#not much triggers my dysphoria these days but THIS does especially when it just APPEARS with zero warning | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thunderheadfred · 1 month ago

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Im sick and crabby and don’t have a healthier outlet so I’m gonna a rant about a bunch of random shit okay? Cool

The world

Do I have to? It’s horrible. Every day it’s more horrible

Why is America like this

Why are all these powerful despots doing the shit they are doing

Why are literal children being exploded

Why is the earth on fire

Just stop

I think about Jesus a lot

Like a lot a lot

I’m not Christian but sometimes you just gotta think about Jesus

The fact that we gotta just like… do the day to day rigmarole despite the global panopticon broadcasting suffering directly into our consciousness, to the point that if you don’t take up volunteering or meditation or healthy religion or radical love you will in fact go insane

How do we fix it? Without becoming what we fight against

Jesus Jesus Jesus

Anyway. Breastfeeding

It’s ironic because I was so afraid of breastfeeding triggering body dysphoria. It’s triggered a lot of things, but not that

We have a bad latch, and I underproduce milk, probably because of my CFS

So whenever I try to breastfeed her, she ends up miserable and crying in a way you can only understand if you’ve been in this exact situation, and it feels like I am holding a knife and stabbing my own heart again and again

Because I can’t breast feed exclusively, we feed 50/50 formula and pumped breast milk, and she’s perfectly healthy and so so so happy, but I still feel like an axe murdering psychopath

These days I pretty much don’t directly breast feed her at all, and if you’d asked me before baby, I’d have thought that would be ideal. But no. I just feel guilt.

WHY DOES IT MAKE YOU SO SWEATY?? No one warned me about this, but apparently everyone gets postpartum sweats for like. months and months. it's so gross. I'm just moist. damp. wet. all the time. I thought I was going insane but no. it's just another one of those Pregnancy Things. thanks body

Child Free People vs. Pro Natalists

Why these new terminally online identity categories???

I didn’t get the idea of declaring myself “child free” before kids, even when I MYSELF thought I could never want kids

Calling children “parasites????” WTF unhinged

Calling childless people "psychopaths????" equally without hinge

Yes pregnancy is pure body horror but that doesn’t make it the BABY’S FAULT. A fetus is not some kind of malicious alien, it’s a human being in progress??? All human beings are consumers in nature but that doesn’t make us inherently evil, especially those of us who are the most tiny, ignorant, and vulnerable. A baby is just… trying to survive

Yes childbirth is transformative and awe-inspiring but why are a certain subset of rich imperialists so fucking gross about wanting to impregnate as many women as possible. Shut up until you can push the baby out yourself, then get back to me

Look. If you don’t want kids, don’t have kids? Don’t think about kids? Move on and solve world peace or something. Why is there a subreddit pathologically obsessed with hating children and shouting it loudly as part of their bio? I get that the world is full of horrors and it’s hard to imagine the future sometimes. “How could you bring children into the world” Yadda yadda. Climate change or WWIII or whatever existential threat appears tomorrow, every human being dies eventually. Death isn’t really an excuse to give up on the continuity of life writ large

but also? a declining population isn't the greatest threat humanity has ever faced, Elon you ketamine-addled incel shitface. It just means capitalism might break under the strain of the way we devalue and fail to care collectively for elders. even elders who currently HAVE children

You can just. Ignore children and live your life. Making it an identity reeks of insecurity, doubt, and a weird nihilistic doomed mindset

If the counterargument is “well parents make parenting their whole identity and that’s equally stupid and annoying” no it isn’t.

Unless we're talking about the equally deranged opposite end of the spectrum. Everyone is unhinged about kids these days, almost as if capitalism and individuation and the "nuclear family" have imploded the basic inter-generational human village that makes having children desirable and healthy for people on the whole

Having children is a huge amount of labor, never mind the emotional importance of family to uhhh most people? So yeah, it’ll be a huge focus for most. Whereas being childless is just. That. Focus on something else more interesting, since you don’t have to worry about kids. No need to make a thing of it. It seems counterintuitive. Don’t like kids? Stop thinking about them so much

For women especially, having an unnecessary hysterectomy or doing other damage to yourself seems so… self harm adjacent? You truly DONT know if you will change your mind (I did) but even more importantly, removing or altering your organs can have consequences on your hormones and quality of life. There are other forms of birth control that seem far less invasive and destructive. Your body your choice, always. But. These seem like unnecessarily harmful choices.

I’m not interested in confronting anyone about this trend which is why it is all behind a cowardly “read more” cut but I just find the whole aggressively child free identity mind boggling

Anyway back to thinking about childless MVP Jesus again

Jesus

Fuck. Did not expect having a baby to make me so conscious of Christ.

My unmedicated labor was a religious experience, so now I have to Deal With That

Still not Christian, but increasingly a fan of Buddy Christ

Christian nationalists need to get his name out of their mouths

Trump is the Antichrist. If not THE Antichrist, at least AN anti-Christian

How do we reprogram all these people who think they are heroic righteous saviors when they are about as violent and power seeking as it is possible to get

See “how to fix it without becoming the bad guy”? (Real Jesus had answers. Sorry MAGA, but most of them involve being forgiving, generous, vulnerable, introspective, or gentle)

They have so many guns

The idea that you could think Jesus is with you while you talk about rounding up migrants and killing criminals and hating your neighbor like. Jesus was very much not a fan of these things?? Jesus did not have an AK-47, he um. He rode a donkey.

Jesus liked to sit with kids under trees and wash feet and famously rejected power and wealth and kings and uhhhhh KINDA DIED ABOUT IT

LEAVE JESUS ALONE

I’m having a normal one, clearly

Here’s a happy baby

#incoherent nonsense #I slept very little and it shows

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sunhalf-a · 3 years ago

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below the cut is some talk about disordered eating and how it manifests in both vil and neige — the obvious trigger warnings apply. i also want to add that these are very based in my own experiences with EDs, so please don’t accuse me of talking out of my ass.

i’m going to use ‘disordered eating’ rather than ‘eating disorder’ mostly because i think it’s useful to describe the experience and behaviors more than the innate sickness, but they both do have eating disorders. i’m just going to be talking more on the behaviors than the causes, which seem fairly obvious — in both of their cases some of it is a dysphoria deterrent, especially with vil wanting to be read a fem person and all the expectations that come with that, and more than that it’s a result of being literally raised on the screen and having your outer appearance always, always matter so much.

anyway, with that out of the way — vil, ironically, indulges slightly more than neige does. ( i’m thinking of vil’s SR lab coat vignette specifically. ) that being said, it’s always done very carefully, and when she does ‘overeat’ she always makes sure to ‘zero it out’ by skipping a meal later, exercising more, or both. neige’s disordered eating, on the other hand, manifests as consistently low calorie intake; if he does have some kind of high - calorie snack, you can be sure it’s the only thing he’s eating that day. in the context of calories, you could say that vil’s method is “i’ve eaten 200 more calories today than i should, so i’ll burn 200 more calories while working out tomorrow” whereas neige simply does not go over his calorie limits, even if that means that one ‘high - calorie’ snack is all he gets for the day.

neither of their calorie limits are healthy, and you can be sure both are signifigantly below what they should be. vil has a stricter exercise routine, so their allowance is slightly higher; neige almost entirely depends upon not eating much and works out comparatively rarely. neither of them are prone to purging, but neige will if he ‘overeats.’

both of them are aware that this is Not Healthy — neige has been a part of ads and campaigns advocating for ED awareness! — but neither particularly feel like they have any choice in the matter if they want to continue being on screen, which they both badly do. vil especially strongly feels that her value is rooted primarily in being traditionally beautiful, so to gain any weight, then, comes at the risk of being seen as less valuable to others and thus less loved, and can trigger a lot of dysphoria. that her most important person is also very aware of their weight and notices ( and will tell him! ) when he gains does not help.

vil tends to dress in a way that draws attention to his toned figure and emphasizes how slender they are — there’s a sense that she’s not going through all this bullshit just to not have her hard work be acknowledged. neige, on the other hand, very rarely dresses in anything that isn’t loose — some of it’s a way to avoid dysphoria, but most of it boils down to feeling like a hypocrite if just how slim he is becomes apparent.

#✦ * vil — headcanon.#✦ * neige — headcanon.#disordered eating /

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werevulvi · 3 years ago

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I hope these show up in the right order. This kinda stuff is exactly what makes me feel lost about my transness. Like I was just trying to be nice and agreed with this person's post. I had no interest in being an asshole or arguing what bio sex, or even what butch, is. I was just declaring myself as a bio female because it felt relevant to the topic and how I relate to it. It amazes me how even the pro self-ID types are against self-ID when someone identifies in a way that doesn't suit their narrative, even when it's a trans person whose identity they deny.

They blocked me and I don't want anyone going after them, I just wanna rant. And not even about this specific post or person, but more so about trying to exist as a gender critical trans person in general. I've been thinking about that for days, weeks, perhaps months or even years already, so it's really not about this specific person. I guess it was just what triggered me to finally start writing.

I guess I feel like both most other trans people and most other gender critical people, view transness as incompatible with gender critical opinions, and like that makes me feel pulled in two opposing directions. But anyone of any ideology can be dysphoric and transition because it helps them cope. I don't think that my opinions, or my choice to hang out with radfems, means that I'm self-hating, or even that I'm going against the needs of my own trans demographic. My own trans demographic is just all too good at confusing wants with needs... generally speaking. I see sex and gender the way I do because it makes sense to me personally, and I don't even argue that it's necessarily the objective truth. I don't think there is such a thing. It's just my truth, my perception of the world.

That I can't make myself see myself as a man for real, despite my dysphoria and transition, doesn't mean that I think it's wrong to transition, or that my body is damaged by it, or that transitioning is useless. Because it's not. I love my transition and everything it has given me. I'm comfortable with my transitioned body. It deserves love, especially my love. And although I still struggle with some insecurities, I feel like I love my body. It's been... incredibly good to me. It's stayed very healthy, and even keeping up a strong immune system despite my smoking, self harm, careless sexual escapades, etc. I may still have a fraught relationship with being female, but as long as I transition, I seem to be managing it fairly well. Except then I have a more fraught relationship with society instead. Can't win, but that's life, innit?

I don't think either my transness or my political opinions are my real problem or ever was. I think it's society's constant fighting about trans people's genders, lives and choices, that makes me constantly cave in on myself. Can't handle the pressure.

It feels like it's only ever getting worse. Ten years ago my biggest concern was people not ever finding me attractive because I was turning myself into some kind of a freak, which luckily I was proven to be wrong about. Five years ago my biggest concern was nonbinary people trying to normalize asking people their pronouns, which made me fear that people would never leave me alone about my gender, unless I forced myself to be hyper-masculine, which I still worry about. Three years ago my biggest concern was having been stripped of my sex-based rights and dehumanized for how I had chosen to treat my dysphoria, which I still worry about as well, and now...

...my biggest concerns are being treated as a third gender, fetishistic predator who should be shoved away into gender neutral spaces, and I fear that one day medical transition will be taken away as an option to treat dysphoria if transness is continued to be rejected as a medical condition. My heart rate is ever increasing. Can I even realistically "just go on with my life" anymore? I feel compelled to do something, but I also feel like there isn't anything I can do. No matter how many people I try to "educate" about dysphoria and why transition is incredibly important, all the while being as humble as I can, I am seriously lacking behind the much faster spread of harmful misinformation.

