#literally in my DISABILITY STUDIES course trying to talk about it and being shut down and redirected

[autumnoakes]

the urge to explain to everyone that i'm autistic so i do things they may find weird vs. the urge to never tell anyone ever because they're going to accuse me of lying 🫠

[undead-notunreasonable]

So I remember you mentioned that you were bullied at school? So was I and I’ve been thinking about that a lot recently. What is it that happened to you then? Just curious- dw if you don’t wanna say

This is gonna be long... I’m pretty open with what happened to me when I was at school! So, I guess I was dealt the worst hand: ginger, skinny, Deaf. The problem is growing up, I always had a group of friends & would lose them, and honestly that happened to me recently, so I thought it was because of me when in reality it’s because people don’t get that if you’re deaf, your needs & worldview are SO much more different to that of an abled person & abled bodied people just don’t get it.

Primary school: I was part of the ‘popular’ crowd for quite some time & I never felt any different & I thought these group of girls were going to be my best friends forever. As we go older, things started to change, I was being included less & not being invited to much. Parents would tell their kids to not hang around the disabled kid. Literal grown adults. They even would constantly ask my Mum if she was feeding me or if I was ill because I was so small. My poor Mum. One time I stayed round a friends house for a sleepover & bare in mind we’re little kids we’re like 7? I had a teddy bear that I wouldn’t go ANYWHERE without so of course I brought it to the party. One girl spat her gum into my hair. Another hid my hearing aids. Another hid my teddy bear. They didn’t get in trouble but the Mum whose home it was, told me that I hid it & was playing up. Following morning, it was hot as hell so we had a water fight before our parents came to pick us up, but I couldn’t join it because I couldn’t get my hearing aids wet. Though, I did aim the running hose that everyone was using at one of the girls & she burst into tears, I stopped but the others continued. The Mum yet again blamed me. She told my Mum & my Mum was like “No, she wouldn’t have done that if someone said to stop. And she wouldn’t have put gum in her hair, hidden her bear, or hid her hearing aids.” Eventually they got older & they just outed me. Until I met another new girl who was SO tall & people were mean to her about her height, so I became her friend, and we became great friends! Until another new girl came in who was my friend but she didn’t like me much even though I didn’t do anything wrong. She convinced the tall one to abandon me just as we moved onto secondary school. Secondary school: We had like an introductory week at this school where we met all the other kids so we could at least know someone to hang out with. I was lucky, there was a girl I attended gymnastics with & so I spent the day with her but this one teacher put me with another girl who is a little person & the reason she kept putting me & her together was because “Well you both look similar & you’re disabled, so you’ll get on great.” which is SO fucking wrong. We tried to get on with each other but we just didn’t gel. We exchanged hi’s every so often but we later drifted. I managed to get back with the girl from gymnastics but she wasn’t in my class. I didn’t mind, I was looking forward to studying at a big school & I had friends in another class so it’s fine. Eventually the tall girl from primary & I became friends because the girl she went off with kicked her out of their friendship group & we stayed friends for 7 years. But, this was when Harry Potter movies were slowly coming towards their end (I think they’d released their 4th movie?) and so.. of course... being ginger... meant all the boys started calling me Weasley & Ginger Nut. One boy, used to pass me notes & honestly, I didn’t think it was bullying because I thought I’d actually made a friend in class because I get on well with guys, so I would pass insults back. It only later became bullying when that guy told his friends what he’d call me, they’d start throwing stuff at me when the teacher wasn’t looking. I tried to report it but the teacher didn’t care, told me to ignore it. Boys kept harassing me & so I took it to the vice principal. It happened SO often, literally every day for MONTHS no matter how many letters of apologies or detentions etc, that one day I went to her again for help & she just went “Holly, I’m too busy, deal with it yourself.” A new drama teacher came in and she saw that our class was pretty wild and she couldn’t figure out who was causing it. She asked me to take note in classes of everyone who got listed on detention boards & bring it back to her. Deaf people take things LITERALLY and so I LITERALLY wrote down their names as their names went on board. People started to notice & started cornering me & yelling in my face asking me why I was writing their names down. The teacher at the time in that building caught wind of it & asked me calmly why I was doing it. “Mrs Edwards asked me to.” was all I could stay & then later the Drama teacher explained that she meant mentally take note & that she was so sorry for any harm she’d caused. But this didn’t make me a popular person at all. Valentines were always filled with fake ones & pranks. People fake asking me out, even a friend gave me a card that was meant to be from my crush but it was made up. What didn’t help was that I was a big fan of the Twilight movies. Someone spread a rumour near prom that I was the head of Prom committee & that I was making it Twilight themed & this spread like wildfire. People would yell at me on the way to classes & spit at me “No one’s gonna fucking go to Prom if it’s TWILIGHT fucking themed!! You piece of fucking shit!!!” and I’d get messaged on my Facebook & MSM all night about how I’ve ruined everyones prom. I’d yell “Look at the fucking planners list that’s literally everywhere. I’m not even on it. I’m not even going.” and I really didn’t want to go, I wanted to stay in, in my pyjamas because I was so upset. One bully even cornered me before science class & got into my face, just screaming “You fucking ginger emo cunt! No one will ever fucking love you because you’re ginger & deaf!” and tried to shut us all out. I was in a rage & I managed to push open the door enough to kick him so hard in the shin & keep kicking. He never said a bad word to me again. But all my friends were going to prom & I wanted to go with them. So, I did. (And I wowed everyone there, all the bullies couldn’t believe it was me. I had my hair in a curled low bun, smoky eyeshadow, a black velvet bodiced dress, red jewelled choker round my throat, red silk skirt & arrived in an vintage car. It was vampy, it was gothy, but I looked good for the time. I even kissed my crush that night!) but a year down the line & all my girl friends said they didn’t want to be friends with me anymore because I just didn’t do anything. I was a tomboy, I wasn’t into shopping & getting nails done or clubbing. But they started doing things without me & stopped inviting me, stopped even considering me, so I plucked up the courage to ask why, they said I didn’t do anything, I said “Yeah, not the girly stuff but I would’ve loved to have gone to the movies & gone for dinner with you” and my best friend of 7 years said “I never even liked you anyway.” So I had no friends once more. College: I wasn’t so much bullied in college, other than you had you popular people & your dorky people but the friends I’d made of friends invited me to house parties & eventually down the years (what...5?) I found out between that time that they’d had a group chat on Whatsapp that I wasn’t a part of because it was a sex bet group. They would plot & wager who would convince me into bed first because I was the hot friend. I’m.. not hot. I’m okay. But still. They’d had a big bet on me. I found out & I was livid. I yelled at them & they told me I was being childish about it. So I broke away. I kept a few that I knew weren’t on the chat close. I introduced an old school friend to them & well... he was dating four of them, sleeping with them, then telling them he had to be somewhere else but was sleeping with someone else of the quartet. This all got out & EVERYONE fell apart. I felt so guilty because I’d introduced him but someone assured it wasn’t my fault. Adulthood: Then this year, I lost them all because I yelled at one guy who kept treating me like SHIT & I’d told him to back off. Everyone yelled at me, called me childish, and took his side. People who love calling out toxic & abusive behaviour, telling each other to not talk to someone because of this or that. That’s childish. He and I are working things about but it’ll never be the same. The only friend I had left really upset me when we both discussed about going to this little holiday hut I’d found & I got all excited. She knew I’d fallen out with my group of friends so I said “I don’t have anyone I can invite that can join us” and then she said “I know a few from uni who can come” and then booked it but... didn’t book it for me at all. She said “I can’t wait to go next year with my best friends, it’s gonna be so nice to spend a weekend with them” so I broke things off with her. Like, I found the place, we agreed to go together, we got excited, and then... you just dropped me.  So all in all, yeah I’ve been bullied. I don’t have any physical friends anymore, I just have internet friends & I suppose I’m not built for people. I have a few internet friends though, so I’m not entirely alone. But I don’t date for the same reasons, also because of what that one bully said & all the fake Valentines. I’m sorry what happened to you is playing on your mind but honestly, it’s really for the best for you to try & move forward, yes, the memories will be there, but its YOU who decides how you go about your life, how YOU look after yourself, not the past. You are who you are, and you’re wonderful, I’m sure. Except if you’re a terf or a racist but that’s something else.

[chenfordfeels]

The Rookie 2x02 Part 2

I'm way too excited! We are getting so much content and meaningful scenes between them that my chenford heart can't take it.

Before I start raving about Tim and Lucy, I would like to point out that I believe Armstrong will be (in)directly some sort of advocate for chenford. I find many similarities between him and Tim, for one they both use work as a copying mechanism and secondly they would never ask for help. Maybe one day he goes up to him and says "life is too short, tell her you love her before you lose her" or something like that.

Oh dear Tim! I'm literally tired of pointing out in every review that Tim is using work as a cover for most of his decisions, especially when it has to do with Lucy. He wants/needs her help and still manages to make it seem like a punishment, her having to suffer along with him in reading that book. Of course, Lucy is enjoying the book too much as it makes some valid points.

Alas, he is too cute for me to hold a grudge against him.

He is a man of many contradictions. He shared something about himself (he learns better when he is moving and hearing the material) so naturally without questioning why he was sharing something personal about himself with his boot. Of course, he looks so alarmed at her reaction and quickly shuts everything down the second Lucy talks about learning disabilities and Isabel helping him study in the past. Then, although, he is clearly holding a grudge against Lucy, he gets all protective when Rex (bounty hunter) calls her boot and doesn't correct him when he asks if Lucy speaks to him that way.

I want to point out two things: a) the variety of people Tim is friendly with will never cease to surprise me and b) Lucy being assertive is literally the best, she takes control when she has to with no apologies.

Does Tim seem a bit angrier than usual. I thought we were making progress since the pilot but it's like he has a lot of things bottled up.

Lucy is trying to help him, she even offers to read to him while on patrol but he leaves no room for discussion. Still, when they go to the suspects house they have each other's backs.

Before I scream about my favorite moment, I would like to say that for a guy who refuses any kind of help he definitely offers a helping hand to everyone. He is such a multilayered character and Eric Winter does an amazing job of portraying him.

