses or lovers are being unfaithful.

Are generally cold and distant in their relationships with others, and might become controlling and jealous to avoid being betrayed.

Cannot see their role in problems or conflicts, believing they are always right. (a rephrase of a previous point)

Tend to develop negative stereotypes of others, especially those from different cultural groups.

henry jumping to black mail patrick isnt necessarily exactly like bieng reluctant to confide in him or reveal personal information, but the why for why he blackmailed him--- thats the same reason. he doesnt want that information used against him. he’s asserted a position of control in all his relationships, which also keeps him from allowing hismelf to fully trust naybody because he doesnt have to, which keeps him from forming those deep emotional connections with basically anyoneexcept people hes scared of-- his dad, and... patrick.

and the last point? uh... im pretty sure is just polite for “racist” and everything else he is.

“Paranoid personality disorder may be first apparent in childhood or adolescence. People who suffer prefer solitude, have poor peer relationships, social anxiety, academic underachievement, hypersensitivity, peculiar thoughts and language, and idiosyncratic fantasies. These young people may appear to be "odd" or “eccentric,” and they are good targets for teasing. In clinical samples, this disorder appears to be more commonly diagnosed in males.“

this site (probably the most legit out of all of them tbh) basically says everything else the other sources say in a much more strictly prodfessional and clinical manner, so it’d jus tbe a bunch of repeating, but i thought thiswas very good to look at regarding henry.

i also dont remember if ive added this in and am currently too tired to check so i’m going to put it in from this site too “There is some evidence for an increased prevalence of paranoid personality disorder among those whose relatives have schizophrenia.“

butch is very often called “crazy” which in the fifties might have meant schizophrenia. hoenst to god, i havent finished the book, and dont know that much about butch, but.

another site. looks like a dad blog but might have merit “People with paranoid personality disorder are generally characterized by having a long-standing pattern of pervasive distrust and suspiciousness of others. A person with paranoid personality disorder will nearly always believe that other people’s motives are suspect or even malevolent.“ felt this was important too. some sources say paranoia in general, but some sources say this. I think both are worth looking at, especially when taking into account henry’s character

“Individuals with paranoid personality disorder are generally difficult to get along with and often have problems with close relationships. Their excessive suspiciousness and hostility may be expressed in overt argumentativeness, in recurrent complaining, or by quiet, apparently hostile aloofness. Because they are hypervigilant for potential threats, they may act in a guarded, secretive, or devious manner and appear to be “cold” and lacking in tender feelings. Although they may appear to be objective, rational, and unemotional, they more often display a labile range of affect, with hostile, stubborn, and sarcastic expressions predominating. Their combative and suspicious nature may elicit a hostile response in others, which then serves to confirm their original expectations.“

^^ also looks important. not just in regards to henry, but in regards to the disorder as a whole.

this last site didnt say anything new, really, but there were a couple bulle t points that caught me

Often described as cold, jealous, secretive, and serious.

Look for hidden meanings in gestures and conversations.

so anyways.... henry bowers is not a sociopath. he has paranoid personality disorder, if you want to diagnose him with anything like that.

#henry bowers #it #it 2017 #it novel #it 2019 #it miniseries #bowers gang #patrick hockstetter #butch bowers #might reorganize this later #and then jsut list all my sources at the end or something

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peetsplainjane · 6 years ago

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The Toughest Year

Hey you, it’s 3:21 AM and it’s July 13. Its your birthday. You’ve been struggling to sleep for the past week and tonight’s no different.

Reading back on my previous posts, the theme seems to be unrequited, almost lovers. My teens and early 20s were defined by James. In those years, I didn’t think I would meet anyone who I would like as much as I liked him. There were moments of sadness when I realized I was not the one he wanted and that hurt.

And then Dan came along ...

Between my 2nd and 3rd year of medical school was when he entered into my life. Highs were high and lows were so very low. What I thought was pain from an unrequited love with James came nothing close to what I went through this year.

So many tears shed, so many thoughts wasted, so many sleepless nights, including this one right now. For every emotion I went through, there was a Taylor Swift song that I could now finally relate to.

Treacherous gave me the courage to pull him back in when he was unsure.

Listening to Clean at 4:30 AM as I was driving to my peds rotation trying to be okay with the idea of not having him in my life.

Back to You was our relationship.

Being 25 had to be the toughest year to date for my emotional growth. There were a lot of growing pains this year - emotional lability

Rotations were tough, figuring out what speciality I wanted to do though, was not. I will be the BEST DAMN OBGYN ever.