Thing is, I do not blame gender critical people for spreading some of that misinformation. For example of trans women as fetishistic predators, which people apply to trans men when they still fail to understand that MtF is not the only kinda trans there is, or when we dare to be just a little bit feminine while passing as male. If anything, I blame the true sources of such harmful claims, which slowly increase my anxious heart rate, over years, turning into decades, of living as openly trans. I blame opportunistic men who pretend to be trans women for gaining access to women's spaces, be it prisons, spas, shelters, sports, what have you, when they cannot possibly be dysphoric judging by how happily they swing their dicks around women as if it's no big deal and make no attempt at transitioning, but also who cares if they are dysphoric, no one should behave that way either way. I blame the trans rights activists who say lesbians have to suck dick if it's attached to a trans woman, and those who say that gay men have to be into pussy and date trans men. I blame those who say that trans women are bio female by virtue of identifying as female, and claiming that they can get periods, by virtue of... bowel cramps?! I'd also blame those who try to change female specific language on behalf of shielding trans men from our own dysphoria, in the rare cases we'd end up getting pregnant or manage to drag our asses to the gyno office for a pap smear, which... most of us really don't, regardless of if you call us women or uterus-havers, sincerely, please stop. It makes people think trans women are trying to take over the term "woman" entirely for themselves, which of course they don't.

I could go on, but I won't, as this post is not about these things. It's more so about how estranged I feel from the people who spout these things, knowing that they think they're speaking for me and my supposed needs as a tranny. But I see no point in trying to educate them, as they won't listen any more to me than they would to a radfem, and again, I think this post in my screenshots shows just how unwilling they are to listen to me.

I guess living with my transition on constant display is what's hard, and I guess I just need to vent about that, as it's always judged one way or the other; as either me having made myself into a man, or that I'm a delusional woman who mutilated herself; and it's kinda hard to find a kind and sane middle ground, that perhaps I'm just a victim of circumstances, and trying to make the most of my own life, regardless of what the fuck I am. That social shit, on top of dealing with dysphoria, makes it really difficult to not hate myself, I guess. But I have tried to live stealth and that made it if possible even worse, as it felt like I was lying, keeping a huge secret that grew in me like a spreading virus.

What I want is to just live my life, and for neither my bio sex, nor my transition, to stop me from doing that. I want to work through the worst of my autism, enough to be able to pursue a career in some low-paying labor, blue-collar job; get a car and driver's licence, find a suitable husband to have a child and cats with; I want my own garden, an art studio; I want to build muscle to become strong and even more independent (and perhaps strong enough to carry that husband, but at least to carry myself), and so on. When I picture myself in that potential future, it is with this male-like appearance I transitioned my body into, but it is also as a mother and wife.

And thinking about all of that makes me happy, it makes me smile and feel joy, meaningfulness, hope... While thinking about arguing online with some miserable fuck, who's deadset on arguing semantics and calling me a terf, when all I wanted was to show a little bit of kindness, that "hey, I agree with you, you make a good point here, and I'm not here to fight" only to be spat right back into my face... just makes me feel sad. Whatever happened to diversity of opinion? It's gone, it became labeled as bad, and left people like me with no place to be.

There is no point in arguing with such people, or even trying not to argue. There's no winning in that, there's no reward, no accomplishment. It's better to walk away.

I know I just have to get over this, this inner conflict of going against my transness with my gender critical opinions, and that I'm going against my womanhood with my transition - and be stronger than the political climate that's pulling me into pieces. But if it's peace that I want... I can just forget about it. There's no road there. But I have trouble letting go of that simple dream. The internet is constantly manipulating me into thinking I have an exciting social life, when in fact it's non-existent, and the lie is destructive. With internet vs real life, I'm living a double life. One of those lives has a future, the other one does not.

I'm glad I made this rant. It actually made me feel better, and reminded me that it's still worth it. Being trans, moving forward, focusing on what is good and what can become good in life. And it reminded me that the internet is merely an imitation of life, a substitute for human connection, and can... as with much else, be both good and bad.

#discourse #venting #tired of being pulled in opposing directions #because im not the right kinda trans #or the right kinda feminist #i have to live with myself and i dont know how #focusing back on what actually matters in life #just thoughts #gender politics #ok to rb

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uniquemagics · 3 years ago

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i’m gonna be talking about disordered eating and how it manifests in both vil and neige — the obvious trigger warnings apply. i also want to add that these are very based in my own experiences with EDs, so please don’t accuse me of like...talking out of my ass.

anyway, with that out of the way — vil, ironically, indulges slightly more than neige does. ( i’m thinking of vil’s SR lab coat story specifically. ) that being said, it’s always done very carefully, and when she does ‘overeat’ she always makes sure to ‘zero it out’ by skipping a meal later, exercising more, or both. neige’s disordered eating, on the other hand, manifests as consistently low calorie intake; if he does have some kind of high - calorie snack, you can be sure it’s the only thing he’s eating that day. in the context of calories, you could say that vil’s method is “i’ve eaten 200 more calories today than i should, so i’ll burn 200 more calories while working out tomorrow” whereas neige simply does not go over his calorie limits, even if that means that one ‘high - calorie’ snack is all he gets for the day.

neither of their calorie limits are especially healthy, though i’m not comfortable like...putting an actual number on it. but you can be sure both are below what they should be. vil has a stricter exercise routine, so their allowance is slightly higher; neige almost entirely depends upon not eating much and works out comparatively rarely. neither of them are prone to purging, but neige will if he ‘overeats.’

both of them are aware that this is Not Healthy — neige has been a part of ads and campaigns advocating for ED awareness! — but neither particularly feel like they have any choice in the matter if they want to continue being on screen, which they both badly do. vil especially strongly feels that her value is rooted primarily in being traditionally beautiful, so to gain any weight, then, comes at the risk of being seen as less valuable to others and thus less loved. that her most important person is also very aware of their weight and notices when they gain it does not help.

vil tends to dress in a way that draws attention to their toned figure and emphasizes how slender they are — there’s a sense that she’s not going through all this bullshit just to not have her hard work be acknowledged. neige, on the other hand, very rarely dresses in anything that isn’t loose — some of it’s a way to avoid dysphoria, but most of it boils down to feeling like a hypocrite if just how slim he is becomes apparent.

#vil : headcanon.#neige : headcanon.#god i gotta repoST ALL THIS STUFF FROM MY OLD BLOG I KEEP FORGETTING #disordered eating /#anorexia /#bulimia /#dieting /#weight loss /

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some-cookie-crumbz · 3 years ago

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Okay so the Bakujirou fic made me want to read more of ur writing(uwu💖💖💖💖)so can you please write a fluffy tdmm fic of them playing Animal Crossing:New Horizons together featuring trans girl Momo(which is my favorite bnha trans hc tbh)?Pls include all your headcanons i want this to be as self-indulgent for you as possible

We are getting up to some hopefully good nonsense up in here~! Let’s see if I can’t cook up something tasty for ya! Also this was one of those prompts that really got away from me and kinda... rambled away from the main point of the request and dissolved into a bit of a character study with added notes of fun shipping goodness so please forgive the length! And obviously if this is unsatisfactory please feel free to scream at me for my sins.

Trigger Warning: Transphobia, Mentions/ References to Body Dysphoria

She wasn’t Nashi.

Momo had to remind her of that fact every now and again, when the doubts about her appearance started to leak in. Did she present well enough? Did her hobbies speak loudly enough of the truth of her femininity or did people think she was faking? If she decided to go with a bob cut like Ochako’s, or a cute pixie like Mina's, would it make her features stand out wrong? Would she be fine wearing shorts, or would it be safer to pick a skirt or dress? It wasn't as often as it used to be that the anxiety about her appearance reared up - especially since she had been eagerly accepted by her peers when she confessed that she'd been deemed male at birth - but there were still moments where it did.

Like that evening, in specific.

While Father and Mother still worked in Pro Heroics, their roles had shifted quite drastically over the years. Momo herself had only been eight years old when Father was gravely injured in a Villain fight, taking a serious blow to protect a fleeing civilian. There had been countless surgeries and treatments to follow, leaving Father unable to move as well as he used to. He retired as an active on-duty Pro and became more involved with the agency behind the scenes. He worked more with the finances, employee relations and things of that ilk while Mother took over control as the public face. For a while, things were fine like that. It was a nice balance between them and, even though it was clear Father missed interacting with the public, he settled into his position quite well.

But as Momo's second year at UA started its second half, Father's health started deteriorating quickly. His immune system had been compromised as a result of all his past procedures and the side effects of that started to hit fast and hard. Momo herself had missed three days of classes to rush to see him when his cold escalated enough to warrant a hospital stay. While there, Mother and Father had discussed an upcoming business mixer. It would allow for them to connect with various other agencies to locate team-up partners as well as connecting to a few new support development teams. Mother had seemed rather concerned by the idea of going alone given that Father had always been the social core of their team.

And so, despite her discomfort, Momo had volunteered to go along. Mother had seemed surprised but agreed to take up her offer.

The day had been very strange leading up to the event itself. After getting out of her classes that Saturday, Mother picked her up to get put together. The full works were done for her; hair, make-up, manicure and pedicure, all coordinated to match with the long, sapphire blue evening gown Mother had picked out for her. Mother was an odd mix of overly involved and incredibly distant, taking care to ask if the length of her heels were comfortable for her or if the red of her lipstick was too dark for her liking. Once getting a response, though, she’d be heading off to tend to something for her own attire for the night without a second glance.

A part of her said she should have expected as much. It was a hard thing to define, her relationship with her mother. Ever since she came out and asserted who she really was - claimed Momo as her true name - Mother had never misgendered or dead named her. Even in the beginning, when the change in name and pronouns were still new, she’d gone out of her way to speak more carefully, to address her daughter the correct way. Momo took that as a sign that she was accepted, yes, but… Mother had always been incredibly distant. She seemed to only take an interest in Momo when it involved her Quirk training and her accomplishments therein. She often wondered if the problem was more that Mother had never wanted children in the first place and only agreed to having one to placate Father, or to carry on the family name.

It was rather disheartening to think about.

The moment they entered the extravagant ballroom for the mixer, another Pro that Momo couldn’t place was flagging Mother down excitedly. “Yaoyorozu-San, such a delight!” he greeted happily, offering her his hand. His gaze flickered over to Momo, smile remaining in place though his eyes gleamed in confusion. “Ah, and who is this? A niece or cousin of yours or your husband’s?”

“No,” Mother said, quirking an eyebrow as if the answer should be obvious, “this is my daughter, Momo.”

Momo made sure to flash a demure smile as she bowed. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,”

“A daughter? I heard your only child was a son,” Momo could feel herself tense as she righted her posture. Of course, she thought, it would already be starting so quickly into her evening.

“A mistake, I assure you. This is my daughter and I expect you to respect her as such,” There was an odd undercurrent to Mother’s tone that caused Momo to glance at her sideways. She looked thoroughly unamused, judging by the scowl and slight glare she had fixated on him, and her shoulders were squared as a show of confidence. She supposed that Mother got tired of hearing this same statement time and again.