She recorded an audio book for him!

As per usual she knows him and tries to help him as best as she can. The hours it must have taken to read and record the book... I can't even. No one can tell me that this gesture is purely out of friendship. Lucy cares about Tim in a deeper level, enough to contact Isabel and talk about him and his (learning) needs. She literally went out of her way! And don't get me started on his soft smile and soft eyes and soft thanks.

It is as if Lucy is giving him permission (I don't know if it is the right word) to be himself and telling him that it is okay to be different and at the same time compliments him.

There are so many things I want to say about this particular scene that would probably fill a thesis but I'm going to stop myself here before I hyperventilate from all the cuteness.

Leave your thoughts down below! 👇⬇️👇I would love to have a more in depth discussion about this episode and their relationship.

[thebestpersonherelovesbucky]

Based on this post

blame @captainrogerrsbeard for this

~~~

Bearded Steve Rogers loves his job at Starbucks. Brewing coffee and experimenting with flavors and learning how to make all these pastries. He knows retail isn’t for everyone, but this is the best job he’s ever had. 

In the corner table, every single shift he works, Bucky sits with stacks of books, reading and drinking coffee -- taste-testing on the occasion Steve needs it  -- and he simply adores the scones Steve’s learned to make.

Sam comes in a few times a week to buy coffee and flirts with one of the baristas. Eventually, they exchange numbers.  

One afternoon, there's a woman sitting quietly with earbuds in as she does something on her computer. Unsurprisingly, a guy comes up to her and starts talking. Despite her attempts at kind and subtle rejections, the guy won't leave her alone and becomes more persistent. 

Steve, who's been keeping an eye on the scene the second the guy went over, has enough of it when the guy puts a hand on her shoulder--a thing that clearly makes her uncomfortable. 

"Excuse me," he says to her when he goes over. "Is everything okay over here? Would you like anything else? Do you need any garbage removed?" 

He says this last line with a slight lift of his eyebrows and he can see the click in her mind. She nods and hands him her empty cup. Steve turns to the guy. 

"I think this young woman would prefer it if you'd leave her alone," he tells him. "She's trying to get work done." 

"I'm not bothering her," he says, already getting defensive and ready for a fight. "Who the fuck do you think you are, buddy?" 

"He ain't your buddy, pal," Bucky says from another table, eyes still focused on the book he's reading today. "And I'd be really careful about what you do next." 

When the guy looks back at Steve, Steve folds his arms over his chest, a simple straightforward, matter-of-fact smirk curled up on his lips. The guy swallows roughly, grunts that this place is a shit-hole and marches out. 

"Thanks," the girl says softly. "Not a problem," Steve replies. "You want another latte? On the house?" 

"Try the scones," Bucky says, still reading. "He makes great scones."

Because she's clearly still a little nervous when she leaves, Steve just gives a little look to Bucky cause there's a huge line and he's busy with customers. Bucky nods and knows what he wants. He sends the text.   

About an hour later, he gets an answer from Sam. 

Don't worry, it reads. She got home okay. 

Bucky grins and replies: Did she see you?

Sam: Hell no, man. Got my hat and sunglasses. You know I'm a master of disguise. 

Bucky scoffs and types: Yeah, if you wanna look like you at a ball game. 

Sam: I look dayum fine in anything and she didn't see me so it worked. Shut your mouth, master assassin. 

Bucky chuckles and shakes his head. At least I know how to get a proper disguise. Thanks, Wilson.

Sam: Fuck you. No worries, Barnes

When Bucky looks back to Steve again, he winks, smiles, and gives him a nod. Steve smiles back, relief behind his eyes. Bucky watches him as he goes back to serving customers and can't help but think again how much he loves that big adorable asshole.

This particular Starbucks starts to be known in the area as the "Safe Starbucks." Women feel comfortable sitting alone. Same-sex couples feel safe showing affection and being in a couple out together. Trans people use the right bathrooms without fear of retaliation. People of color don't go in feeling threatened. Disabled people are served in ways that are compatible with their disability. 

That quiet guy who always sits in the corner reading keeps an eye on things. The guy behind the counter doesn't let even the slightest bit of negativity go unnoticed. Their friend is always happy to escort people who might need it. 

Slowly but surely, kids come closer and closer to Bucky when they need to study. He must be smart, he reads a lot, right? Eventually, they work up the nerve to talk to him. He looks over their notes with them and helps them study. When they're little, he reads to them. One regular has an autistic daughter who's particularly fascinated by Bucky. She likes his arm. Asks him questions about it every time they're there. At first, her mother says to leave the nice man alone, but Bucky smiles and assures her that it's fine and allows the little girl to look and touch and ask any questions she has about the arm, well, almost any.

Days Sam comes in, he ends up staying for hours. He’s a good talker, Sam, and people love to listen to his stories. He keeps quiet about The Falcon, of course, worried about blowing Steve and Bucky’s covers, but he finds creative ways around that. People slap him high-fives and give him fist-bumps whenever he comes in. He’s good at giving advice and mediating when some of the kids need it. 

Steve, though flattered, turns down the offer for management. He’s had enough leading and enjoys the calming feeling of brewing coffee and making pastries. Even when there’s a crowd, Steve is able to keep the busy hustle of New Yorker satisfied with his big grin and kind-hearted laugh and happy how can I help you when they reach the counter. Steve just wants to be a good employee.

The manager, a Pakistani man who immigrated to the States when he was younger, is astounded by this employee who can literally work from start to close without a complaint. He worries about overworking the poor kid, but, honestly, he seems to enjoy being here. 

"My last job," Steve tells him, "was a real stressful place. This is a vacation for me. Besides, I like learning how to make the pastries." 

"You're very good at learning them," his manager compliments. "I can't do an employee of the month because it wouldn't be fair to anyone else." 

Steve blushes and aw-shucks on the inside, this stupid grin pulling his lips up. 

"Thank you." 

When they close up that night and Steve finds Bucky waiting outside, as usual, Bucky nudges him with his elbow. 

"What'd I tell you, punk?" he says. "Told you you were doing a good job." 

Another blush fills Steve's cheeks. "Shut up, jerk."

Bucky smiles and presses a kiss to Steve’s bearded cheek, fingers sliding down and seeking his hand.

“We meeting Sam for beers?”

Steve grins and nods, happy to be able to just grab a few beers with his favorite boyfriend and his best friend at the end of a long work day. 

This, he thinks, is worth every sacrifice I ever made.”

[psychosistr]

Worth It Chapter 1: Forming a Plan

Summary: Joseph loves his best friend, Caesar, with all of his heart, but doesn’t quite know how to make Caesar see it. With a bit of patience, hard work, and forced abduction, though, it’ll all be worth it in the end.

Notes: This CaeJose story is the first in a series I am dubbing the Jojo’s Yandere Adventures stories. There will be some NSFW content in certain chapters, but I’ll edit out those parts and post them on my AO3 account with links once it’s set up properly. 

Also: PLEASE read the tags- this is a yandere/serial killer AU, so there will be uncomfortable topics such as drug use, murdering of unnamed characters, amoral behavior, kidnapping, mental manipulation, a bit of hypnosis, and stockholm syndrome.

Joseph Joestar and Caesar Zeppeli were best friends. This was a fact that anyone who even so much as glanced at the two would pick up on in an instant. The two had known each other for years, shared many secrets and personal feelings with one another, and were practically joined at the hip whenever they went out. Yes, they were practically the poster boys for the model friendship…at least, that’s what it looked like on the surface, and probably even to Caesar himself- but not to Joseph.

           You see, Joseph was not what people would call “normal”. He had no other way to categorize himself other than simply calling himself “different” or “morally atypical”. Sure, he had tried to find words to describe what he was, but nothing ever quite fit. Joseph was very smart (in his own eyes), so he couldn’t have some sort of mental disability or psychosis; he didn’t do the same thing over and over again expecting a different result, so he wasn’t insane; he cared for and thought about others besides himself, so he wasn’t a sociopath. He simply did not feel things as “normal” people did- he could feel angry, happy, or sad, of course, that was not a problem, but his feelings regarding other people were what made him feel so different.

From what Joseph understood growing up, people were supposed to care about those around them, form attachments to their peers and classmates, and respect certain things such as their feelings or boundaries. Joseph never experienced any of these things. He did not form attachments to those around him very easily- the only people he considered important to him were his grandmother who raised him after his parents’ death as a baby, his grandparents’ friend who helped raise him (an adoptive uncle to Joseph), a boy he’d met when he was young named Smokey who helped look after Joseph’s grandmother, and, of course, Caesar. Other than this select group of people, he considered nobody else worth his time. He was always more clever than his peers, so why bother getting to know them? As for respecting the feelings of others, again, why should he? He felt nothing for them, ergo, they WERE nothing to him. Other people, to Joseph, were a nuisance at best and an obstacle to what he wanted to do at worst.

Being aware of this abnormality in his own perceptions of others often left Joseph feeling a bit like an outcast. Not that he’d ever show it, of course. He was clever enough to realize early on that straying from the norm in front of others could lead to social shunning, overly concerned and meddlesome looks from those older than himself (such as his teachers when he was younger), forced appointments with professionals that would try to figure out what he was truly like, possible incarceration or institutionalization, and, the most worrisome of all- phone calls to granny Erina. The thought of someone calling his grandmother and getting in trouble with her always made a chill run down Joseph’s spine- that woman was TERRIFYING.

So, to avoid being labeled by society (and incurring the wrath of his grandmother), Joseph put on a mask in front of everyone outside of his little circle for years. To most of the world he was the brash but clever, happy-go-lucky, semi-polite, mostly-spoiled heir to the rich Joestar family. He always put on his biggest fake smiles whenever he went out, treated people kindly unless provoked, and was considered a generally good-natured person. As soon as he was behind closed doors, though, and away from those who did not truly know him, he let the fake smile drop and became a much more relaxed man when he was with the people he cared for.

Though it was never directly stated or discussed with any of them, they all seemed to have the unspoken understanding that Joseph was different and they all accepted him for who he was. They would keep tabs on him while they were out together and could tell when his mask was about to slip, often coming up with an excuse for why they’d have to go somewhere else for a bit. They would let him sit quietly for long periods of time without bothering him to speak or talk about what he was feeling because they knew it annoyed him. They would even let him rant for (literally, sometimes) hours on end about how much the people he dealt with that day annoyed him, or about how stupid they all were, or how he wished he could make them all just shut up or disappear for good. He was immeasurably grateful for this, and often showed it in the way of telling his stupid jokes freely, or calling everyone by their own nicknames, or by offering to do something to help them out or dealing with someone who was inconveniencing them.