Things occupying a lot of head space right now

[1] Letter of Recommendation

[2] Filling my rotations

[3] ERAS

[4] Needle stick injury

[5] Dan

[6] WOW I am getting old

What I am looking forward to:

[1] Going to Beachwood

[2] Prancing around and looking nice

[3] Studying all day uninterrupted

[4] CHOOLAH!

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irishscot7 · 7 years ago

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This is a piece I wrote on WordPress last month concerning my complex trauma diagnosis:

“What’s happening to me?”

“Who the hell am I?… I just don’t know anymore. Have I ever had a fully-formed identity?”

“There’s a toxin coursing throughout my body…my mind is becoming a harsher and more desolate place.”

“I’ve never felt a numbness like this. I can’t even cry properly. I used to burst into tears making a trivial mistake, or hearing any sort of perceived slight. This doesn’t feel like progress.”

“Why can’t I sit still?”

“I’m losing control. I can’t handle it. This is it, I’ve finally gone properly insane.”

“Have I always been this angry? Is this my life force now? I just want to win at all costs… I’m a fucking sociopath.”

“Will I ever connect properly with another human being ever again?”

“I’ve lost my humanity…I’m a narcissist. All surface and no substance. Will I ever be functional?”

These were some of the thoughts that dominated my every waking hour during the summer, and I questions I’ve grappled with more constructively in its aftermath. I was no stranger to enduring long and lonely weeks at home, but this stint in particular felt frighteningly escalated in terms of stakes, closed doors, and finally running out of distractions.

I had no idea what was happening to me both physically and mentally: I felt (when I did feel) like a stranger in my own body, a tenant in a structure that was rapidly falling apart and now inhospitable to life. No matter how long I talked and how angry I became made no difference and delivered no relief, not even when the person I was venting to was a counsellor; a person who traditionally held some of the answers and directions to help navigate life’s problems, my usual panacea, was now mirroring how small and useless I felt with their long silences and look of confusion . That was what felt alien to me. It scared me witless (often literally with actions I eventually took). I did anything, even having arguments with strangers , just to feel any sense of life inside, to feel my heart race for reasons other than fear or dread and use my hyperaroused nervous system for something, anything; a sense of power and control, to not feel vulnerable anymore.

Events eventually came to a head, in which there were lasting consequences. There were some justified sense of maltreatment and betrayal on my part, but also recognition that I was equally responsible for some of the mess: my loss of impulse control and uncharacteristic emotional lability being the tip of the iceberg. For the following few days I completely shut down after the initial ‘high’ that engaging in conflict had ebbed away. Unsettled by what I was becoming and how I was seen by someone I had cared (and still do) a great deal for generated so much pain, sadness and recrimination in both myself and them on a topsy-turvy basis. The loss of a friend was more crushing than a loss of a lover, as you’re left with absolutely nothing. But how my life changed with a simple question from a new and more competent therapist:

“Have you heard of little ‘t’ trauma?”

A door was beginning to creak open slowly, in its emerging light was the vague form of Complex-Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and finally some answers for what was happening to me that the diagnosis of Social Anxiety Disorder and Depression 10 years previously couldn’t account for now. Although the new exploration this diagnosis has entailed has left me feeling physically sick after some sessions, there is at last some glimmer of hope at the edge of my vision that there is an explanation for why my life has taken the path it has. Walking in tandem refers to becoming attuned with not only other people again, but with my inner self, shifting past the various constructs I’ve used an attempt to protect myself from further pain. It’s hoped that this blog is another way of achieving that, through focusing on the longer outlook, validation and treatment methods rather than the personal details of my specific sources of cumulative trauma. As Bessel Van Der Kolk wonderfully explained in his 2015 book, the body does keep the score; it’s about time I paid attention to it and the emotional burden it has been carrying for more years than I realise

#cpstd

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how2to18 · 7 years ago

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IN JANUARY 1924, David Hilbert gave a lecture on infinity. To his listeners, the mathematician offered a parable of hospitality unhinged. Hilbert described a hotel with a countably infinite number of rooms, each occupied. The trouble comes when a new guest arrives: where, he asked, do we house her? The trick, infinity being infinitely capacious, is to move the guest in Room One to Room Two, the guest in Room Two to Room Three, and so on and so on, moving those in Room x to Room x+1. But don’t get too comfortable. Soon an infinite number of guests arrives all at once. Again, the solution is reassuringly, almost bathetically, uncomplicated. Each guest simply doubles their room number, moving from Room x to Room 2x — leaving an infinite number of odd-numbered rooms, a miracle of interstitial abundances.