He blinked slowly, nose wrinkling briefly, before nodding curtly. “Of course. My apologies,” he shifted his gaze away from her to Mother quickly, clearly uncomfortable. “Anyway, Yaoyorozu-San, I had been hoping to have a word with you! I have a case on my hands that seems well suited to your skills.”

Mother perked up a bit at that. “Hmm. For now I’ll just take a general overview. I assume you do not have any official documents regarding it on your person currently, yes?”

Momo let out a small breath at the attention being directed away from her. “I’ll be going to get a refreshment, Mother,” she announced, though she doubted that she was heard. She made a beeline for the aforementioned table. It was often at these kinds of get-togethers that there were two separate refreshment areas; one for the younger crowd and another for the adults. She grabbed the ladle in the punch bowl and started to pour some into a decorative plastic cup for herself. There were orange and lemon slivers floating on the surface of the liquid so she prepared herself for the tart bite of citrus on her tongue, a small smile on her lips.

For a second she thought of Shoto, most likely settled in the dorms with his Nintendo Switch, most likely catching bugs or fishing on his new Animal Crossing game. The system and game - according to him - were a bribe from Hawks to keep some secret from Endeavor. Shoto had held up that part of the bargain but, he confessed, had snitched to Natsuo. It had been the most entertaining family meal they’d had in a while after that, he assured, and she giggled to herself as she sipped her drink. He may not seem like it, but Shoto had a mischievous streak in him.

“No way! Is that you, Nashi?” She jumped and whipped around, noticing a group of three boys around her age approaching. She recognized one of them from her first grade school, before she’d started her transition, but it took a moment to place a name to the face.

She plastered on a smile as she turned to face them fully. “It’s Momo, actually. It’s good to see you again, though, Hiroki-Kun,”

Hiroki blinked and tilted his head, confused for a moment, before his eyes widened in epiphany. “Oh, okay, my bad! Momo it is!” he agreed with a grin before indicating the other two with him. “Well, let me introduce you! This guy to my left is Yori, and the one to my right is Manzo! Guys, this is Momo, the one I was telling you about!” His tone dipped slightly as he introduced the second boy with him, as if saying his name had left a bitter taste in his mouth, but quickly perked back up after.

Yori offered a shy smile, staying close to Hiroki, but still offering her his hand. “It’s very nice to meet you, Momo-San. Hiroki-Kun says a lot of great things about you,” he said quietly.

"Does he?" she asked in slight surprise.

Hiroki grinned at her, folding his hands behind his head. "Of course! You were, like, the coolest kid on the playground! Cool Quirk, super nice, really smart… Who wouldn't admire that?"

She looked away bashfully and giggled. "You're too kind, Hiroki-Kun," she mused, turning her attention to Manzo. She held out her hand to shake his hand next. "You're Manzo-Kun, right?"

“And you’re Nashi, yeah?” he quipped, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his slacks.

She flinched and shook her head, still trying to be civil. “No, I’m not. As I just told Hiroki-Kun, my name is Momo,”

“Your name now is Momo, but your real name is Nashi,” he retorted.

Her hand dropped to her side, clenching into a fist at her side as she tried to keep her cool. “Momo is my real name!”

“No,” Manzo laughed, taking a step towards her that caused her to take a step back, “Momo is the name you use to play dress up.”

Hiroki stepped forward, shoving an arm against Manzo’s chest and nudging him back that step. “Dude, don’t be a disrespectful ass!”

“She hasn’t said or done anything to offend you. And even if she did, that doesn’t give you the right to act like this,” Yori chimed in as well, a disappointed frown on his face.

Manzo glared before shoving Hiroki’s arm aside and advancing on Yori, who recoiled at his approach. “Oh, what? You think just because you have your stupid little buddy here you’re hot shit?” he barked, moving to shove him.

In a flash, Momo rushed forward and grabbed his arm. “Leave him alone!” she snapped.

Manzo whipped around to face her and wretched his arm free, a nasty grin on his face. “Oh, what, you wanna fight about it? Fine! Let’s fight like men! Since that’s what you really are, Nashi-Kun!” he goaded.

“I’m not a boy and my name isn’t Nashi!” she shouted back, grip on his arm tightening slightly as angry tears started to pool in her eyes. “My name is Yaoyorozu Momo and I’m a girl!”

There was a beat of silence following her words, making her glance up as she realized that all conversation had died around them. Her stomach churned at the realization of the spectacle they’d become. She wasn’t supposed to behave like this! She was supposed to come and be the perfectly sociable young lady her parents had raised her to be. She wasn’t supposed to be getting dragged into situations like this.

“What is the meaning of all of this?” Mother’s curt tone cut in, snapping her from her thoughts. She had to steel herself to look up only to see that furious orange eyes were not fixated on Momo herself, rather, Manzo.

“Yes, son, explain,” another voice chimed in from behind Mother. The man she’d been chatting with when Momo first wandered away approached, looking directly at Manzo with a clearly forced smile on his face.

Manzo opened up his mouth to speak when Hiroki interrupted with “Manzo was being a dick to Momo! He wouldn’t respect her identity or name!”

“I was just stating the truth!” Manzo sneered angrily, finally wrenching his arm free from her grasp.

“Son, you-!”

“Momo, we are leaving. Now,” Mother said, tone clipped and flat.

Manzo’s father looked at her in panic. “Um, uh, Yaoyorozu-San, how about we select a time to discuss that case I mentioned in a more professional setting? One where the adults can talk without the children around?”

Mother glared at him, the look so harsh he shrunk back, before moving to wrap an arm over Momo’s shoulders to lead her out. She said nothing as she allowed Mother to lead her out and to the car, the air between them tense and awkward, barely catching Hiroki trying to call an apology after her and Manzo’s father berating him.

The silence in the back of the limo once they were settled inside was staggering, making Momo wish she could stick her head out the window to scream instead of keeping her gaze fixed on her toes. It was even worse than the air between them on the walk over with the added lack of escape route. She felt like such a failure as she struggled to take in breaths to keep herself composed. She was a top student in the top class at the top Pro Heroics school, for crying out loud! She should be able to handle herself against a bigoted moron! He shouldn't be more terrifying than the ruthless villains she'd faced!

“Momo,” Mother said, her tone so shockingly soft that her head jerked up. Her gaze was fixated on her, as unreadable as ever.

Momo swallowed thickly as she forced herself to square her shoulders. She should apologize for her behavior. She’d caused a scene and surely Mother had been embarrassed by that. “I’m sorry, Mother,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

“You don’t have anything to apologize for,” she said, blinking in surprise at her words. There was another pregnant pause as Momo let her gaze wander away again, fixated on a small fuzz ball in the limo carpeting by the heel of her left shoe. “Is that normal? What that little brat was saying and doing. Is that what normally happens to you at these kinds of things?”

She squeezed her eyes shut and nodded timidly, wringing her hands in her lap. “I’m sorry, for blowing up like that. I can normally keep myself more composed than that during im-!”

“Do not apologize to me, Momo; you were not in the wrong,” she insisted, her voice catching in a mix of irritation and… concern? Mother opened her mouth three times before shutting it again and sighing, her shoulders slumping. “So this has happened and you never told us.”

Feeling a lump sprout and block her throat, Momo could only nod in response.

Mother lifted her head to meet Momo’s eye, her expression filled with sadness and regret. “You don’t feel comfortable coming to me with these concerns, do you?”

“It’s not just… I… So many more important things are going on right now. I don’t want to put more on your plate,” she said softly.

“Nothing is more important than you, Momo,” she argued with a shake of her head. She looked away for a moment before taking a breath and reaching out, setting one of her hands on top of Momo’s. “I haven’t always been the best with affection when it comes to you, or, well, really anyone aside from your Father. I suppose that I had always assumed that it was fine to leave those things to him, that one of us would focus on the emotional side of things and the other the more practical. Father was the fun parent you could play games and sing songs with, while I was the parent who made sure you kept your Quirk in check and your grades up. I thought… I thought that would be a good balance, that it would give you everything you needed. I’ve come to understand how wrong that belief was.”

“M-Mother?”

She placed her other hand above her heart, giving Momo’s a small squeeze as she held her gaze. “I’m going to work at being better for you, at giving you what you need from me. I need you to understand that my failings as a mother... None of that was ever your fault. I’m sorry that my actions made it seem like my love is something you have to work to earn. I love you, Momo, and I’m sorry I’ve presented that fact as being conditional and not eternal,”

She could feel more tears starting to pool in her eyes before she surged forward to embrace Mother. She was tense for a second before she embraced her back, one hand gently combing through her hair soothingly. The rest of the ride back to campus was spent like that, with her face burrowed into Mother’s arms as she cried and settled. It was strange, how nice it felt. It wasn’t like the bear hugs Father used to give her, where her small frame would be completely enveloped and held snug. No, this was something a bit more careful and delicate, something nostalgic and delicate but just as important.

Mother offered to walk her in, carefully dabbing the smeared mascara and smudged eyeshadow aside with a handkerchief, but Momo insisted she’d be fine alone. After stepping out of the vehicle and into the brisk evening air, she took a breath to help settle her nerves and maybe alleviate the twinge of a small headache she could feel brewing. It rattled inside her, still a little shaken up, but she squared her shoulders and made the trek inside. Mother didn’t leave until she was inside, she noted, and made a mental note to talk to her later more about everything that had happened that night. The incident with Manzo had been one thing, but there was the separate can of worms it had opened that she wanted to take care of, too.

She made sure to be quiet as she made her way to the elevator, the sounds of some of their peers milling about in the living room easy to hear. She was pretty sure they were gearing up for their Saturday evening game fest. Surely there’d be a barrage of broken controllers a la Bakugo if it was one of their Super Smash nights, she thought with a small huff, before turning to hit the elevator button. “Momo?” A familiar voice chimed beside her, causing her to jump.

She turned and blinked to be greeted by Todoroki Shoto, staring at her with his usual unreadable face, and let out a small squeak of shock. “Ah, Shoto,” she sighed as her shoulders sagged slightly. “Perhaps Ochako-Chan’s suggestion of putting a bell on you wouldn't be such a bad suggestion. You startled me.”

He hummed in acknowledgement, tilting his head as if sizing her up, and blinked slowly. “I got my Snooty and Cranky villagers earlier,” he said.

She gasped before pouting at him. “You said you’d wait for me to do any more island hopping, Shoto!” she huffed.

“I needed to load up so I could give Ojiro some oranges, and then I got kinda wrapped up doing stuff,” he admitted. He stole a glance at their classmates as Sato and Tooru made their way from the kitchen area with a few bowls and snacks. “Are you going to join everyone else for JackBox tonight?”

She shook her head. “No. Tonight has been a bit more… eventful than I would have liked,” she said, making sure to keep her composure. She didn’t want to worry him over it all. “I just want to go finish washing off the make up, put on some comfortable clothes and relax.”

“I’ll get snacks, then,”

“Huh? Snacks?”

“I still have two plots left for my island and a lot of Nook miles tickets. You get changed and I’ll meet you in your room in a few minutes so we can do them together,” And with that, he moved towards the kitchen.

She blinked and watched him before letting out a small laugh and shaking her head, hitting the elevator button. Shoto was an odd one to be sure, especially since he’d started working towards coming out of his shell more. A part of her was grateful but another part found his stubborn streak to be a bit exasperating. Then again, he only seemed to push when he knew something was wrong, so maybe it was more just trying to offer comfort? Despite his usual aloof demeanor, he was surprisingly astute at reading a room. As to whether or not he could understand how to react to what he was able to deduce was another matter entirely, though.