Joseph did often wonder, though, how they would feel about him if they knew about the thoughts that ran through his head or the things he did when none of them were around.

The first time had been an accident. It was back in high school, his sophomore year at an all-boys boarding school. There was a guy in his class that kept messing with him in the usual juvenile way- teasing, name calling, occasional shoving, scathing remarks, etc. - but Joseph did his best to ignore him. It got harder day after day, until finally he felt his mask about to break and skipped school for the day to go relax in the woods nearby. He found comfort in the quiet of the forest and enjoyed watching the birds that flew around and above the tree tops. Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on whom you asked), the boy from school came there too. He saw Joseph and kept antagonizing him until Joseph couldn’t take it anymore and lashed out, slamming his fist into the other boy’s head with enough force to send him reeling back into a tree. Joseph didn’t let up at that, though, taking out all of the anger and annoyance he felt not only for this boy, but for every person that he had to deal with at that school. He used his superior strength to practically bludgeon the unlucky boy into unconsciousness before wrapping his bloodied hands around his thin neck and squeezing until there was no pulse left beneath his large fingers. After the blood stopped roaring in his ears and his heart beat calmed down, Joseph realized that he felt BETTER. He probably should have felt guilty or sad or scared, but, no, he felt RELIEVED by what he had done- it was like he’d been bottled up until that point and now the lid had popped off and let all of the negative emotions out. It was so…so liberating. He easily disposed of the body by carrying it deeper in the forest and leaving it in an area that he knew from previous treks was frequented by all manner of feral beasts- even if the body was found, it would be too mauled to find a good cause of death- and washed up in a creek before heading back to school like nothing had happened at all. A missing person’s report was filed, but the body never turned up and Joseph felt practically giddy over how easily he’d gotten away with it.

The second time was not an accident. Nor was the third time. Or any of the now countless subsequent times that followed. Every time Joseph found himself feeling too pent up, he would find someone (usually a person that had annoyed him or inconvenienced someone he cared about) and get rid of them. It was second-nature to him by now. He was confident in his strength and abilities, was always careful not to leave any evidence behind, and disposed of the bodies in ways that meant they were never found. It was nothing personal most of the time, just a good way for him to relieve his stress.

Well, until recently that is.

Recently, over the past two years or so that is, Joseph has had fairly specific targets: the worthless, vile, loathsome whores that Caesar had involved himself with.

Caesar was Joseph’s closest and dearest friend, someone whom he could trust and confide in (aside from his secret activities, of course), and the person who could make Joseph feel the strongest emotions he’d ever felt in his entire life. They had met after Joseph graduated high school- he was taking advantage of a study abroad program at his new college to visit Italy with his adoptive uncle, Robert Speedwagon, when Speedwagon introduced the two by saying their grandfathers were close friends. To say they didn’t hit it off immediately would be a gross understatement. They ended up arguing and fighting constantly, Joseph finding himself incredibly annoyed by Caesar’s casanova tendencies and haughty attitude to the point of the two constantly getting into physical altercations. But, much to Joseph’s surprise, the annoyance he felt wasn’t like it usually was with other people, and when they fought he didn’t actually want to kill Caesar (just wipe that smug look off of his face for a bit). Caesar was witty, clever, and was able to toss back both punches and quips just as good as the ones that Joseph gave him. It was the first time Joseph found himself thinking of someone as an equal.

After the initial fighting subsided (that took a couple of weeks), the two got to know each other better and ended up bonding over several things they had in common. A big conversation that seemed to cement their still fresh bond was when they began talking about family- Joseph opened up about never knowing his parents since they died before he even had the chance to know them, and Caesar, in turn, told Joseph about how his own father left his family when Caesar was just a child and how he had run away later and joined a street gang, losing touch with the rest of his family and later witnessing his father dying in a horrible traffic accident after pushing Caesar out of the way of an oncoming car without even recognizing his own son. While neither Caesar nor Joseph had acknowledged it at the time, that was when the bitterness between them evaporated and they truly became best friends. They still wrestled and hit each other and traded quips and barbs back and forth, but it was with a sort of tenderness born of camaraderie and playfulness rather than any ill-will towards one another.

When it was time for Joseph to head back to America, he found himself close to tears at the idea of being away from his new friend and started to consider locking Caesar in his luggage to take him with him (thankfully he realized that would have been a bad idea and resulted in serious injury or death for the poor Italian man). Instead, the two exchanged contact information and a teary, heartfelt embrace at the airport. The next year was filled with constant texting, emailing, poking on social media, and web-camera chats as often as the two could with the time zone difference. Eventually, after saving up enough money between the two of them (and receiving generous combined early/late birthday and Christmas gift checks from Erina and Speedwagon), Caesar was able to move to America. When he saw the blond Italian stepping out of the crowded American airport, Joseph had been so excited that he ran through the crowd, not caring who got knocked over in the process, and picked Caesar up in a tight hug and spun him around, both of them laughing like idiots the whole time.

Life got so much better for Joseph after Caesar joined him in New York. The two would often hang out at each other’s apartments for hours at a time, one usually sleeping over at the other’s place and having a few drinks while watching bad movies or just talking about their boring jobs or Joseph’s grad school classes. When they weren’t crashing at each other’s apartments or busy with work or school, they would either be hanging out somewhere like bookstores (Joseph sticking to his comics and Caesar picking out new novellas), bars, or spending time with Joseph’s family and Smokey (Caesar had already been unofficially adopted into the family like Smokey had, though, and he couldn’t have been happier about that).

Yes, everything in Joseph’s life was perfect with Caesar around…until he started dating. The first girl had been some cheap floozy Caesar had picked up at a bar while he and Joseph were out. Joseph had left for a few minutes to order more drinks at the bar, and, when he came back, some girl with too much lipstick and too little clothing was saddled up next to Caesar and the two were flirting back and forth. Caesar ended up excusing himself with her for the night, apologizing to Joseph even after Joseph gave him a smile and thumbs up while saying “Nice!”. Truthfully, Joseph was enraged and felt something completely new to him: jealousy. Who did that tart think she was? Intruding on his nice night out with Caesar, stealing his attention away, and looking so damn satisfied with herself just because Caesar wanted to spend a night with her. He found himself wishing that HE had been the one going home with Caesar that night, wishing that Caesar could have cast such a seductive look at HIM before taking him off to….oh…Joseph’s train of thought derailed slightly upon the realization that he WANTED Caesar. He NEEDED Caesar. After a few more drinks by himself, Joseph decided that he and Caesar would actually work out well if they got together- people already made jokes or came to the assumption that the two were dating, anyway, and Caesar obviously liked being around Joseph if he was willing to move to an entirely different country to be with him. Caesar MUST have liked him, right? Right. He just needed some help realizing it and then they could both be happy. Joseph just had to get rid of the obstacles in his way, as he always had…

The first girl was easy enough to dispose of, she was just a one night stand that Caesar didn’t really care enough about to call or check up on after their night together. He’d had a lot of dates that ended like that, so it was easy for Joseph to make sure those whores didn’t come back. The ones that proved a challenge were the women (and a few foolish men) whom Caesar showed genuine interest in and contacted frequently. Joseph tried to take the easier route when he could- he would use his affluent status as well as the nice income he got from his post-grad school career as a real estate investor to bribe those ungrateful louts into leaving Caesar alone and just kill the ones that refused. Many of them took the large sum of money that Joseph offered them, which made him feel both relieved and angered at the same time because they were essentially saying that his precious little Caesar was worth LESS than some stupid wad of cash or big check. How dare they?! Caesar was worth all the money in the world to Joseph! Sometimes he would lose his temper and end up killing a few of them anyway after they broke up with Caesar. Then, every time one of Caesar’s whores (Joseph refused to think of them as anything else) stopped contacting him or broke things off with him, Joseph would be there to comfort him with a shoulder to lean on, a warm embrace, a bright smile, and some shitty jokes that never failed to cheer the other man up. During these times, Joseph would try to subtly flirt with the Italian man and get closer to him, but Caesar would just laugh it off and things would return to the status quo between the two…at least until the next person caught Caesar’s eye and the cycle would repeat itself again…

Seeing that just getting the obstacles out of the way wasn’t enough, Joseph decided he needed to form a more concrete plan to win Caesar over. After subtly (to him, at least) asking his grandmother for advice on what people normally did when they had strong feelings for someone else and wanted to win them over, he discovered that the best methods were to spend time together, give gifts, be generally charming with praise and compliments, and, as Erina had phrased it, to “be a man and just tell him how you feel already”. Joseph had no idea how she realized the person he was talking about was male- there was absolutely NO WAY anyone could tell he liked Caesar, after all- he was a master at hiding things.

While her advice was useful, it was tricky at first to implement it. The two of them already spent a lot of time together, and it would feel awkward to suddenly show up at Caesar’s door with gifts without it being a holiday (and telling him outright seemed out of the question at the moment). Then, a brilliant idea occurred to him- what if he and Caesar LIVED together? That would be the most time they could possibly spend together, and then Joseph would get plenty of opportunities to compliment and praise him every day, and he could bring random gifts home with him without it being awkward, and-and- AND THIS WAS PERFECT!