In deepening Hilbert’s paradox, we might think of the symbolic status of the hotel in the years after World War I, when he conceived of and presented his work. A kind of chrome-and-bubble cosmopolitanism gleams in the lobbies of the fictionalized Grand Hotel. Its semi-publicness, internationalism, its connotations of locking, leaving, and lust on the lam, all mark the hotel as a supremely resonant topos of the interwar imaginary. Think of Jean Rhys’s Left Bank Stories (1927), Vicki Baum’s Menschen im Hotel (1929), and even Ernst Lubitsch’s Trouble in Paradise (1932), in which the hotel is the meeting place of strangers, lovers, soldiers, thieves, playboys, debtors, vamps, and queers. Remember, too, the soaring immigration rates, the flurry of border-crossing by those bereaved, displaced, or disaffected. Despite its sometimes vicious glitz and posh exclusion, the hotel whispers an urgent, plangent question: where do we put our guests? Hilbert supplements the query with vertiginous utopianism: by what ingenuities could we house the whole world’s dispossessed?

Darren Aronofsky’s mother! is about a house that is also the world, where a poet (Javier Bardem) flounders in a protracted state of creative sterility while his wife (Jennifer Lawrence) does all the emotional heavy lifting that brooding male artists require from their ladies. She is lovingly remodeling the house after a mysterious fire burned it to its foundations; since the film’s opening shot is of Lawrence herself, red-eyed and wreathed in CGI flames, we know where we are going and where we have been.

The couple trudges on in edenic boredom; he stares at blank pages and goes for long walks, while she mixes pigments and paints walls with an ardency we understand to be displaced. Suddenly, a stranger arrives: Ed Harris, at once alarming and charming. (We know from A History of Violence (2005) that it is bad news when Harris shows up unannounced.) The men talk to each other and take to each other, and, through the poet’s generosity — a generosity that is really self-loathing, alchemizing under the gaze of admiration into something fleetingly like self-love — the uninvited becomes the guest. Lawrence plays this first act with fragility, restraint, and desperate self-possession. Her house violated, her husband distracted, she suffers the accelerating encroachment of the exterior on her interior, a pressure which finds its formal correlate in cinematographer Matthew Libatique’s steel-tight close-ups and unrelenting panning. We get the sense that Lawrence would escape our scrutiny if she could.

Once the guest arrives, a logic of exponential duplication sets it: one guest becomes two, Michelle Pfeiffer playing the gloriously catty Eve to Harris’s chainsmoking Adam. They find the god/poet’s forbidden fruit (a mysterious glass memento from the house that had burned down) and unceremoniously destroy it. Two guests then become a family plot; the plot swiftly dilates and delivers an inheritance, then a murder, then a wake, and then a party. One becomes two becomes too many. The unwilling hostess, yanked into a celebration that is really a siege, kicks everyone out in an almost campy revision of Aronofsky’s own Noah (2014) — the guests break the sink and flood the kitchen, then are forced to leave en masse. Candescent with mutual resentments, the couple fuck for the first time in ages, and Lawrence’s never-named character leaps to eponymity: she is pregnant, and the second act can begin.

The party/wake is merely a rehearsal for the pandemonium of the second act, when the poet’s masterpiece — his scripture, achieved as if exogenously after the flood — fills the house with fans who quickly turn fanatical. Aronofsky’s allegorical imagination is most exuberant in this final act: logos and allegiance, word and bond, metastasize into ideology and violence. That once unwelcome Adam has produced an entire genealogy of human malice. The house swells with a history too compressed to be distinct: cross-cutting iconographies, the whistling shrieks of bullets, the ambient sounds of degradation, fear, and subjection.

The aesthetic mode here is that of the combat sublime: a shuttling between the overwhelming immensity and visceral particularity of armed conflict, simultaneously mapping war as a system and surviving war as a terrain. Think of Emmanuel Lubezki’s unending tracking shots in Children of Men (2006), the way one body set in motion is made to navigate unnavigable scenes of terror. Both films take the problem of the untrained civilian in the warzone as the grounds for their most astonishing technical virtuosity. Amid the dazzling, dizzying vicissitudes of modern warmaking, Aronofsky and Cuarón foreground pregnant women’s bodies as the privileged site for the crisscrossing temporalities of crisis: a double-pulse in the berserk distended present, where the future is continually foreclosed. In both cases, pregnancy is exceptional, overdetermined, Rosemaryesque, and already and forever the film’s, not the mother’s own. Indeed, mother!’s only mother cannot mother, placing her among the many women who would flee the regulating frame of patriarchy’s close-up if they could.