She set that aside while she got washed up and changed. Her mind shifted gears as she stared at her reflection, thinking about what Mother had said. She felt a tightness in her chest as her mind whirled again. There was some comfort in Mother acknowledging that there was room for growth, sure, but… The catalyst that remained unsaid left her sick. Even if Mother hadn’t said it, she knew this was a reaction to the looming shadow of Father’s death. She had to swallow a growing lump in her throat and shake her head, put those thoughts to bed until a more appropriate time.

She didn’t want to ruin the rest of she or Shoto’s evenings.

She opted for some old sweats and a tank top, taking a moment to comb her hair out from the complex updo it had been styled into, opting to leave it loose afterwards to help abate the small headache she had brewing. Though, if she was honest, sitting and playing games with her boyfriend seemed like a nice way to wind down. She had been having a blast watching Shoto become completely enamored with his little island and all the cute animal villagers with him.

She’d had her own file a good time longer than him and was mostly done with all the villager-hunting and replacing she’d wanted to do but found watching him work through his first experience with it endearing. He’d never even played an Animal Crossing game before so everything was completely new to him. Once she was settled, she took her unit off the dock and propped open the door. Not too long after she’d taken the time to give daily gifts to Phoebe, Ozzie, Chai and Shep, Shoto appeared in the doorway. He had four lychee ramunes, a bowl of popcorn, a bag of konpeito, a variety bag of hi-chews and a package of black licorice tucked away in his arms, his Switch case strap around his wrist. “Ah, here, let me help you,” she urged, setting her Switch down and getting up to help him. “Also, you can dock your Switch on mine. That way we can see your island visits on the big screen together.”

“Thanks. I grabbed a few different things but I can go downstairs and get more later,” he offered as she took the drinks and popcorn. He set the other snacks down on her dresser before heading over to her bed to rearrange the pillows to form the usual cocoon they made for play sessions together. She took his Switch and docked it for him, then grabbed his joycons and put them in the controller holder. Once that was all set up, Shoto settled into the large pillowy ring with his legs spread so that she could settle between them, resting her back against his chest, him using her pillows to prop him up and her relying on him.

She used her remote to flick on the television, then grabbed her console from the other end of the bed and reached for the bowl of popcorn, popping a few pieces into her mouth. “So you did some island hopping while I was gone? Find anyone you liked?” she asked as they watched his game load up.

“I encountered Diana on one of them. She talked to me like she didn’t know me, which was weird,” he said.

“Well, of course she did! That Diana is different from the Diana on my island,” she giggled. She then perked up and glanced up at him. “Oh, and I still need to come get some oranges from you. They’re the only fruit I’m missing on my island.”

“I still can’t believe that out of the fourteen people that have this game, I’m the only one who ended up with oranges as their island fruit. Or that one of you didn’t at least get it as your exotic option,” he commented as his character stepped out of his house. “Oh, and how soon before I can move my villagers' houses?”

“You’ve already gotten your first three furnished homes, so I think you should have access to it. It’s just a matter of having the bells to spend on moving someone,” she explained as she glanced down at her own screen. Shep came rushing from the left to talk to her excitedly. “Who were you thinking about moving?”

“Roald. I want to move him to the other side of the island from me,”

“Aw, why? He’s so cute!”

“I think he’s plotting to kill me,” he said, completely serious as he stopped in front of the penguin in question's house. When he’d first made his file, Shari and Roald were his beginning villagers and he’d decided to place their tents close to his own for the sake of ease.

She snorted and looked up at him. “He’s just a penguin, Shoto,”

“Just look at his eyes, Momo… He’s a villainous mastermind,” To illustrate his point, he ran his character in a circle around the little avatar, before turning and darting to the left. “That’s why I need more villagers like Ruby and Kyle, who have my back no matter what. I need a whole squad for the day he finally snaps.”

“You don’t think Gayle and Punchy would have your back?”

“Gayle would probably be on my side. She and Roald had a fight the other day so there’s bad blood there. But I don’t want Punchy putting his life on the line. He is a precious boy who must be protected,” he said, glancing down at her with a stern gaze.

She couldn’t help but snort at the expression. Specifically in that it was being enacted regarding pixelated animals on a Nintendo game. “And did you find anyone worthy of enlisting for this most noble of causes?” she teased.

He hummed, reaching with one hand to grab a bit of popcorn himself as he came to a stop between a labelled plot at the edge of the beach. He clicked on the sign, pulling up a card that read “This spot reserved for Static’s new home.”

“Oh, you got Static? He’s a great choice for your Cranky!”

“I like that he is a very tiny squirrel with a very deep voice,” he said.

“Much like how you like that Punchy is a cat and is Lazy?”

“You get me,” he said before running upwards. He crossed a bridge to another area to show another plot with a sign that read “This spot reserved for Willow’s new home.”

Momo giggled. “Willow’s a good choice, too. I almost expected that you’d try to get another cat villager for your Snooty villager, but sheep villagers are always a good one, too,” she said excitedly. She plopped a few more pieces of popcorn into her mouth as she walked into Bruce’s house on her own game. “So you officially have every personality type on your island! Do you have any idea as to what kind of personality types you’d like to have duplicates of?”

“Hmm… Not too sure. You have two Jocks and two Normals, right?” As he asked that, he ran back to his Resources Center to get the first of his last two house kits.

“Yeah. I have Bam and Tybalt, and Bertha and Savannah,” she hummed. She watched as he placed the new house right behind his own, as if it would be watching the back of his own. She rolled her eyes and shook her head at the sheer ridiculousness of him.

He hummed thoughtfully before he made his way into the airport. “I guess I’ll just go for characters I like. Personality doesn’t really matter to me since I already have one of every type.”

“That’s a good approach, I think,” she hummed, tossing a bit more popcorn into her mouth. “How many Nook Tickets do you have?”

“13,” he said while speeding through the dialogue to board the plane. “I farmed Nook miles after I found Static and Willow so I could go get more villagers once you got back.”

She tilted her head up and pressed a small kiss to his chin. “So sweet,” she hummed before looking down at her own game as she started looking for her daily fossils. She’d already completed the fossil exhibits in her game, but like the extra scratch she got from selling the duplicates.

For a moment things were quiet as Shoto used his ladder to climb up the three tiers of the small island to the top, where his potential new villager was waiting. To then immediately start climbing back down at the sheep sitting in front of the campfire. “Nope. Nope. N. O. P. E,” he mumbled as he did.

“Aw, you don’t want Pietro? He’s considered rare!”

“And he can stay rare and away from my island,”

The next three islands were deemed ones Shoto wasn’t interested in - Eugene, Jeremiah and Limberg - not that she could blame him with Limberg. “He’s not particularly good,” she mumbled.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve seen a single mouse villager that I like the design of,” he commented as he wandered off the desk and onto his fifth island.

“Bree and Dora are pretty cute but most of them are really lackluster,” she agreed, saving her own file and setting her Switch in her lap as he approached the campfire.

Shoto blinked in slight surprise. “A snow leopard?”

“Actually, Bianca’s classified as a tiger, despite her markings,” she said. She watched as he immediately invited her to his island. “Just so you know, she’s a Peppy type, I think.”

“She looks like Fuyumi-Nee,” he said. Ah, of course that would be enough to get him on board with adding Bianca to his roster.

She set her Switch aside and carefully maneuvered off of her bed. “I’m going to open one of the ramune. Do you want me to open one for you, too?”

She made quick work of opening the drinks and offering him his once he finished placing his last plot back on his own island. She took a quick sip from hers before opening the package of black licorice and eating a piece as she watched him. “Mind if I ask you something unrelated, Shoto?”

He glanced up at her, mismatched eyes sparking with something she couldn’t quite place, before he set his drink on the bedside table and patted the space she’d left. “Sure,” he said, his avatar boarding the plane to do his next round of island hops.

She was quick to settle back in with him, turning her body this time to snuggle into his chest. She felt him shift to wrap his arms around her, controller lax in his hand. “We’ve discussed it before but… What do you think it takes to forgive someone?”

He let out a thoughtful noise. “Well, I think forgiveness is different from person to person. Everyone has a threshold for what they feel is forgivable, so I think that needs to be considered,” He set the controller off to the side to card one hand through her hair while the other stroked up along her spine, the movements slow and soothing. “Speaking from my own situation… I chose forgiveness because I could see a genuine change and a refusal to shy away from the wrongs that had been done. I’m still keeping a distance, and I’m ready to burn that bridge in a heartbeat if I see a relapse, but… I can see authentic change. And that’s enough for me to offer my tentative, conditional forgiveness.”

She nodded at his words, closing her eyes and burrowing into him further. She had always wanted to have a better relationship with Mother, if she was honest. So… This could be a good chance for that, right? They could work on mending things between them and find some common ground. The thought of having a better relationship with her left a warmth in her chest, one that made her smile. Could they have proper Mother-Daughter days? Maybe she could learn more about the older woman’s hobbies and interests outside of Pro Heroics work? That could be nice. “Thank you, Shoto,” she mumbled.

“Any time, Momo,” he said, tipping his head to press a peck to the top of her head. He perked up again and glanced at the screen. “Not to derail but… I think it’s another cat?”

“Oh yeah? What color?” she mumbled.

He shifted his hands to pick his controller back up, keeping his arms looped around her though. “Grey. Oh, their eyes are different colors,”

“Oh, that’s-!” Momo’s eyes snapped open and she sat up, looking wildly over her shoulder at the screen. “Shoto, that’s Raymond! You got Raymond!”

#crumbles grumbles #TodoMomo #TW: Transphobia #TW: Body Dysphoria #my fics #So I got this request like four months ago #So that shows how long I've had my reading of Momo's Parents waiting in the wings lmao!#Hori has given us v small nuggets to work with for Momo #So I'm gonna give her the Ojiro treatment and give her family ties to explore #Also I'm a sucker for parallels with ships so *yeets some of those in here too*

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flipflap-flipflap · 4 years ago

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[Alright take-two on this damn post. First one got eaten by post editor right as I was ready to post. You see how long this is? Save to drafts, kids.]

I’m here to shove a manga on you: Ookami Shounen Wa Kyou Mo Uso O Kasaneru (The Boy Who Cried Wolf Also Told a Lie Today). It’s a gender bending romance. Despite how awful that probably sounds, it’s actually really fucking good and I do not say that lightly.

(No spoilers, this is all in the first chapter) A high school boy insecure about his intimidating face, Itsuki, has fallen for a shy loner girl, Tokujira, who does not seem specifically phased by his naturally scary face. So he takes a risk and confesses, but she turns him down brutally. Itsuki goes to his sister to lament his insecurities about his face, which he (more or less correctly) attributes as why he can’t make connections. To give him a new perspective on his appearance, his sister (trans btw) gives him a makeover while he’s sleeping and then kicks him to the curb of her salon - fully crossdressed. On his way home, Itsuki (♀) ends up bumping into Tokujira, and she mistakes him for a boyish girl. Under this misunderstanding, she asks "her” for a favor...