With this in mind, Joseph set the first part of his brilliant plan into motion. He brought up the subject of the two of them sharing a nice apartment together one night over drinks, but Caesar seemed a bit hesitant at the idea of having a roommate, saying he wouldn’t want to bother Joseph if he brought over any “guests”. Joseph felt a jolt of rage at the idea of one of Caesar’s whores coming over with him, but hid it well behind a loud laugh and dismissive wave. Caesar said that he would think about it, however that seemed like it would take too long, so Joseph decided to speed up the process. After paying a hefty bribe to Caesar’s boss to (politely, of course) let Caesar go, and then doing the same to any other companies Caesar applied to so they wouldn’t consider hiring him, it wasn’t long at all before Caesar’s bank account was running low enough that he could no longer afford his own apartment. Then, like the “good friend” he was, Joseph insisted that Caesar stay with him until he got back on his feet and helped him move in with Joseph.

The second part of his plan had been proceeding smoothly for a few months now. Joseph spent every bit of time he could spare at home with Caesar (when he wasn’t out killing anyone that caught the blonde’s eye or bribing more companies into not hiring him, that is) and found every opportunity to praise his precious little Caesar. Mundane tasks such as cooking, cleaning, or hanging out turned into conversations about how much Joseph loved Caesar’s authentic Italian cuisine (which he really did, the man could put most restaurants out of business in Joseph’s opinion), or how he admired Caesar’s organization skills, or how funny or clever Caesar was. Joseph also brought home gifts for Caesar at least once a week, varying the gifts from simple things like a bottle of Caesar’s favorite wine that he “just happened to pick up at the store” to expensive, thoughtful gifts like the brand new top-of-the-line smart phone and laptop that Joseph gave him “to make finding a job easier”. The slightly embarrassed smiles and the sparkle in Caesar’s eye whenever Joseph gave him something always left him feeling warm all over and gave Joseph a tingling sensation deep in his torso, making every cent and bit of effort Joseph spent on him worth it.

Now, though, now would be the culmination of the previous two years of careful planning and strategic bribery: He would confess to Caesar.

Joseph knew from his previous attempts at flirting with Caesar that being subtle wouldn’t work, but it still felt like it would be awkward to just bring it up out of the blue. So, Joseph decided that the best course of action would be to bring it up after a more…intimate encounter between the two. It made sense in his mind- people were usually influenced by their bodies’ instinctive desires such as hunger for food, desire for dominance, and lust for the flesh. Ergo, if Joseph could satisfy Caesar’s physical needs, it would show him how well they would work out together in the long run. Again, it made sense in his mind, even if it might not seem logical to someone else.

To make sure that Caesar couldn’t turn him down and would give him a chance to try, Joseph got his hands on some interesting little pills after doing a bit of research on the dark web (something he frequented quite regularly for inspiration and ideas, as well as supplies, over the years). According to what he’d read about them, the drugs were highly concentrated aphrodisiacs laced with ecstasy to induce a mild sense of euphoria and mixed with an agent similar to rohypnol that made the user more prone to suggestion, but without the short term memory loss (he wanted Caesar to be aware of what was going on, after all, or what would be the point?). Also, unlike rohypnol, this drug was meant to be taken willingly by dropping it into a drink- beer was recommended over hard liquor for it- where it would fizz up and change the flavor of the drink. This meant that he would have to get Caesar to try it willingly, that way he couldn’t later say that Joseph spiked his drink and turn the mood sour. Of course, Joseph wouldn’t take the drug himself, he would need to keep a clear head to make sure he did everything right, he would just put some similar looking seltzer tablets in his own drink to keep up the illusion- that way they’d be on equal footing in Caesar’s eyes.

‘Yes,’ Joseph thought, ‘This plan is flawless. Soon my beloved Caesarino will be all mine~<3’

Next Chapter->

[mylivejournalsucks]

College.

When i was Internet f****s briefly in my twenties, I got invited to speak at a bunch of colleges. And by “speak” I mean I was there to dole out advice to the students, make them lol, and eventually get drunk with them at an all-expenses paid dinner. As it turns out, colleges have lots of money allocated for speakers and whenever they’d ask me what my rate was, I’d be like, “????” I was so fucking clueless. I didn’t have an agent. The fact that these colleges were flying me out and offering to put me up in a three-star hotel made me feel Mariah Carey-level glamorous. I didn’t need any extra money! (JK, I asked for $500.)

Some of the schools were local, like Pace and FIT and Princeton. I found Princeton to be the darkest and also the chicest which…isn’t it always that way? The school had these things called dining clubs, which basically acted in the same way a fraternity or sorority would. You’d “rush” them and PRAY for an invite to the most exclusive club. And you guys? This just determined who you ate dinner with every night. It was like a non-negotiable high school cafeteria! Can you IMAGINE a more miserable scenario?!

I took the train in from the city and they put me up in this gorgeous house on campus that was reserved for their speakers. GORE VIDAL stayed there, you know? And then me, a dumb-dumb who wrote listicles about your crush texting you back. Anyways…. the people who asked me to speak ran the radio station. Princeton students are mostly preppy Patrick Bateman psychos but there were like five hipsters there who listened to Fleet Foxes and of course they were the ones who brought me.

After my talk, we went to the radio station and I watched them get wasted. I drank too, of course. Someone fed me an artisanal jello shot they had made in their dorm room. D.I.Y meets D.U.I., honey!

Most of the students confessed to me that they wanted to do something creative for a living but were stuck studying something practical like accounting or business. I had such a fondness for them. At 25, I was only a couple years older but there is NOTHING like the bubble of college. You don’t realize how small your world really is until you’re in The Real World and watching a girl in a headband drink a handle of Smirnoff vodka in an on-campus radio station while talking to you about how much she hates her stats class and how she doesn’t know if she’ll EVER get to lead the life she wants. I envied that naivete, as I was already a j-j-jaded BITCH.

Next, I flew to the University of Vermont. If Princeton was oppressive and tough, Vermont, was an organic farm-to-table cloud of relaxed whatever.  I loved it. My host took me on a tour of their gorgeousssss campus and after my talk, a whole bunch of us went out for the most delicious meal I’ve ever had in my life and then we may have went to a bar afterwards. It’s hard to remember the specifics of these visits but I can recall the feelings and they mostly were, “How did I get here? Do these people realize I have a drug problem and, like, four friends in New York and that my career is my boyfriend?”

It was true. My career was chic but my personal life was barely breathing by Duncan Sheik. Work kept me going, though. To have ambition, a drive, and goals, especially when a guy hadn’t touched my dick in three years and some of my friends were sociopaths with nice haircuts, it saved me.

Next, I went to Yale with the Thought Catalog crew: Brandon Gorrell, Stephanie Georgopulos and Gaby Dunn. We were there to talk about….sex? It was sex week? I don’t know, babe. It doesn’t matter because five people showed up and we were just like, “Do you want to go out for pizza?” So we did. I ADORED the girl who brought us to Yale. Her name was something chic like Demetria and she was from LA and her brain just had a nice, fizzy, snap crackle pop quality to it.

We went to the “after party” for our event and this boy in purple pants was circling me. The biggest mindfuck about this time in my life was having these fanboys who wanted to hook up with me, while I was literally invisible to strangers in New York. I was operating as either Ryan Gosling or Danny DeVito circa the Penguin mixed with Shrek and a splash of John C. Reily.

Anyway, this guy finally comes up to me and, boy oh boy, is he cute. He looks like he was made in a twink factory! We start talking—about what, who the fuck knows—before hightailing it to a gay bar. After a few drinks, I tell him I’m going to leave because my self-esteem is so low it’s basically underground. He kisses me right then and there because he’s young and cute and isn’t held back by anything.

We go back to his dorm room. He strips down to his underwear with such ease it stuns me. I’m three years older than him and it would take me two days, ten glasses of wine, a pitch black room and a NDA for me to have the courage to take off my shirt.

“Whoa, whoa,” I yell. “Um, I think we’re going too fast!”

Twinkle looks at me confused. “I’m just undressing before I get into bed. I can’t even hook up tonight. I’m going to DC early in the morning…”

Oh. Sigh of relief.

Are you confused by my attitude shift here? That makes two of us, hon. All I ever craved in my early twenties was sex and connection but the second they were offered to me, my bones would turn to crushed ice and I’d run away screaming.

“Can we cuddle though?” he asked.

“Sure.”

So we did. We cuddled. We made out. I grabbed his ass underneath his boxers and it felt perfect and tight. Then:

“Okay! Goodnight!” Twinkle turned off his light and continued to spoon me. Meanwhile, I lay there in the dark, terrified, wanting to leave, planning an exit strategy.

The hardest part about being that age was not understanding my psychology. My brain was like this unknowable freak on a leash. It was a saboteur who wanted to see me end up alone and I was five years, one disability confession, and 10,000 hours of therapy away from figuring out why.

Sitting there in the dark, getting spooned by a boy who found the whole thing to be so….uncomplicated, so easy, breezy, so natural, magnified my feelings of defectiveness. He probably did this all the time! He probably took boys home, fucked them, promptly fell asleep, and then walked them to their dorm room the next morning and kissed them goodbye.

How?

How do people do these things like they’re NBD? How are they not compelled to run away to Netflix and pizza and drugs? Don’t they know that it’s easier?

The reality was that it wasn’t easier. Keeping yourself alone is a full-time job everyone wishes they could get fired from.

“I have to go,” I said. Fantasies of me being back in my hotel room alone and not having to make small talk with a stranger in the morning were slow dancing in my head.

Twinkle jolted awake, already dozing off because, again, IT WAS THAT EASY FOR HIM!

“Huh? No. Just stay here. I’ll walk you back in the morning.”

“Nope. My train leaves early in the morning. It just makes more sense to leave now.”

He outlined a very logical argument where, actually, it made sense for me to stay at his place. ( Fucking Yale kids.) But this was not logical. This was pure nutso emotion. And I was going to leave.

When I did, I’ll never forget how this boy looked at me. It was just total confusion. I wanted to be like, “I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. It’s just my evil brain holding me hostage again. XOXO?”

A few months later, I ran into him at a gay bar in New York. He came on to me and I was so embarrassed about what happened at Yale, so embarrassed that he may have seen just how unhinged I really was, that I shut down any possibility of a sequel.

There were other boys like him. Boys who gave me opportunities to experience something real and human, but my brain put up a Closed sign and kicked them out. Then, eventually people stopped trying.

These college visits highlighted just how all over the place I was. Getting flown to different places because people thought I had something worthwhile to say, had some kind of wisdom to impart when, in reality, I couldn’t do something as simple as spend a whole night at someone’s apartment.

The thing is, I really did believe everything I wrote, I really did believe I had something to say. Whether that was true or not seemed irrelevant because I knew that if I ever stopped writing, if I ever stopped turning to my work to make sense of my stupid rat poison brain, I would have nothing.