In January 1996, Jacques Derrida gave a lecture on hospitality. To his listeners, the philosopher offered a pun, what he called the pas d’hospitalité, where pas means both “step” and “no” — describing, therefore, the guest’s arrival as a transgression in two senses. The pas d’hospitalité is both a crossing of the threshold and an unstated but lively threat to the host. It is both the enactment of hospitality and the articulation of its eternal internal antagonisms:

It is as though hospitality were the impossible […] as though the categorical imperative of hospitality commanded that we transgress all the laws (in the plural) of hospitality, namely, the conditions, the norms, the rights and the duties that are imposed on hosts and hostesses, on the men or women who give a welcome as well as the men or women who receive it. And vice versa, it is as though ‘the laws (plural) of hospitality, in marking limits, powers, rights, and duties, consisted in challenging and transgressing the law of hospitality’, which would command that the arrivant be offered an unconditional welcome.

No matter how welcome you are, selon Derrida, you are never really as welcome as you ought to be. For Derrida, our “laws (plural)” remain conjugated, perversely, in both the imperative and the conditional. If a society comprised of latched doors still clings tenaciously to the idealized values of sanctuary and succor, then that society must create protocols and customs, “limits, powers, rights, and duties,” that constrain and qualify the relation of the guest to the host. In service of an ideal, expected, unconditional hospitality, we list provisos and set restrictions. Derrida’s deconstructionist brio is subtended by a dark, almost tragedian, understanding of the encounter between strangers: to enter the home of the host is to implicitly threaten her life; to greet the guest is to implicitly court disaster. Derrida’s hotel is Hilbert’s through a glass darkly: yes, there is always another room, but not because of some insatiable itch for infinity. The Derridean hotel would be an endless series of transgressions and impositions which pull taut the tensions between the imperative and the condition. Vigilant, cagy, the concierge watches to make sure you don’t pull a knife when you reach for your keys.

Combining Hilbert’s interminable guest list with Derrida’s robust cynicism, mother! literalizes the pas d’hospitalité, the step forward that is also a resounding negation. Every guest in the film’s house carries ruination like poison in her pockets. In interviews, Aronofsky has stressed that his film is “actually” about ecological devastation, but he either misses or dismisses the intimate link between climate change and refugeeism (the latter being the condition out of which Gilbert’s hospitality experiment could emerge). Instead, Aronofsky fixates on a woman’s body, her baby, and the house she attempts, with such futile resolve, to refurbish and renew. Far from fevered or obscure, the message is actually quite clear: protect the synecdoche, our mother earth — protect this beautiful, fragile house. Under this interpretive schema, the guests in mother! are the anthropocene: the great and ghastly pressure of humanity on the world’s ecohistory.

Phantasmatically transforming refugees into insurgents, Aronofsky turns need and supplication into theft. This is the symbolic work of xenophobia. But Aronofsky’s screechy eschatology, his telos of a house/world on fire, disregards the subtler and more urgent implications of climate change. An emergent and unfolding cluster of phenomena, not some pyrotechnic narrative climax, climate change affects the globe’s most vulnerable populations and thereby produces the sanctuary-seeking peoples whom Aronofsky would depict as labile fools, cannibals, and vandals.

What could it mean for this story to be one of abundant refuge rather than home invasion? How must we reinvent hospitality now that rates of homelessness, landlessness, will only continue to rise exponentially in the wake of climate devastation? In The Mushroom at the End of the World: On the Possibility of Life in Capitalist Ruins, Anna Lowenhaupt Tsing describes a mode of survival she calls “contamination as collaboration.” Tracing the matsutake mushroom across the globe because she hopes to draw both inspiration and theory from this hardy and adaptable fungus, Tsing insists that “staying alive — for every species — requires livable collaborations. Collaboration means working across difference, which leads to contamination.” This contamination is both transformation and loss: according to Tsing, we must risk our integrity and self-possession if we wish to live. This is what queer theorist Tim Dean calls the “ethics of the stranger” and what Judith Butler emphasizes in Precarious Life when she asks her readers to return to the state of vulnerability we could never really escape to begin with:

For if I am confounded by you, then you are already of me, and I am nowhere without you. I cannot muster the “we” except by finding the way in which I am tied to “you,” by trying to translate but finding that my own language must break up and yield if I am to know you. You are what I gain through this disorientation and loss.

This mutual undoing is where hospitality begins: not despite or instead of but through disorientation and loss. What’s certain is that we need films that cook up collaborative contaminations — not xenophobic paranoia. Films that can think with the roomy, rangy zest of a mathematician chasing infinity — which is to say, with love.

Nolan Gear is a PhD candidate at Columbia University, where he researches the relays between early film and literature. He will be teaching a course on cinema and modernism this coming spring.

The post “mother!” and Her Guests appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

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