She has androphobia, and she has it bad. So much so she can’t even look at men without snapping violently or becoming physically ill. And Itsuki (♀) is just boyish enough to trigger her, but not enough to lock her down. So she asks for “her” help, to see if she can desensitize herself to her phobia. Itsuki’s in a bind for a couple obvious reasons, not the least being the guilt of deceiving Tokujira. But nonetheless, he genuinely wants to help her. So, he decides to continue crossdressing, diving into a lie that he soon finds he has no easy exit from.

I really recommend this manga. I cannot say that enough times. It is phenomenal, shattering tropes left and right in fun and interesting ways. Do yourself a favor and give this manga a try.

Personal feelings and meta analysis below the cut. It’s, uh, ungodly long, and will get very spoilery. But I will flag spoilers. And there will be pretty pictures?

(Also, no, I did not go into this planning to compare a manga about crossdressing to the abolitionist writings of Frederick Douglass, but reality deserves to be a bit absurd sometimes.)

Before you think I’m getting spoilery, with the intro I gave or anything I don’t mark as spoilers, I’m really not. Everything outside of spoilers is right on the package at the start. It sounds like I’m spoiling late-game stuff, right? That’s something that was really fantastic to me: this manga doesn’t spoon feed you. There’s no arcs of pure silent angst, even at the lowest point in the story. These kids are smart, they think and intuit on the spot, and they share what they’re feeling with each other like good friends do. Like that next panel down there with Itsuki introspecting about his confidence level while crossdressing? That’s from the first chapter! These kids are smart. And god damn that is so nice to see.

There was a lot I liked about this manga, but at the top is how compelling the protagonist and his internal conflict are. Right from the first chapter he’s already wracked with guilt about what he’s about to do: deceive this girl by pretending to be a safe space. But Tokujira told Itsuki (♀) she hopes to one day be able to fall in love, and Itsuki wants to ensure she can have that - even if it’s not him that gets to confess to her. He’s fully aware of exactly how fucked up what he’s doing is, and is appropriately beating himself up over it in a really realistic way. But although the guilt never fades, it slowly gains company in happiness. He enjoys this new, fragile life he has constructed around the two precious new friends he's made as a girl.

It was probably easy to gloss over in the synopsis, but arguably the biggest part of Itsuki (♂)’s conflict is his complex about his face. He looks dangerous, and because of that he is afraid to even lift his head or smile in front of others. But as Itsuki (♀), he smiles and laughs without fear. It becomes immediately clear to him on the first day that he's a more confident person while crossdressing. Happier in a way he can't be as a man.

Botan is easily my favorite character in the series. She’s introduced early on, as Tokujira’s first and only friend before Itsuki (♀). At the start she’s a dangerous third wheel, a serious threat to Itsuki’s ability to keep up his lie. And though the situation is (thankfully) defused rather quickly, she becomes a massive source of internal conflict for Itsuki. Nonetheless, she becomes a dear friend for both Itsuki ♂ and ♀. She’s just so...*chef’s kiss*

^This face is the repository of all my love and affection.

Mark my words, this is the first and I assume last time I will ever say this: love triangle good. You know it’s inevitable in a romance genre piece, but this manga approaches the trope in a new and compelling way. [Spoiler] Needless to say, it’s between Itsuki, Tokujira, and Botan. But...there’s two Itsukis involved, ♂ and ♀, and in the center of it all is this lie. His lie stops being about him: it's about not hurting these two girls he cares so much about. [/Spoiler]

On a more personal note, I saw so much of myself in Itsuki’s older sister, Ibuki. She runs a salon, catering especially to crossdressers and transwomen. She’s a self-described “Youthling”, an alien from the planet Youth, obsessed with observing the exciting and turbulent lives of the youths of earth. For more or less for the same reasons most of us do: transpeople don’t tend to get the youths we want, if we allow ourselves to experience youth at all. So it’s nice to be able to enjoy it vicariously, through this younger generation that is able to more fearlessly pursue the lives we couldn't.

^Incidentally, one of my favorite interactions in the manga.

Despite getting Itsuki into this crossdressing mess, she’s someone he can always return to and confide in, and get good, helpful advice from. Her whole philosophy is to give young people agency to explore their identities and find themselves, and though she tells Itsuki the road he's taking is dangerous as soon as she learns what he's doing, she'll always support him however she can.

That, I feel, is what separates her from other, more creepy/pedophilic enabler types, like Sawako from K-On! or Lucoa from Dragon Maid. It’s a refreshingly honest and respectful portrayal of a quirky adult just trying to be a good older sister.

The last thing I want to say, and I’m not going to even mark this as a spoiler because of course it’s going to happen and if you can’t predict that then you’re not my problem, is that Itsuki of course eventually has to drop his lie. All I’ll say about it is that it is probably going to live in my head for years. Everything about it, the lead up, the execution, the fallout, and the recovery, are all so masterfully crafted for maximum emotional impact.

That’s all I want to say exclusively about my personal feelings. On to analysis. There will be a lot more contextual spoilers here that, even without reading the parts I’ve specially blocked off will probably leak through. Read at your own risk, but I would recommend revisiting after you have finished the manga.

One thing I really want to talk about is language. That’s right, I’m going to compare a crossdressing manga to The Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, the autobiography of a freed slave turned abolitionist. Douglass talks about a concept that has remained imprinted on my mind ever since I first read it: how and why slaves struggled to comprehend the concept of freedom. This wasn’t anything to do with fear or “racial inferiority” like pro-slavers would argue, but rather with a lack of vocabulary. They have all of these feelings and things they know to be true, but lack the words to make meaningful sense of them. For Douglass specifically, his life completely changed when he learned the word “abolition.” It was like a floodgate burst, as he was suddenly able to put meaning to feeling, create context from chaos.

And that’s right, we see that happen in a big way, with Tokujira. This should be an obvious development, but as it happens late in the manga I will mark it [Spoiler]. As Tokujira and Itsuki (♀) practice things like talking, eye contact, holding hands, etc., Tokujira naturally starts to fall for Itsuki (♀). But she doesn’t understand that. An important part of her character is that, growing up, she focused on expanding her vocabulary as much as humanly possible in the hopes of being able to better articulate herself. So words are very important to her. It’s not until she sees a work of lesbian fiction on display that she finally realizes that’s the word she’s looking for. The floodgate bursts, and all of her emotions suddenly make sense. She realizes she loves Itsuki (♀). [/Spoiler]

And I think that is a vital and underexplored concept when discussing LGBT youth, especially in countries where even knowledge of these concepts is taboo. The reason so many LGBT youth struggle with their identities, especially trans youth, is because we do not have the vocabulary to conceptualize our feelings. I am always excited to see this concept play out, especially in this context. It’s such an important thing that needs to be addressed more broadly.

Moving on, I want to talk about historical context of the genre as it relates to what the author did here. Notably, I want to talk about a specific trope rampant in Japanese queer fiction, specifically early lesbian fiction: the idea that queerdom is a meaningless, youthful phase that children will naturally and inevitably grow out of. It’s problematic for obvious reasons.

[HELLA HELLA SPOILERS] My kneejerk reaction to the ending of this manga was that the author fell into this trope. In the end, Itsuki comes to the conclusion that he does not need to crossdress. So again, kneejerk. But...it really wasn’t like that. He never had any dysphoria; crossdressing was always just a necessity of his circumstance. Nonetheless he learned to analyze and value his experience crossdressing as a woman, and because of that grew as a man. And as part of his journey to understand his identity we, through him, see why some people crossdress. Along with his example, we see why his sister, a bona fide post-op transsexual, has made it a permanent change to her life. Likewise, we see Miyama, who crossdresses purely for the gender euphoria, but has no (stated) interest in going all the way. These are all presented as valid and meaningful. [/Spoiler]

Crossdressing, and gender nonconformity in general, is portrayed not as some one-dimensional fetish like cultural taboo would depict it to be, but rather a meaningful exercise for exploring and critically analyzing your own identity. For some, yes, it’s a phase, but an importantly transformative one when done right. While for others, it is a gateway to a new way of experiencing and enjoying life. Or, it’s fun just for the pragmatic reasons...

I honestly cannot recommend this manga enough. Tragically, I cannot imagine it ever getting an official english translation, so you’ll have to settle for a scanlation like the one I linked in the title up top (and here, again). It’s a really good translation, though the site is predictably sketchy. Warning for lots of NSFW ads.

Read it, and then come talk to me about it!!! There is basically zero fan community and I need to fangirl with someone!

#long post #and I mean REALLY long post #Ookami Shounen Wa Kyou Mo Uso O Kasaneru #The Boy Who Cried Wolf Also Told a Lie Today #the boy who cried wolf tells a lie today also #analysis

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uniquemagicsa · 4 years ago

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#♡ * — vil : headcanon.#♡ * — neige : headcanon.#body image /#disordered eating /#eating disorder /#calorie counting /#starting off strong!#my work is broken and i reread vils sr story so i figured i might as well write too much abt anime kids

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infinitedraconity · 5 years ago

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do you have any tips on identifying trolls / troll blogs / bad faith in general? i am autistic & fairly new to the kin community in general, i'm worried about being swindled. thank you in advance, hoku!

Hello, grey friend with sunglasses!

This is a really good question, actually, and it addresses the whole reason that trolls are a problem– the good ones can be mistaken for serious otherkin, especially by people who have little to no experience with the community. As a fellow autistic person, this is something I used to have trouble with, too. However, you eventually start picking up on patterns.

So, how does one go about spotting trolls? Some hallmarks that I look for are:

•"ridiculous" kintypes. Food is really common. This one can be hard, since ridiculousness is subjective, and there are some people with out-there kintypes who are completely sincere. This sign really only applies in conjunction with others.

•odd pronouns, especially nounself. As with before, this is only in conjunction with other signs.

•a million labels, often conflicting with each other. You may as well have the entire dictionary.

•sudden appearance with a lot of posts. Usually trolls like to hit fast and hard.

•over-use of "uwu" and similar emotes.

•a LOT of posts about species dysphoria. Serious otherkin will address this topic on occasion, but trolls often make it every other post.

•posts about how their kintype interferes with normal human functioning. Most otherkin would seek help if it interferes (which it almost always doesn't).

•posts about otherkin being oppressed (especially the poster). This ties in a lot with the previous point, since they like to say that being "forced" into functioning normally is oppressive and they shouldn't have to do it (famous example: the rabbitkin in a restaurant post).

•posts about being triggered by stuff related to their kintype. This especially applies with "foodkin" ("please don't talk about eating I'm biscuitkin and it's really triggering"), but can also be related to other kintypes.

•inflammatory behavior. They come onto the tags, and start fights when someone tries to gently correct them.

•justifying shitty behavior with their kintype (i.e. zoophilia, acting out in public, eating stuff they shouldn't, etc.). This is easily the biggest marker, as well as the one that fools the most outsiders. We've all seen the posts about the dragonkin eating gems and the cat therian who is attracted to cats. Those are notorious troll posts that are still passed around by anti-kin despite being years old and demonstrated to be fake many times. It's definitely rarer than the others, though they definitely get the most attention when they show up.

Some stuff that is usually not troll behavior:

•having a lot of kintypes. This is common among younger folks and people who aren't totally familiar with otherkinity as a concept, but not trolls.

•on that note, misinformation. Same as above.

•unusual kintypes (when not accompanied by other markers of trolls). I've seen some very odd kintypes with some totally serious folks.