So I kept going. I kept writing my way out of the shame cave until eventually I was mostly out of it. It all sounds very self-helpless but it’s true!  So keep being honest. Never shut up. If you’re president of the “I Hate Myself” club  speak so loud you’re forced to resign. Your words and your work will never hurt you. THEY ARE YOUR FRONDS. Turn to them for guidance and help.

Also, be truthful about your life. I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again: once you own everything, no one can take anything away from you.

[teachanarchy]

A Nervous Wreck’s Disabled Guide to Stepping Up

Navigating dis/ability and anxiety in the call to action

It’s very easy to get overwhelmed. With so many actions, so many organizations that need your support, it’s easy to drown in the sea of I SHOULD/I CAN’T and find yourself shocked into inaction. There’s a lot of people who don’t know what to do. There’s a lot of people who are frustrated with accessibility issues surrounding some more common forms of resistance.

A lot of people are asking: how can I help? I’ve weathered a process to figuring out how I can help build community and fight for justice & I’ve gotten pretty good at it, so I’m going to share that process with you. I’m going to breeze through the list of steps, and then describe how I went though them to get where I am today. Okay, great: here we go.

A NERVOUS WRECK’S DISABLED GUIDE TO STEPPING UP:STEP ZERO: Give yourself a moment to breathe.STEP ONE: Make a list of what you’re good at.STEP TWO: Make a list of your limitations.STEP THREE: Make a list of people and organizations who need support.STEP FOUR: Make a list of people and organizations you are connected with.STEP FIVE: Put it all together.

CASE STUDY: ME

I’m going to use myself as an example: My body and my brain don’t work quite the same as most, and I get frustrated with my inability to just show up in the street to throw down, for example. After sober self-reflection and negotiation with my dis/abilities, I’ve been able to design a strategy where I can do work that matters to me, that helps others, and is actually working with my body instead of against it.

0.I find it easy to get overwhelmed and shocked into inaction by the weight of the world. First and foremost, I give myself permission to feel overwhelmed. I find the key to fighting panic is to accept the feelings and let the panicked thoughts run their course. I listen to my body. I take a long shower. I pray. I center myself, that I can remember what’s important and look to the future with an eye that is both critical and hopeful.

1.Once I’ve got a more level head, I write down a list of things I’m good at: I’m a writer. I am a great cook. I know basic carpentry and maintenance of a household. I’m good at internet research. I’m okay with public speaking but excel in one-on-one conversation. My faith in Allah and my passion for justice are assets. I am an empathetic person who feels very strongly in rising up for the disadvantaged and marginalized in the world. I write it down, because these things are critical to remember and having a physical copy is helpful for me to process everything.

2. I consider my limitations. I don’t place judgement on them; I accept my limitations for what they are. I write them down on paper: I cannot stand for long periods of time or march long distances. I cannot risk arrest. I can’t go to a venue that has flights of stairs without elevator or escalator. I spend maybe too much time looking at this list because it hurts and it’s easy to dwell on what I can’t do. I give myself space for the feeling. I understand that most romanticized forms of protest aren’t accessible to many. There are allies & accomplices who can risk facing down the pigs, who can march for hours to shut down freeways, who can put their bodies on the line for justice. Let those who are willing & able rise up to their ability. I’m no good to the movement if I’m dead or hospitalized and my access to doing the work is severely limited from behind bars; so I swallow my guilt when I see family on the news shutting down on Lake Shore Drive, and I get back to considering what I can do to help.

3. I write down a list of the people and organizations who need support. I try to be as specific as I can. This requires a bit of research. It’s easy to say refugees need help, it may take time to come around to these three organizations in my city are helping refugees and need support. I look at organizations who are doing good work — I find the donate page on their website.

4. Next, I write down the people and organizations I know. I consider my faith community. The local organizations I admire. I consider the people in my life who are doing good work: the brother who gives so much of his time to a refugee family struggling to get on their feet, the sibling doing suicide prevention work in the trans community, the sister who uses her car to give free rides for people going to medical appointments. I think about the communities I’m a part of who could be doing more to help others.

5.With everything written down, I can look at these four categories and start putting ideas together:

I can write well, but I can’t risk arrest at a march. Aisha is going, though, and she’s just down the street: I can write protest signs and hand them off along with some other important supplies (water bottles, vinegar soaked bandanas, anti-tear gas mix in spray bottles) & Aisha can distribute them at the march.

I can hold a marathon of cooking in my home kitchen (to help process my feelings, because I know cooking good healthy food will calm me down), and when it’s done I can package it up and donate some healthy halal homecooked food to the refugee family brother Chris has been supporting.

I have a little extra money this week. I can use it to patronize the immigrant-run business down the street and keep money in my community instead of giving it to corporate interests.

I can reach out to LGBTQ orgs in my city and educate on advocacy for Muslims. I can reach out to Muslim orgs and talk to them about strategies for trans inclusivity. Let’s start with e-mail or phone calls, and maybe it can develop in to some in-person discussion with local leaders.

I can commit 30 minutes every day to calling my senators and local representatives to make sure [x bill doesn’t pass, y bill does, the literal antichrist doesn’t get appointed to the supreme court, etc].

I have a lot of friends and family who can see the direction this country is headed, aren’t happy, and while they believe something should be done about it don’t know how to get involved. I can plan a potluck dinner from home to have friends and family over to raise money for that organization doing local legal support for immigrants and refugees. While they’re over I can teach my less-informed family about the importance of this work and help strategize how they can get involved, too.

I have a lot of connections, and a lot of organizing experience I could put to good use. I am going to get my friends together and help create a prayer space for marginalized Muslims and do what I can to empower others to build community together in a way that is safe, accessible and affirming for everyone.

That last one is maybe a bit grander of a direction than many may be willing to take it but this is the point I’m trying to make: in this process, you can’t leave any idea behind. You don’t have to do everything on your list. Just write out every possible idea that comes to your head. Start with the tiniest most basic good deed, the kind of thing you think any decent human being would do, and move your way up to those big-picture dreams you feel like you could help bring to life if the stars aligned in just the right way — because you may find one day that they have.

Be mindful of your limitations, but more importantly celebrate what you excel in.

Maybe you know how to knit! And you can host a knitting circle at your church to discuss an issue you care about.

Maybe you’re an artist! And can create advertisements and art in support of that organization you admire in your free time.

Maybe you’re a dank meme creator! And do um whatever it is that entails? Which will help somehow I’m sure of it.

Maybe your aunt is queen bee at the retirement center! And with a little help she can coordinate a senior call-in to your local representative.

It’s easy to feel overwhelmed. It’s also pretty easy to sit down and think about the ways you can contribute to the movement. We can make space for both, but if you want more help figuring out how to step up, I’m here. Lots of us are.

Peace & blessings,

m

[Madison Mahdia Lynn is a community organizer in Chicago and founder of Masjid al-Rabia, a women-centered LGBTQIA+ affirming organization providing spiritual care for marginalized Muslims. Masjid al-Rabia recently launched a fundraiser, & so here’s a tip: making a sustaining donation to local inclusive feminist Muslim organizers would be an extremely helpful & incredibly easy way to show up this afternoon. Just something to consider. Here’s that link again.]

[samtheflamingomain]

time to change (names)

I came out as a trans man in 2011. I legally changed my name on my 18th birthday from “Samantha Kathleen” to “Samuel Gabriel” just in time to have my new name on my high school diploma.

I’m going to have to get a new diploma.

For the second time in 5 years, I’ll be changing my name again. 

The one part of my name that I didn’t touch last time was of course my last name. If only I’d known that my entire family would disown me and I could’ve saved the paperwork.

Abrams is the name of a tank. It’s also the name of an abusive, disgusting piece of shit human being whose sperm resulted in my birth. I refuse to call him my father any longer, because he isn’t. He’s a monster.

It’s been a long time, and I’m finally ready to tell the story. So here goes, strap yourselves in.

It’s Thursday, February 9th at 2 in the morning. I’m manic. My mother birthgiver Lois is away visiting family. My father sperm donor Scott is asleep. It’s been days since I slept, and I can’t remember when Lois is returning from her trip. A brilliant idea comes to mind: perhaps her date of return is somewhere on Scott’s phone. So I look.

This is the last moment of my life “Before”.

The last person Scott had texted was not Lois, but Lisa. He’s not subtle. “Lois is away this week” “Come over” “Skip Bible Study and come over” “I’m bored” “It has to be tonight, she’s coming home tomorrow”.

I’m shaking and crying because I’d heard Lois accusing him of cheating before and every time I thought she was crazy. She wasn’t.

I need to take a brief interlude here to talk a bit about Lisa. Because I know her. So does Lois. She’s a family friend. A grad student at the University of Waterloo. A regular volunteer. A Bible thumper. In fact, while I was away at school last year, she needed a place to stay for a week. I let my parents offer her my room. My bed.

I never met her until Halloween of 2016. She wouldn’t look at me. I thought she was just shy. 

And, only because it’s relevant, I need to tell you what all these people look like. Scott is 50, has long grey hair, towers at a massive stature of 5′5″ and weighs a hefty 210. He’s average-looking, slightly on the ugly side. Lisa is 30, Chinese, long black hair and slightly overweight. But she’s pretty.

And why does this matter? Because when I showed Lois the texts, she told me there was absolutely no possible way that Lisa would want to fuck Scott. She “just knew”. 

I spend the last day in Scott’s presence desperately trying not to choke him to death. Lois will be home from her parents’ at 8pm. I start planning how I’ll help expose him and get Lois to kick him out.

But he’s a fucking snake. He knows how to play this game. He’s done this before. As soon as Lois gets home and sits down, HE mentions that Lisa came over. Just for an innocent visit of course. 

I join the “family” and absolutely grill him. When was that? What did they do? Why didn’t he mention her the THREE TIMES I asked if he’d done anything last night while I was out. He’s fumbling, sweaty and defensive. He had NO CLUE that I had the proof.

But it’s not enough. Lois, usually ablaze with suspicion at the slightest indication that he may’ve cheated, defends him. She’s so far in denial that she’ll accept any terrible, fallacious argument excuse he’s got. He focuses in on the fact that I looked at his phone. 