Some other people to avoid:

•people who pretend to know everything. We are all humans, whether we like it or not, and are ergo fallible. Nobody knows everything. Be wary of what they tell you.

•godkin/deitykin who demand worship. Just don't bother with them, you'll be a lot better off.

•physical shifters (a.k.a. "p-shifters"). These are folks who claim they can physically transform into another being. They also call themselves lycans, werewolves, and shifters. They lurk in the corners of the community, making grand claims with zero evidence to back it up. They tend to prey on vulnerable people, forming small cult-like groups of followers who all believe that they, too, will one day have their first shift. However, physical shifting is impossible, despite how much we wish it wasn't. Avoid these folks at all costs.

The listed troll behaviors are almost never isolated– trolls usually exhibit two or more behaviors from the list. Usually, I keep my guard up at one, but once you see at least two, you can be pretty sure they're a troll. However, I always try to give people the benefit of the doubt until they actually start hurting people.

This was a really good question, and it's good information to know. Thanks for asking!

Edit: added some stuff and corrected some typos

#otherkin #troll spotting #on trolls #the help desk #message in a bottle #hoku rambles

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flyswhumpcenter · 5 years ago

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Bad Things Happen Bingo! The event where you may have sent me requests according to this marvelous card!

We've always been fucked up because nature is, in fact, a dirty little bitch who enjoys itself with abnormalities. She gets amused by giving birth to men in women's bodies or does the opposite, sometimes.

This story absolutely isn't for the faint of heart. It openly and severely deals with gender dysphoria. It may be phrased with my usual dose of purple prose bullshit sparkles, but that's kind of it. It's still raw. Needless to say it's based on personal experience. Also, hahaha, guess who got stuck with his stupid ideas. I don't even remember why I picked "Forced Out of the Closet" back in August. I think I was planning on making this an original work thing, but it ended up never panning because I switched fully into fandom mood shortly thereafter. I'm pretty sure I was saying that about my first card back in April for "Panic Attack", no? Well, it ended up becoming this thing. I don’t know what to make of it yet.

It's a really weird note to end my 2nd BTHB card on. Until now, compared to the first card, I've been much more focused on physical pain. This has none of it and only 2nd POV narration and angst. I originally started it in a 3rd person POV, but it didn't work out and I thought it'd be worse if I wrote it in a 2nd person POV. It is. It's vivid and it's painful. I love it. Again, thanks to my Writing Crew for the support despite me being an edgy-ass bitch. I guess yiu can also call us the Derek Suffering Crew?

The title of this was what I wanted to give to the sixth chapter of Earth Never Stops, but it ended up not really ringing right with that chapter in particular. I feel like it fits here much better. And of course we gotta go with a rewritten Angie because, y'know. Canon Angie is canon Angie...

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Like Honey in a Cup of Acid

Summary: You may have explanations to give to your assistant now that she's discovered something wasn't exactly normal, Derek. (You may also like not to do so because you want to forget).

Fandom: Trauma Center Relationship: Pre-rel DerAng

Wordcount: 2K words

Event hosted by @badthingshappenbingo (Thank you so much for having me for a second time!)

AO3 version available here.

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A sort of weight immediately hits you when Angie asks you if you can have a little talk now that your thoughts aren’t just a painkiller-induced mishmash of words and incoherent thoughts with neither head nor tail. She looks concerned and perplexed, puzzled even, her eyes never truly looking into yours. Almost as if, for once, the fierce and daring Angie is intimidated by something about you. Sounds farfetched, right?

Well, there could be a number of reasons. You did almost just die on her a couple days ago and surely you can’t look much better than your own patients at the moment. You know, the usual: pale face, dark rings under the eyes that look like trenches, reddened eyes… She could just be very concerned for you like Kimishima has told you before when checking if you were still amongst the living.

When you finally have the “little talk”, it’s in your hospital room, with you still bedridden and her on a chair to your left, next to the IV drip still inserted into your wrist, her hands pinching her skirt or clutching a notepad against her chest when she holds it. You’re not sure if there’s something even written on the thing, wondering if it isn’t just her way to cope with stress and whatever is making her anxious. Her fingers are shaking and the hair on her exposed forearms is risen. How come she’s so terrified? Do you really look this awful?

“What did you want to tell me about, Angie?” You ask, in a gentle tone, making sure you aren’t forcing on your throat so you don’t worry her even more. The tense silence in the room and the lack of noise in the later hours of the evening helps your low voice to be heard.

“I… Huh… Well, it’s just that… I was curious!”

“Curious? About what?”

Angie looks away, red creeping on her cheeks, breath hitching in her throat. She gulps, shakes her head, takes a deep breath in, another out, and finally, looking at the ground, starts speaking again.

“When Dr Kimishima started the operation I…” She hides her face in her hands, her notepad and pen clicking against the ground. “I’m sorry, this is so embarrassing, but I haven’t stopped thinking about it since your operation!” Well, this sure is going to be a dirty secret, as Tyler would have said. “But, when she started the operation, I noticed something on your chest, and…”

Your heart skips a beat. You forgot about that, haven’t you? You forgot she’d notice such a thing, didn’t you? Alas, it’s a bit too late to pretend like she didn’t see what she must have seen. Kyriaki nor Paraskevi are known to leave stains on one’s skin, they aren’t Tetarti.

“What did you see?” You ask, feigning ignorance.

“Ah… I don’t know how to describe them well… But they were two weirdly shaped scars around your pectoral muscles. They kind of looked like –”

“—crescents, right?”

“Yeah!”

Angie picks her notepad back into her hands, avoiding eye contact, much to his satisfaction. You really, really don’t want to have this conversation, this awful, rotten conversation you’ve had a couple times already. If it’s never ended too badly, even with your own mother, you still don’t want to live through it again. Alas, did you really think you’d escape it forever, especially with someone you hold so close to your heart (and in more ways than one too)? You’d have had to tell her one day anyway, so better get on with it, right?

Wrong. Your hands are trembling and your throat is tied into a knot. You don’t want to utter these forsaken words. You want that part of you to remain a secret from the entire world. But, alas, you also don’t want to lie to your trusted nurse, to your best friend during surgery procedures. In any case, she’d eventually guessed you lied to her, so popping the bubble off now or later is kind of the same. But, even with that knowledge in mind… It doesn’t make what’s about to happen any less dreadful.

Derek?

What if she isn’t as accepting as she seems? What if she stares at you right in the eyes like a freak, like a circus monster, like a broken doll that was badly stringed back together, like something that shouldn’t be, like, like…

Huh… Derek?

And, hey, what if she thinks you’re not fit for you job because of this? You’re technically experiencing a state of distressed triggered by the littlest things. It’s about faraway childhood memories, whenever you see a father with his biological child, when someone mentions a monthly event you’d have rather never known… Hey, what if that happened during an operation?

Dereeeeek? Are you still here?

You can’t ignore the existential dread coursing through your veins. You know, the one that happens when you remember that your father never called you by your right name, what was written on your birth certificate, what they called you in high school, how you look on all the pictures your mom won’t set fire to like you wish you could do… Yeah, that dread. That toxic, lava-like dread.

Hey, Derek, what’s wrong?!

Her urgent tone makes you snap back to reality. She’s staring at you with big, full of concern eyes, her hands on your shoulder, gently shaking it.

“Ah, sorry, I… must have zoned out. Sorry for worrying you, Angie…?”

“Are you alright? You’ve got tears in your eyes…”

You realize you have to look dumb and weird, so you take your glasses off and rub the water away.

“What were you saying, then?”

“Ah, huh… I was talking about the scars you had on your chest… I’ve never seen such specific shapes before. So…” Her hands tangle together. “I was curious, that’s it. Feel free not to reply, if it throws you in such a state of distress…”

“No, it’s… It’s fine. It’s just… difficult to explain.”

Your voice breaks when you try to push the words out of your tangled throat. You aren’t ready for this. You’ve not found your way out of there yet. You’ve been pushed into a corner and the only way out is to find the right words at the right time while not knowing how she’ll react. Maybe she’ll really think you’re the error of nature you are, you whose brain and body weren’t able to match, you whose chromosomes and spirit never agreed before your birth, you who has had to fight your way out of the mess your own biology threw you into before you were even born.

Her fingers are cold against your feverish skin, against the goose-bumps that your medical gown doesn’t hide well. You’ve made it this far only for your world to perhaps crumble again and the existential dread appears again. What if she never accepts you again? What if she calls you “Mr Stiles” again, starts staring at you with an amused glare? What if this supportive glance she gives you and the kind words she’s offered since you got over your differences disappeared as soon as she knew? Why is it that you always have to throw a shot in the dark when the truth of your story comes back to bite you?

You need to trust in Angie, don’t you? She’s been kind of your guardian angel until now, would she give up on you for this? Do you believe so little in her for that to happen? Aren’t you too harsh on her, aren’t you getting too caught up in your own web?

“I… got them from a surgery I had in med school. As far as I know, only Tyler and a couple other people are aware I have them.”

“From what kind of surgery?”

Here it comes. The nausea’s already here, twisting your stomach, squeezing your heart as it increases in pulse, choking your throat shut. If you weren’t in this bed, surely your head would spin.

“…Top surgery.”

Angie seems fairly confused, until her eyes snap open, glimmering in realization.

“You mean, like a mammectomy?”

“…Yes.”

Your voice almost fails you again. You feel tears you want to dry again burning your retinae, blurring your vision and the candid face of the nurse who’s just realized what you really were. You fucking liar.

“For…”

“Part of gender dysphoria treatment,” you reply trying to pretend to be an encyclopaedia, to be the internet pages you read in your teenage years when puberty got confusing and warped into a lucid nightmare.

“Oh my God…”

Angie’s face distorts in what you can only qualify as distress, horror or disgust. She tries looking at you, fixating on your bandaged chest, her gaze struggling to even meet with your face. You wish you could pat her head, tell her it’s fine, that she didn’t know, that you’re sorry for being that and not telling her before, that she’s right to feel betrayed if that’s the case; but your hands are numb and dirty, covered in acid and black mud, and you can’t dirty her like that because you, yourself, are a special kind of a biological and anatomical failure. She’s a collection doll, you’re a broken toy.

“I’m sorry, Derek, I’m… I… I shouldn’t be like that!” She stumbles on her own words. “You’ve just told me such an important thing and I… I…”

“It’s fine…” You try to sound reassuring, but the truth is that you’re still shaking, terrified and apprehensive.

“I should’ve known! It’s such a sensitive topic, I… God, Angie, you need to pull yourself together and stop being so noisy!”

He clutches her hand at last.

“It’s fine, really. I’m… at least glad I could tell you by myself…”

That’s not entirely wrong. You just wish you didn’t feel backed into such an uncomfortable corner. It’s not her fault, of course, she was just concerned for an abnormal thing about you… A lot of you is abnormal, after all.

“I’m still me, though.” He wants to assert that with that shaky voice of his. “It’s just something I don’t like… talking about, per say.

Angie takes a deep breath and focuses back into a state of stability.

“Of course you’re still you, Derek. You’re still the surgeon who saved the world from GUILT. I would never stop thinking that. You’ve always been Derek to me, why would that change now?”

The warm smile he gives her make the hair on his skin calm down, little by little. It’ll be okay, eventually.