Now, Scott has always been a very, very angry man. He has a disability, and the medication he takes for it mellows him out a bit. He started taking it in 2008 - the same year as the last time he hit me. The first time, I was 7.

I’ve told Lois this but she always has a different excuse. “It was ages ago” “That’s not really him” “It’s just because he’s sick, he’s better now” and my personal favourite, “You were being a brat. You deserved it.”

I tell you this because, since 2008, I’d never seen him as angry as he was on February 10th at 10pm. He positively screamed at me to mind my own fucking business and get the fuck out. Terrified like never before, I retreat to the basement, lock my door, and huddle alone in my bedroom until noon the next day when Scott leaves for his once-a-week volunteer position at a local shelter. Where he met Lisa.

I’m ready, though. I’m equipped with tabs and tabs of webpages, all highlighted and organized to get Lois to believe me. But I don’t even get to open my laptop when I come upstairs. The first thing she says to me is, “He didn’t do it, and we’ve both had enough of your abuse and accusations.”

That’s right. I’M the abusive one. I’m so desperate and scared and I feel everything crashing down around me. The worst case scenario is upon me. I know she’ll never believe me. We fight, and I retreat to the basement.

I begin furiously hate-texting Scott, informing him that I literally will not stop until he admits it and leaves. He calls me.

I run upstairs while I’ve got him on the phone. He admits it - just before I reach Lois and put it on speakerphone. He talks his way out of it, of course. And because she’s been under his spell for 30 years, it doesn’t take a whole lot to convince her that I’m lying, misconstruing and/or inventing his words. 

I’ve been abused and gaslit so long that I can’t take it anymore. Lois is convinced by Scott’s “argument” that I’m the problem, I should’ve minded my own business, and now I’m ruining the “family”. I’m too mentally ill to know what I’m talking about. I’m psychotic - says him. In actuality, I’m just fucking pissed.

Lois is completely on his side. She’s hysterically screaming at me to pack my shit and leave or she’s calling the cops to have me committed. Because I’M psychotic. I head downstairs to pack. 

As I’m doing so, Scott calls me again to tell me he’s coming home “to talk about this”. 

“Talk about what, how you’re a psychopath cheating piece of shit?” I inquire curiously. 

“People have affairs all the time, it doesn’t mean it’s your business.” Another admission of guilt.

“Well Lois just kicked me out, so it’s my business now.” I hang up. Just as I’m ready to leave, he walks in the door. More abuse, more gaslighting, more lying. It ends with Lois wailing at me to get the fuck out of her house before she calls the cops. I’m more than happy to oblige, and head for the front door.

They have a small enclosed mudroom outside the front door. He gets me alone there, between me and the way out. “You don’t have to be like this. You just have to learn to mind your own business, and you can stay.” He’s extremely intense. If I wasn’t so pissed, I would’ve been terrified.

I push past him, tell him he’s a piece of shit, and run out the door, flipping him off as I run down the street.

I spend the next 4 days at friends’ houses. By Monday, I’m completely out of energy, money and hope. Lois will not hear me. She doesn’t even believe me when I text her from the hospital on Monday night. I was brought in via ambulance with several suicide notes written at a friend’s house while she was asleep. She woke up just in time to call 9-1-1.

I spend the next 26 hours in a torture chamber known as the Extended Assessment Unit, a part of the hospital. Unable to sleep, I enjoy the full depths of a psychotic episode from inside my “bedroom.” They won’t sedate me no matter how much I’m screaming and crying from the hallucinations.

Exhausted, I pass out for two hours. When I wake up, a nurse gives me a phone and a list of shelters to call. After 8 hours of calling shelters and not being fed, I’m discharged with nowhere to go. None of the shelters have a bed for me, and neither does the hospital.

I stay at a friend’s for one more night. I wake up so extremely suicidal that I run outside and look for a busy road to lay down in. Friend calls 9-1-1, cops arrive and cuff me for my own safety. They take me back to the hospital.

This time I don’t even get a bed, I didn’t even see a fucking doctor. I’m only there 4 hours and they release me. Both times, I didn’t even see a fucking psychiatrist. I’m Bipolar, and on no meds because my psychiatrist is a fucking idiot. And they don’t care.

Sitting in the hospital lobby crying, I eat my last meal. My body is so tired and sick that I throw it right back up. I have no more friends to stay with. I have no more hospitals that might want to save my life. I text Lois her congratulations. She won. He won.

She’s still pissed at me, tells me to stop being so dramatic and grow up. I’ve texted her everything that I’ve been going through, and she thinks I’m lying about going to the hospital, but she also “hopes I can get the help I obviously need.”

I sit at a bus stop in the cold for about two hours before Lois finally breaks. “Please don’t do anything stupid. I’ll come and get you.”

She’s rolling her eyes as I drag my lifeless body into her car. She thinks I’m faking. “I’ll put you in a motel for a few days. Find a place to live. Don’t say I never help you, I spent my whole life trying to help you and all you do is abuse me in return.”

Night one at the motel is sleepless. I’m exhausted but can’t sleep, I’m starving but can’t eat without it coming back up seconds later. I’ve been pissing from my ass for three days. My body is shutting down. I call a crisis line, which refers me to a soup kitchen all the way across town.

I manage to get on the bus and into the kitchen. It’s 8am, and they serve a meal at 11:30. I leave, sit on the sidewalk and start bawling, taking short breaks to wretch and exude stomach bile into the snow.

That’s the last thing I have a solid memory of. I vaguely remember calling Lois and being picked up. She took me back and bought me a salad. I eat, manage to keep it down, and sleep for 6 glorious hours, the longest I’d slept in a month.

I wake up the next day, Saturday, February 18th. I start crying - because I’m HAPPY. For the first time since I was 4 or 5, I felt an emotion that I could recognize as happiness.

This is long enough as it is, so I’ll save my newfound happiness for another post (several posts, actually). I’ve got enough food to last me until my next disability check. I’m looking at an apartment tomorrow. I’m so incredibly ready to get better.

I’ll take Lois’ guilty-ass “help” but it doesn’t change the fact that she kicked me out and called me a liar. I will never forgive her. I actively look forward to Scott’s impending demise because he is a literal psychopath with no redeeming human value. I pity Lois, but she’s made her bed and now she’ll be lying in it for the rest of her miserable life.

So to come full circle, I’m changing my last name. I have no family left, no maiden names to take. I’ve been thinking intensely for the past few days, and I finally found the right name.

When I lived in France for a semester I lived with a loving, kind family, la famille Sansoucy, which translates to “without worry”. I can’t think of a more perfect description of my mind, nor a family more worthy of my respect. 

It is my utmost pleasure to introduce myself. I am Samuel Gabriel Sansoucy. And I am going to finally get better.

[j-kaiwa]

Discussion Article April 20th

School rules in Japan offer harsh lessons in mindless assimilation

“You may not put more than three pencils in your pencil box/ If you wish to speak in class, raise your hand forward at a 70-degree angle/ No going to the toilet in groups/ You must finish using the toilet within seven minutes/ Use no more than 30 cm of toilet paper each time/ Even if parents or siblings, males and females must not walk together on the street/ Meals must be eaten in the following order: milk, bread, main course.”

The lyrics (my translation) to Japanese joke-rocker Tatsuo Kamon’s “Honto ni Atta Kowai Kosoku,” a song about school rules, might seem funny until you get to the chorus: “These were real school rules/ bizarre school rules/ scary school rules.”

Japanese schools still have enough odd rules to fill a book. Literally. “Henna Kosoku” (“Strange School Rules”), published in 2011 by the Strange School Rules Study Group, is a compendium of craziness from middle and high schools across the country: students who sneeze more than three times must leave the classroom and visit the school nurse; no using foreign words in class; everyone must applaud when teacher enters the classroom; school uniforms must be worn any time a student is more than three phone poles away from home; gatherings of three or more students are prohibited; making eye contact with students from other schools is forbidden; no speaking with an accent or in local dialect; no whistling at school. There’s also my personal favorite, “No going within 3 meters of the area of a playing field that bears a curse.”

School rules are deadly serious, however, as their enforcement by teachers who should know better is a tremendous source of stress to students. Pupils who are marked by teachers as nonconformists may be subject to constant harassment — “guidance” — for minor infractions, such as having hair touching their ears or the wrong color socks. This drives some children to tōkōkyohi (truancy) and a few to suicide — that number is small but steady enough for there to be a Japanese term for the phenomenon: shidōshi (death from school rule-related “guidance”).

While the refrain in Kamon’s song speaks in the past tense, according to a survey discussed in “Burakku Kosoku” (“Dreadful School Rules”), a recent book edited by critic Chiki Ogiue and Nagoya University professor Ryo Uchida, more people in their teens report having negative experiences with school rules than those in their 20s, 30s or 40s. In other words, some Japanese middle and high schools are apparently becoming less progressive in recent years rather than more. Educators, it seems, are following broader social and political trends of trying to deal with a complex world by retreating into the past and the security of enforced conformity.

Kōsoku (school rules) were in the news last year when an Osaka high school student brought a lawsuit challenging her school’s demand that she dye her naturally brown hair black. Ogiue and Uchida’s book reveals much suffering due to coiffure-related rules. Many schools prohibit the dying of hair or perms, unless your hair is not black or is naturally curly, in which case you must dye or straighten it. Some schools may allow students to get by with some form of Official Proof of Naturally Deviant Hair, but individual teachers may still pressure them to assimilate, conformity — everyone looking the same even if they aren’t — seems to be the goal. Even those blessed with “normal” hair may find themselves constantly badgered with it being a few millimeters too long or not kept properly.

Fashion police

Attire is another area where control freak educators can have a field day. Skirts must be a certain length, socks a certain color — uniforms must be completely uniform. The enforcement of these rules can range between creepy and a form of child abuse. Creepy in that a number of young women in Ogiue and Uchida’s book report some type of sexual harassment in the form of teachers — sometimes male — checking the color of their underpants or bras, and criticizing them for noncompliance. Child abuse in that some schools still require children to be pointlessly cold in the winter — girls must wear skirts but not stockings, scarfs or warm undies prohibited. Asinine prohibition about the use of sunscreen — even in the summer — is another example where school rules are actually harming children’s health.

Rules can also impose a significant financial burden on struggling families. Schools with rigid requirements on hair length or color may also prohibit taking care of the problem at home; children subject to “guidance” for hair that touches their collar or eyebrows, or who need to dye their hair black may be required to prove they have gone to a barber or a beautician by producing receipts for the many visits compliance required.