“I’m just… so sorry I forced you to confess like that.”

“I’d have had to tell you anyway, one day, I suppose…”

“You didn’t have to. At least, not this early…”

“It’s fine anyway. I forgive you.”

“Thanks…”

For the first time since she’s entered the room, you can exhale with a relieved heart and a normal pulse, profit from the rainbow that shows up after the rain. The dread is still there, hiding like a snake in your stomach, ready to bite into your throat at any moment of vulnerability you show in front of it; but, now, you have a new ally to help through the storms.

“Just promise me you’ll never tell anyone, okay?”

“I never planned on having that secret exit this room. Not even the walls of Caduceus will know about it!”

You chuckle.

“I like your spirit.”

You want to thank her again, but it feels like overkill, and you want to have the snake finally resting, asleep in the pit of your abdomen. For now, a serene silence is enough. It’s more than enough after all this trouble, all the turmoil and all of the acid rain that drenched the both of you…

There’s no need to worry anymore when you have nothing left to hide and no one but a guardian next to you; so relax, now. It’ll all be fine, from now on, now that the lead prison around your chest is gone…

#trauma center #derang #bad things happen bingo #derek stiles #angie thompson #forced out of the closet #emotional hurt comfort #angst #angst with a happy ending #otp: nice work dr stiles

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jenniferdiazisatransgirl · 7 years ago

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Depression

Hey guys, So I mentioned a few days back that I am suffering with dysphoria again which is causing me to be depressed. With the exception of days where I have exhausted myself from work I am having extreme difficult sleeping and even when I do sleep I am getting up repeatedly in the night. My sleep is getting disturbed quite a lot.

I’m just wanting to warn that I may end up needing to take a break from Tumblr again. It might not happen as fortunately, my depression isn’t quite as bad as it was last year. Last year, my depression was triggered by my coming off hormones in preparation for surgery and then going back on hormones didn’t help levelling me back out. I was in a bad way then and there was no real reason aside from the medication screw around, which albeit necessary was awful. Long story short I had to go on antidepressants for 6 months to get me back to my normal self.

Unfortunately though, for all the great things transitioning has done for me, I remain very masculine in appearance. As I said in my last post touching on this subject, nearly every stranger I encounter genders me as male and the odd time they gender me as female it is from behind and the second I turn I get the “Oh, sorry Sir.”

This has been going on since the start of my transition and for ages I have been able to say “Don’t worry, the hormones will fix it.” And after that, “Well removing the factories can often have a final feminising effect.” Now there is very little dreaming for that next miracle to come along. My next big hope if FFS which I’m starting to make steps to pursue with all the resources I presently have at my disposal, which at this point is a rereferral to my Gender Identity Clinic and praying for the downright best.

Honestly, I think after FFS I can finally be truly happy in my own skin. Right now though, even if just by complete strangers, the being referred to as male day in day out really just starts to dig at me, especially so far into my transition. I mean I try my hardest not to let it get to me but the truth is it does and it does dig at me. And I’ll have to say the present political climate doesn’t help where there are some people in rad fem and far right circles who’d happily label me as being “Not trans enough” or worse. It builds and the result is depression seeping back in.

I’ll try and keep going as long as I can though. I’m gonna at least try and get to the end of this season of Once Upon A Time which ends way after this season of SVTFOE. But just be warned I may have to take a break and if I stop interacting as often as I usually do this will be why.

I do apologise but fingers crossed in a year or so I should be in a much healthier place. I pray to God I’m in a much healthier place. Really not sure how much longer I can go on like this. The struggling to sleep is really really wearing on me.

And just to avoid any concerns about my safety, I can assure you I am not a danger to myself and I am perfectly safe. Just very very very very very exhausted and wish to God I could get a good night sleep.

#mtf #transgender #depression #Blog Announcement #Miscellaneous

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theamberfang · 5 years ago

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Journal 119

I didn’t mention it in my last post, but yesterday I watched a video that explained just how bad sugar is for people. To sum it up briefly, years of high sugar consumption has many of the same effects as years of alcoholism, primarily when it comes to liver damage and the accumulation of fat in the body. It inspired me to spend today consciously avoiding sugary things: candy and cookies of course, but also ostensibly healthy things like fruit juices.

I ended up watching more videos from that channel, learning about how fat and salt are far less harmful to our bodies than popular media had led me to believe in my lifetime, and how carbohydrates in general have many of the same effects as sugar does. I’m not sure if there’s any distinction yet, but I imagine carbs and starches are still an improvement over straight up processed sugar and high fructose corn syrup. At any rate, I still ate a good amount of rice today and since I live with my family, I can’t exactly stop eating rice. At the least, I suppose I can endeavor to eat less of it, as well as other grains in general.

Even though I’m pretty sure reducing my sugar consumption for a single day wouldn’t have noticeable effects, I am feeling better now. It’s mostly a mental thing: it feels like I’ve set my sights on an achievable goal that would have significant impact on my life, and it feels good. Also, for this first day at least, it didn’t take much effort. I mean, the core of this endeavor is simply “not doing something.” I’m not going out of my way to accomplish anything, so it’s not triggering any anxiety.

Another aspect is that this might help with my dysphoria. I know I’ve said I’m quite skinny before, and that’s still true if you just look at my limbs, but I do have a bit of a gut that’s bothered me for years at this point. I didn’t really know what I was doing wrong to get this belly, but now I know that it’s a “sugar gut” basically. Admittedly, this isn’t totally a gender specific thing, but it’s generally seen as less acceptable for a woman to have a gut and be out of shape, and for better or worse, this is one of the things I’d applied to myself even before I figured out my real gender identity - I recall being particularly proud of having an hourglass figure in high school. There’s also an aspect of it feeling “womanly” to be concerned with my diet and nutrition, especially for the purpose of improving my appearance - again, not necessarily a great gender norm, but it feels good for me to line up with it.

Hopefully once I get my sleeping schedule readjusted and I manage to actually talk to my family to some degree, I might be able to convince them to lay off the sugar and change our groceries and meals. Maybe I’ll also participate in some of the cooking, which is definitely something I’ve wanted to practice, especially to learn things from my mom, but I’ve been too anxious to do.

Tomorrow goals:

Keep up with waking earlier each day

Minimize sugar consumption as much as possible, and reduce the carbs

Journal

#daily journal #personal #meta #diet

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artificialqueens · 7 years ago

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Bees and Butterflies (Katya-centric Katlaska) - Cactus

A/N – WARNING: Super-long author’s note. Can’t be bothered to read? Just get the bit in bold to see the warnings.

Hi guys! My name is Cactus – new writer, long-time reader. This is just a one-shot to get me started, for now.

In this universe, Katya and Alaska are both boys – Brian and Justin. Brian is a trans man (FTM), and Justin is cis – I’m a trans guy myself, and a lot of the feelings/experiences Brian has here are things I or people I’m close to have dealt with –disclaimer that this isn’t everyone’s experience of being trans; I don’t speak for everyone. The boys are both in college and for the context of this fic, Brian is younger than Justin, which I know isn’t reality but meh, that’s what ended up happening.

Pronouns: He/him for Justin throughout. Brian is he/him, but she/her is sometimes used in his own internal monologues. You’ll see what I mean – I hope it makes sense.

This one isn’t the most cheerful – a fair bit of angst / hurt/comfort, although there’s some fluff in the middle to keep everyone going. So in the spirit of that - CONTENT WARNINGS: Gender dysphoria / misgendering (this is the big one, that’s a theme throughout), mention of self-harm/suicidal ideation (very very brief), drug/alcohol use mention, mention of death (very brief), transphobia. I’ve tagged these, and I’m being conservative with them because I don’t want to trigger/upset anyone, so even the slightest mention earns itself a tag.

This one is super Katya-centric, but let me know what you think, especially RE: Characterisation because it’s my first time writing these characters. I’m keen to continue with this universe and write fluffier/happier things within it as well, and I’m keen to explore Justin’s perspective more if people would be interested.

Enjoy! Cactus

Eyes up. Head forward. Breathe.

You’ve got this.

So goes Brian’s daily shower mantra.

And if the shower edges to the wrong side of scalding, an attempt to burn all the wrong in him and on him away; and if he scrubs at his skin a little too long and a little too hard, some part of him hoping that the she, the her, would slip away down the drain with the swipe of a washcloth; and if a cocktail of shampoo and tears set his eyes on fire each time pruning hands brush over breasts, the lies his body persists in telling protruding from his aching chest –

If these things happen, then nobody is there to see it.

These are the minutes of Brian’s day which make bile burn in the back of his throat – the minutes in which he can’t bind and pack and dress his body into a story that’s his.

No matter what he tries, these minutes are always her’s, and her body echoes with the ripples of everything that he isn’t, and some nights he showers sitting down, tears and water merging through palms pressed to his eyes until he sees stars.

And some nights his eyes linger a moment too long on the razors that his roommate leaves on the bathroom counter, as if he could carve an escape map on his arms and his thighs and leave this lying skeleton behind – but he refuses to die in her body. He can’t stomach the concept of lying under a gravestone dedicated to a phantom that never truly existed.

And some nights he sings, loud and off-key and awful over the drone of the shower, a futile attempt to drown out the voice in his head which slips up and calls him she more often than he’ll own up to (because if he can’t get this pronoun thing down, how the fuck can he expect anyone else to?).

And some nights he thanks every deity he gave up on years ago, that the bathroom mirror fogs over before he steps out of the shower – grateful not a strong enough word when he isn’t confronted with his face on her traitorous body.

But some nights, a hand will reach to wipe away the fog (small, dainty, too much hers and not enough his) and Brian will force himself to take stock of his body – to take inventory of the house he’s grown up in, that he so often dreams of burning to the ground.

(This is invariably a mistake. These nights are the worst nights. These are the nights when sobs threaten to shake his body apart at the joints, to scatter him across the white tile floor).

Some nights, showering is hard, and other nights it’s worse, the skin he’s forced to share with her crawling as he exposes himself, but he clings to the hope of one day it won’t be like this like a life raft.

(And if this is a life raft then someone’s punched some holes in the fucking thing, because it never keeps him buoyant for long.)

On the first day of class, his freshman year of college, there are icebreakers which elicit a unanimous groan rippling around the room as they are asked to share their name, major, and one thing they hate.

(‘That always provides more interesting answers than ‘something you love’ – I don’t give a damn about your dog, or your grandma, or your favourite TV show’ clips the teacher, face wrinkled and folded and faded like torn edges of a weathered road map).

‘Brian, performance art major, and I hate showering more than anything in the world. If I could, I’d find a way to remain clean indefinitely without ever having to shower’ draws laughter from his classmates for the conviction behind his answer, punctuated with staccato hand movements and an open palm slapped on his desk.

The best jokes bloom from seeds of pain.

******************

Brian gets dressed in the dark.

The irony of this, given his penchant for problem patterns and clashing colours which cause friends and (very fucking rude, thank-you-very-much) strangers alike to jibe that he looked like he was dressed by a colour-blind six-year-old with ADHD, thank you Trixie, is not lost on him.

It isn’t – contrary to popular opinion – that he doesn’t care what he looks like; he is, in fact, pathologically particular about his clothing and general appearance.