Similarly, school uniforms have their historical roots in two goals, one admirable another cynical though understandable. First, uniforms are supposed to free Japanese families from the economic burden of competing with their neighbors through what their children wear to school. Second, in the 1950s, requiring the purchase of uniforms was a reflection of economic policy, ensuring the nation’s growing textile industry had captive customers.

Today, some uniform policies have seen these goals twisted beyond recognition. Uniforms for some schools may cost hundreds of dollars and are available from a single supplier. Earlier this year a prefectural public elementary school in a posh part of Tokyo made the news by mandating Armani-designed uniforms that cost ¥80,000 a set. This is just the tip of the iceberg; students everywhere are captive customers who must buy whatever the school mandates, whether uniforms priced higher than a decent business suit or “approved” bicycles costing twice what they should. Highly specific requirements about uniforms or other required school supplies, and express prohibitions on using an older sibling’s hand-me-downs, stink of questionable arrangements between schools and the merchants who supply them.

Needless to say, school rules victimize students, particularly those who unavoidably fall outside the tight parameters of the uniformity they seek to impose. Rigidly gendered requirements as to dress, hair styles or conduct impose tremendous burdens on LGBTQ students, those with foreign ancestry, learning or physical disabilities or anything else that makes them different.

Assimilation or inspiration?

Ogiue and Uchida make it clear that it is a minority of schools that account for many of the problematic rules and their strict enforcement, particularly storied private schools that can justify absurd rules in the name of long-standing tradition. Nonetheless, public schools are among the offenders, and reading about the subject it is hard not to develop a general loathing of all the teachers — whether at public or private schools — who busy themselves with making children miserable through meaningless rules rather than filling them with curiosity and a desire to learn. How dare they call themselves “educators” or presume to be preparing children for a fulfilling life.

The schools have their own rationale, of course. Decades ago Japan experienced what (in Japanese terms) was a crisis in classroom violence and misbehavior. Thus, there is — or at least was, perhaps — something akin to a “broken windows” logic to strict rules and their enforcement; policing minor infractions theoretically helped deter more serious violations. Some schools may simply be responding to the expectation of at least some parents and other stakeholders, that expect them to instill discipline and make children submit to community norms.

“Community norms,” however, may just be a nice way of expressing the underlying purpose of some school rule regimes: Compelling young people to respect authority even if it requires becoming mindless (an odd result for an educational process). It probably helps if the rules lead to acceptance of a highly restrictive view of personal freedom: Anything not expressly permitted is prohibited. Numerous interlocutors in Ogiue and Uchida’s book report rules that were not even written down — principals simply declaring the rule to exist because they said so.

Foreign visitors frequently comment on how law-abiding Japanese people are, but this appearance may be more about complying with the mandates of authority figures, even when unspoken or inexplicable. Challenging the rules is pointless, since however written they will only even mean whatever the authority figure says they do.

School years account for a significant, highly formative portion of a person’s life. School rules thus have a significant impact on Japanese society as a whole. Overseas tourists tend to note how orderly Japan is, and the norms established by school rules and discipline may contribute to that. Yet they are not without cost: In addition to the suicides, physical harm, psychological stress and trauma that some report in response to the rules, the regulations themselves sometimes kill children. In 1990, a school in Kobe was enforcing a tardy policy by having teachers counting down the seconds until start time through a bullhorn before slamming it shut when the chimes rang. They didn’t notice one girl rushing to be on time for class and slammed the gate on her head, crushing her skull and killing her.

Whatever they might arguably bring to society, mindlessly articulated and enforced school rules render children something less than human, their feelings and thoughts immaterial, and their health and emotional well-being secondary to some unspoken greater goal. Anyone who wants to talk about children’s rights in Japan should spend time taking a good hard look at the educational system for clues.

[jatamansi-arc]

as of today, i no longer have any biological siblings. also, uh, if anyone asks how i was conceived, i’m just going to say that the devil was likely involved. i’m done, officially, with my dad’s side of the family.

if you’re new, my mom almost died last week. here’s a caringbridge, it tells y’all about what’s going on. i’ve talked about it here, too, but there’s a lot of that. i guess some recent one are here and here, but long story: mom was in icu, almost died. bad shit all around. 

to make a long story very short before i put a cut in, i gave my sister a link to my caringbridge website. and some context? i told my dad to knock off his attitude earlier in the week, because he was being very rude to my grandmother and me and several other people.

then, uh. this happened today.

Me: Here's a CaringBridge for my mom, just fyi: www.caringbridge.org/visit/catkinson57

Sister:  Dad keeps me updated. I'll look at the site, but think I know enough between him and grama! Are you sure you can handle doing all this for your mom on top of trying to manage your own disabilities? Maybe she should have an advocate, a neutral person who can help her make life choices and care choices? That frees you up to do what you need to and she can get the help she needs to make sure she stays healthy. She can't be around a bunch of people who are gonna enable her right now so she can get healthy, or she might die Felicia. Like that scares the shit out of me. She needs some tough love. You need to just focusing on getting your stuff together so you can be stable and she needs to focus on learning how to do what she needs to do now with her current situation. I just don't know.

Me:  I am capable of handling it, and I'm capable of stepping back when I need to. Her social workers and care team have been a joke, so I have taken the reins when they haven't. I don't think Dad thinks I know what I'm doing but I have friends who are actually doctors who have hands on experience with this and they give me advice, too. I literally have about 4" of every single doctor note that I read every day. The only thing I don't have is her medication list yet and I'm getting that tomorrow. I am the furthest thing from enabling, either. I was the first one who suggested sepsis because I could tell from her low grade fever and delirium, but wasn't taken seriously. I'm usually, hilariously enough, more right than I'm wrong. I have a really natural talent for medical work. I just don't have the stamina because of the Ehlers Danlos. And thankfully, despite the stress, I manage to stay disassociated just enough to stay objective but not like... robotic? Enough to function and then to let it out when I need to. But I'm actually the hardass, lol. Once she's in the hands of someone I trust, I will lighten the reins. I haven't met anyone who has given me the impression they deserve it yet. Once she's back in homecare and gets a good nurse or two I'm familiar with here, that will be good. And a local case manager who can meet with her like I have with Nadja, who is actively working on her case and paying attention. I got sick for four days and couldn't get out of bed and she nearly died, so that definitely isn't going to happen again. Sister:  Ok Felicia. It's in your hands. And the enabling I am speaking of is people handing her mozzarella sticks and chicken nuggets when she is supposed to be on a liquid diet. These are the things that are going to keep causing set backs, along with her own seeming unwillingness to take care of herself the way she needs to so she doesn't get infections, i can't. I'm out. You and your brother have a lot in common. My hands are up.

Me:  So, fun fact about the food: I didn't give it to her. Nicole was visiting and told by the nursing staff erroneously that mom could have solid food at that point Nicole let her have 1-2 of each of them. I had nothing to do with it and literally didn't hear about it until my mom jokingly told me a day later that they dun goofed. 

Also, she does take care of herself to not get infections. Her PICC line was infected by the care facility's substandard care. The hematoma ended up being an abscess that had not come to the surface.

How would you feel if someone was treating you this way after something similar? Dad has not been nice to me about any of this, he doesn't listen to me about anything I say about her delirium, for example, because he may talk to her several hours after the medication kicks in. He doesn't hear the frantic calls in the morning begging for help when she was hallucinating. It is incredibly frustrating not to be taken seriously.

Sister:  Felicia, I can't even read this. Everything turns into being about you. Here's my point I was getting to yesterday, if you are capable of taking care of your mom and yourself with your own disabilities you are able to work and not be ripping off the social security system. In yesterday's message you listed all these things you are qualified to do, yet you can't work to provide for yourself, you spend your moms money all Willy Nilly, and you let people hand her mozzarella sticks and chicken nuggets knowing god damn well it could send her right back down the hole and everything has to start over again. You have zero training as a mental health practitioner, can I see the schooling? Or as a health care practitioner, definitely need school from that. I'm sure allbthr online reading to study up on symptoms to play the ssi system has helped you understand mental health better but does not qualify you as a mental health practitioner. If she was being taken care of properly she wouldn't be having hallucinations, she has NO REASON to be taking psych meds, and a huge part of me wants to call social services and report elder abuse. Your mom needs an advocate who is only concerned about her. You have turned every single thing about this into it being about you, you needing this and that, cable bills. Woman, I have been out of work over a year with a legit injury that causes me so much fucking pain that getting trough a day with just a small reduction is amazing, I need to essentially have my entire spine fused. But I ain't running around asking everyone to pay my bills and scam systems. If you can't take full time card of your mom, make all her appointments and do everything she needs, you can work. And they will even PAY you for it, it's called home health care.

Your mom raised me. Your not gonna convince me of some bullshit and keep skirting around the issue. If she was being taken care of properly and nobody was giving her food she shouldn't have she wouldn't have just about died and be where she is. If that's the kind of care your providing it's sub standard. Makes me think you don't care if she loves or dies. I would smack THE FUCK out of anyone who even tried to hand her food, she ain't supposed to have it. It's like taking care of a kid in the way such as you know they want it but it's not good for them so you have to say no. I'm getting super mad now, I want to come speak face to face, but I would lose my temper. I don't go there and visit because I don't want to be around either you or Nicole, you both just bleh, gross.

Now I'm going to do what I need to to take care of my Dad, whom you seem to be carrying on with, and if he has another heart attack because you wanna play miss know it all and keep not listening to everyone else because you are miss know everything, just like Larry, then I'm really gonna be pissed. Do you know you could be reported for spending your moms money? Get your shot together, stop arguing with everyone and pretending you have a phd in everything, and do what's right by your mother and stop arguing with my fucking dad. If you can't say anything nice keep your mouth shut. They are all trying to help YOU, to help YOUR mother, whom at this point I think you don't care lives or dies, we all love her, grama barb raised your mom from 14. I'm sure the love she feels for cheryl would be much like that of a mothers love for her own child. Just fucking stop. Everyone keeps calling me and I have stayed out of it til today, but tomorrow I can start making some calls to social services and see what can legally be done cuz all this back and forth your doing with everyone just to try to prove your right, just like Larry, ain't helping mom, that's only Felicia wanting pity cuz poor her she's got all these weird diseases nobodies ever heard of and ptsd cuz of a lil break in, yet you only seem to be affect at the mention of the word JOB. Go to any weird costume festival and party it up tho.... sick.

Requirements to call yourself a mental health practitioner. I know you have none of this schooling. I will be reporting this. Stop telling people you are qualified to do that!!!

Me:  I never said I was a mental health practitioner. What I said was that mom's delirium diagnosis and Zyprexa was provided by a mental health practitioner. Dad is like, not telling you correct information. I am not kidding you. I can not repeatedly emphasis this. Also, you cannot keep repeatedly being me up and then tell me I am making it about myself. That's gaslighting, Joy. Cut it out.

Also, I didn't spend my mom's money 'Willy nilly.' I used it to buy her supplies and to visit her in the hospital?

and karma apparently bit her in the ass fairly quickly after this happened, because she was called about five hours after all this happened and was notified her biopsy came back and she had breast cancer. sucks, but you kind of just told me i was faking my illnesses, am allergic to working (odd that i have two jobs and she has none), said my break-in was minor (I WAS ALMOST FUCKING STRANGLED TO DEATH BY A COMPLETE STRANGER WHO WAS DRUNK), compared me to my biological half-brother (her full sibling) who is a fucking child rapist and who i want nothing to do with WHATSOFUCKINGEVER and of course i wanted my mom dead so uh, well ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ 

sorry for ur cancer but ur still a fucking cuntcake in this instance, sry

but here’s some gems of mockery from my fb:

Sammy Plenskie (Me)

i am going to laugh really hard if she calls to report me to elder abuse because it's me, a 31 year old living very graciously with her 60 year old mom and her disabled 61 "uncle" (aka godfather) with lymphoma. and both of them are not, by any definition, "vulnerable."

my mother literally just told me twenty minutes ago that when her ltd came next week, i was under the order to go get the tattoo i wanted but only if i came and showed her immediately after.

like my mom is a biker, dudes. she could have fucking benched me before this happened.

Nicole ***

Well my bad this is bull shit I was told by one of the nurses Eric about her being on solid diet... so I apologize for any miscommunication and don't worry since it's such a big deal about me going up that and being a enabler I won't go back up to the hospital again... I will stay away

Sammy Plenskie 

I ain't mad about it at all, man. Shit happens. Like I said, both you and the nurse were under the impression she had been transitioned over and then were like OH SHIT WAIT CRAP like immediately afterwards. It happens. Joy is making it like you personally injected MRSA into the chicken nuggets and stuffed them into her otsomy bag while screaming "GET SEPSIS SO I CAN GET THE LIFE INSURANCE, BITCH!!!!!"

You were probably dressed like Dean Winchester, though. Because we're freaks who go to those weird parties where people dress up.

as opposed to those parties where... people get dressed up and drink just to get... oh wait

Sammy Plenskie 

Please remember that no matter what my sister says about you, at least you didn't reach your career's high point on the stage left of BJ's Liquor Lounge, okay.

Sammy Plenskie

I was going to say: [ Family Name ], care about money? THE [ FN ] LINE FROM WHICH WE DESCEND CAME OVER IN BOXES AND A LITTLE TOUCHED IN THE HEAD FROM THE PROCESS, AND LORD GRANTING US, WE SHALL NEVER RISE ABOVE OUR STATION. FOREVER WE SHALL BE POOR AS SHIT AND A CRAZY AS A BAG FULL OF BATS. IT HAS MADE US RESPECTABLE, MOSTLY. I, personally, know that I can punch you to the face with a dildo and you will take it like a champ without reporting my ass some human services division of the city. Who the fuck, even?

[houstonlocalus-blog]

When Free Speech Becomes Its Own Form of Censorship

A while back a friend of mine’s daughter wanted to start her own YouTube show about video games, and because I covered GamerGate for Houston Press and was an authority on how bad life for women can be in the online space, she asked me what I thought about it. I sadly told her that unless she wanted to have her daughter harassed and possibly stalked, it probably wasn’t a very good idea. She never made her show.

There are few terms that get misused more than censorship, except perhaps free speech. To hear some people talk these days, you’d think there was an actual PC Police storming through the streets trying to shut down the very concept of expressing thought, usually because they think liberals are fragile snowflakes unable to handle bad words.

But these folks never seem to question their own unending attempts at censorship that they dub free speech. To return to the GamerGate example, members of that group have literally spent years targeting people like critic Anita Sarkeesian, sending her highly-specific death threats nearly every day of her life, all for the crime of examining tropes in videogames through a feminist lens.

The goal was never to rebut her, though her harassment and the harassment of many others was often framed that way to make it palatable to the army of useful idiots whose numbers turn a standard image board raid into a national story. The goal was to silence her and make her go away. The fact that Sarkeesian disables comments on her videos and routinely blocks her attackers on social media, was all the proof those people needed that she was an enemy of free speech and artistic integrity.

The real motivation, though, was the weak-kneed fragility of speech that they puff out their chests and pretend to be fighting. There’s no censorship if a critic chooses to highlight expressions of misogyny in a piece of media. It is, in fact, the exact opposite of that, creating more content centered around the medium everyone claimed to love.

The doomsday scenario was that publishers and developers would fear dread at angry liberal gamers, and would proceed to pepper their games with content they considered “political.” Often this reached truly ridiculous heights, such as when they began screaming that Virginia was yet another example of this ominous specter simply because the main character is a black woman. That’s the level of cultish outrage that obsesses the absolutist free speech crowd; anything that even hints at diversity, no matter how banal, is treated like a culture war. God knows what nonsense is being spouted in response to three Triple A games this year having trans characters.

Discussing things like problematic language or lack of diversity in gamecasts does not promote censorship, even if developers decide to alter future content based on those discussions. Not every artistic idea, especially in something as large and complex as a video game, deserves to be expressed and applauded as beyond reproach. It’s not self-censorship if an artist decides to respond positively to criticism. It’s just another form of free speech. Assigning the label of “politics” to that evolution of the work is silly. There’s nothing inherently more political about wondering why a game doesn’t have more women than there is wondering about its resource management system.

We have to be free to criticize things, but that doesn’t include large-scale harassment, especially of marginalized people. I’m a lot less worried about whether the next shooter gets a gender or race change because the makers think it’ll get them diversity points than seeing another Jennifer Hepler get driven out of the industry because a bunch of entitled brats thought she should fear for her life because they didn’t like Dragon Age.

God knows I stir the pot myself in my various publications, and the harassment and ease with which it can be done takes a significant toll on my ability to create. When they turn up the volume, it turns mine down, and that is exactly their aim.

The problem with most people who have made free speech their raison d’etre is that their conception of it is stuck in the ‘90s, when we had panics that blamed violent media for school shootings. The enduring narrative that stuck around was that any discussion of the effect of media was the purview of the crazed moralists who simply couldn’t handle blood and tits in a video game. It’s a very “you’ll never stop rock and roll” sort of mindset, even though no official censorship of gaming ever came to pass or even really came close. Still, the message was clear; it was cool to be brutal and crass.

No, Grand Theft Auto didn’t turn people into spree killers, but the whole reason that the movement ever had any momentum is because there is a science behind it. Cultivation theory is a well-respected part of social science that covers everything from advertising to war propaganda, and whether or not playing a sexist or violent video makes you actively sexist or violent, denying that the media we consume affects our worldview is just silly. There’s been a lot of study on the subject, though people for whom their idea of censorship is Capcom deciding not to show R. Mika’s buttslap animation probably haven’t been keeping up.

Those people are predominantly white cishet men, a group accustomed to having their voices heard as a matter of course. They don’t think of their voices as being censorship for others because they don’t get shouted down, and virtually always have a forum to speak. Now they’re finding a lot more empowered groups who want a say in how things are in the world, and they don’t find your insistence on slurs and Nazi jokes to be the daring stab against the man like you thought it was back when JNCOs were a thing.

Free speech absolutists worry only about whether they can say something with as little consequence as possible. Calling Leslie Jones a gorilla on Twitter is their proof they are advocates for a cause. And they are; just not the one they think. What they’re advocating for is the silence of any idea that questions their unexamined worldview, and any indication that the ideas they might have about art and themselves might just not be worth much. They’re not worried people will stop making video games because a woman said mildly unkind things about a dead sex worker in Hitman. They’re worried because less and less people find dead sex workers in Hitman to be a desirable feature. Diversity and avoidance of misogyny is simply getting more popular with people, largely because of stellar critical work being done on the art form. In the marketplace of ideas (and I assume the creative minds of game makers wanting to expand their toolbox), the dreaded censorship so many accuse of trying to shut down creation is actually making more of it.

Criticism is crucial to the evolution of thought and art, and so are critics. It’s unfortunate that so many have used the wonder of the internet to attack critics, and that popular Twitter users amuse themselves with the forum to try and silence other voices. Often those voices end up muffled out of fear, and the assailant justifies himself by pretending free speech is at stake if he can’t say cunt whenever he pleases. The more vulnerable a person is, the less likely they will have the resources to fight back against an avalanche. Fear for your life should not be the price of speaking up, and the only reason these people don’t understand that is because it almost never comes home to roost for them. If your free speech is only free for you, it’s not actually that free.

When Free Speech Becomes Its Own Form of Censorship this is a repost