He spends eons agonising over what to wear, bony fingers grazing back and forth amongst shirts and pants in his closet which he pulls out in endless combinations, finding fault with each in turn with expert precision.

A teal tank top – No. Won’t hide his binder.

A red plaid shirt that he’d fallen in love with in the store – Won’t make his chest look flat enough. No way.

A green floral jacket, garish and ugly and bright and perfectly him; it had been the first piece of “men’s clothing” he’d ever bought (although last he’d checked, none of his clothes had a penis or a vagina, and therefore gendering of clothing was archaic fucking bullshit), and a smile had itched at the corners of his lips the whole walk home, persisting even through the traitorous I’m sorry, ma’am of the man who’d bumped into him on the pavement.

He aches to wear it – to slip it over too-narrow shoulders and walk out the door with every ounce of the Pride that he sees in others, but can’t seem to dredge out of the gutters of his own veins.

But garish and ugly and bright is certain to elicit stares of strangers – and staring strangers means people who will look through him to find the her he’s choking back, staring strangers means not even Justin’s hand dwarfing his own can quell the rolling of his stomach, staring strangers at best means yes ma’am, means young lady, means the ladies’ bathroom’s that way, aimed at him like needles in the soft skin behind his knees, and at worst –

The blazer joins the pile of discarded clothes on his bed.

One day.

Glancing at his phone and realising he has – motherfucker, he only has twenty minutes before he needs to leave to meet Justin, and absolutely positively in no way can he be late, Barbara – he settles on black skinny jeans and a graphic T shirt that’s both loose and high-necked enough to conceal his binder.

Not what he would choose, necessarily, but the clinging denim and nylon are enough to choke the rattling breath out of her for the evening.

He reaches out and flicks the switch; plunges the room into darkness by the time his towel hits the floor. The dark won’t – can’t – smother her. But at least he won’t have to see it.

Lights off – clothes on.

This will do – for now.

**************

Leaning against the wall of the movie theatre, casual in a way that’s calculated and intentional, Brian waits for Justin. He’d bit the inside of his cheeks to swallow a wry smile and feigned annoyance at the ‘I’m so sorry I’m going to be late – I’ll buy you popcorn to make up for it! 😊” that had popped up on his phone ten minutes previously, honestly expecting nothing less of his boyfriend (and holy shit it felt so good to be able to call Justin that).

Pulling his jacket tighter across his shoulders, bitten fingernails drum residual tension out into the bricks behind him.

Beneath the carefully constructed calm façade, his brain vibrates dully with the bees humming at the edges of his skull, wings beating out a dirge of keep your shoulders back it’ll make them look broader and don’t pop your hip it makes you look feminine, with stand up straighter it’ll make you look taller and that guy at the bus stop has looked over here five times now does this mean I don’t pass?

The bees are something which he can, if not ignore, relegate to the back of his mind on most days; a disquieting, discordant constant that underscore his existence. On some days, the days he doesn’t talk about, the wings beat themselves into a flurry, swarming and swooping and stinging him in places he tries to numb with pills and booze and blunts and Justin.

Justin.

And the sight reaches inside him and pulls laughter out from way down deep, and for once he doesn’t care that it’s too high too feminine too her, because Justin is fifteen minutes late and still walking the pavement like it’s a runway, slow and yet purposeful, all hip and leg and sass like a high-fashion giraffe, and the bees’ wings scratching at his temples slow a little as Brian pushes himself off the wall and crouches, miming taking pictures like a photographer at one of the fashion shows Justin makes them watch together.

And Justin is hamming it up, twirling and pouting and posing, and when he reaches Brian they both glance left right left and behind them for unkind prying eyes before you’re so fucking stupid is breathed from one set of lips against another between quiet chuckles and Justin tastes like vanilla and home.

And “sorry I’m late” and “you owe me popcorn, Brenda” is as good as I love you for both of them.

And a hand clasping his as they walk inside, homophobes be damned, and the casual ‘hey, boyfriend? You look handsome’ said like it’s nothing when it’s everything, turns the bees in Brian’s brain into butterflies for a while.

*****************

When they’re buying tickets inside, and the young girl behind the desk (fumbling and awkward, smudged glasses slipping down her nose as she prints their tickets) smiles sweetly and asks Justin if he and his girlfriend will be paying for tickets together or separately, it feels like someone’s taken scissors and sliced across every muscle and tendon that holds him upright, he wants to origami himself invisible because she said girlfriend, so he looks like a girl, because who is he kidding he’ll always be a girl, and Justin deserves the type of real man that shots and scalpels and sheer fucking will won’t – can’t – make him, and –

And the pad of Justin’s thumb presses itself in an arch across the back of Brian’s shoulder, firm and there and as reassuring as if the other man had pulled him into an embrace, as he looks the woman in the eye and informs her that yes, he and his boyfriend will pay together.

And the reply is polite, and it’s courteous, and Justin’s smiling as it passes his lips in a Sahara-dry drawl, lips snagging and dragging on every vowel, but it’s laced with conviction and with don’t fucking question this, bitch and the girl’s owl-eyes, impossibly larger behind coke-bottle lenses, widen as she takes their cash, grins an enjoy the movie, sirs, and watches them walk away.

And Brian exhales, her fingers unfurling as sweating palms wipe against his jeans.

And Justin’s lips are quirked lopsided as he walks beside him taking Snapchat selfies, trying every filter and guffawing unashamedly as they distort his face, showing Brian every one and saving the most wonderfully heinous to his Camera Roll.

(And it will take three kisses and a joint, later that evening, for Justin to convince Brian to take a selfie with him, and when he relents Justin glows enough to make Brian wish he’d agreed an hour ago, and they take about 50 in Brian’s bedroom before there’s one they’re both happy with, and Justin captions it “Effortlessly photogenic boyfriends” with a clown emoji and puts it on Instagram, and 112 people like it.)

There’s a bounce in Brian’s step as they ascend the stairs to the movie theatre, and he’s all wide mouth and crinkling eyes as he turns to Justin, mirth in his voice.

“Did you hear her? She called me sir!”

And the other man laughs, honest and joyful, locks his fingers through Brian’s where they’re clasping his arm in excitement.

“Damn right she did, sweetheart!”

Sometimes it’s the little things.

***************

The movie – some saccharine, vapid rom-com, because finals week is approaching like a freight train down a steep hill with broken brakes and neither of them have the mental capacity to cope with anything heavier at this point – is simultaneously fucking terrible and worth every penny.

There isn’t much in the way of plot, and what plot there is they struggle to follow, too busy furnishing elaborate and so-implausible-they-could-come-true backstories for every character on screen. They decide that the heroine is really a Latvian supermodel who teaches disabled cows gymnastics in her spare time, and the hero a retired circus clown now working for MI5, and Justin is laughing so hard he almost chokes on the popcorn that he’s eaten about 97% of despite the fact that he’d bought it for Brian as an apology for being late a-fucking-gain, asshole, and Brian, when he realises, grabs one of the strawberry laces that taste more like a chemical plant than anything resembling strawberries, and feigns choking Justin with it.

And Justin – the fucking drama queen – is so over-enthusiastic in faking his death that he slips off his chair onto the sugar-sticky linoleum floor, then, deciding it’s more comfortable, remains there for the rest of the movie, periodically throwing popcorn kernels at his boyfriend.

And Brian thinks three things simultaneously:

1) How in the ever-loving hell is this overgrown, beautiful 21-year-old goddamn toddler about to graduate college?

2) The three other people who’ve got little enough common sense to have actually paid to see this shit, must really hate us by now.

3) Finals are clearly turning both of our brains into a vat of cold, lumpy mashed potato between our ears, that’s being stamped on by an elderly man with sweat problems comparable to Brian’s. And athlete’s foot.

Then the credits roll, Justin hoists himself back into his chair as the house lights come on, and neither of them could tell you the first thing about what the fuck they just watched because they’re both too far into a spiral of giggles to know why they’re laughing anymore beyond why the fuck not. Because their lips are loose and happy like rubber bands that have been stretched too far and Brian’s fishing popcorn kernels out of his hair as they walk out to dirty looks from other movie-goers, and Justin almost knocks an unsuspecting ten-year-old flying because he’s talking with his whole body about how he could give a tortoise on Benadryl an etch-a-sketch and it would probably be able to write a more captivating storyline than that and Brian’s wheezing because Justin has so many opinions on a movie he just fully didn’t watch.

Brian smokes outside while they wait for the bus, half-slumped against the taller man (and damn, he hates being short sometimes, but it feels so good to be enveloped in Justin), and Justin’s eyeing his cigarette pointedly like he wants a drag, but Brian smirks softly and doesn’t relent, laughing ‘You already took my fucking popcorn, jackass’, and blowing smoke-clouds in his face when the other man flips him off.

They find themselves sitting perched up on the same wall, the buses as consistent in their lateness as they tend to be, silent and soft and feet swinging, stealing glances back and forth and periodically tilting their phones towards one another to share gorgeous makeup on Instagram, or a funny meme on Facebook, breathy chuckles and throaty hums of appreciation the only noises to perforate this bubble in which Brian feels unequivocally himself.

Then a man comes jogging through the double doors of the movie theatre – leaves them swinging behind him as he spots the pair of them and ambles over.

Excuse me, ma’am? You left your jacket inside.

And Justin’s hand is on Brian’s in a second, tightening imperceptibly as he drawls ‘Oh, Brian, you did forget your jacket’, eyes locked like a sniper on the stranger before them the whole time.

The man stiffens, and the jacket in question discarded quickly – strewn haphazardly over the wall next to them as the man turns sharply on his heel back towards the building.

It’s as he’s walking away that they hear it – thrown under his breath out into the early summer breeze, it turns the air at once stagnant and hot.

Fucking tranny.

And Justin at once makes to stand, to go after the stranger, to – to do what, exactly, Brian has no earthly idea, because Justin Honard is a twig, a high-fashion giraffe, built like Slenderman ready for a runway; he’d (quite possibly literally) be slaughtered.

And Brian may or may not have drunk his own blood in high school (because nobody can prove it and it’s therefore pure hearsay) but he prefers his boyfriend alive, thank-you-very-much, and so with quaking hands he grips Justin’s shirt, a murmured “please – just don’t” breaking past his lips, and he’s inclined to write a personal letter of thanks to whoever the fuck is in charge of public transport in this city when their bus arrives just at that moment.

The funny thing about bees? You don’t notice they’re gone, until they come back.

And when they come back, they come back louder.

*******************

He feels intangible, like he’s not even really there, as Justin grasps his hand impossibly tight and leads him onto the bus, his long face a paradox of clenched jaw and soft eyes that never leave his boyfriend.

Brian’s aware of the small things – his saliva thick and viscous against his tongue, his pulse throbbing one two one two in the soles of his feet, and before he’s fully aware of anything beyond fucking tranny fucking tranny fucking tranny a soft kiss that says both too much and not enough is pressed to his temple and he’s pulled down into the itchy-scratchy stained seats of the bus.

His face buried in the pale nape of his boyfriend’s neck, Justin’s fingers tracing silent affirmations into his spine, Brian breathes – shudderingly steady.

He doesn’t cry. Wants to, sure. Arguably deserves to.

But doesn’t.

It’s as though whatever part of him can express emotion – can do anything other than breathe right now – has shut itself down, locked itself away, and Brian is stuck in a shell – her shell.

And so he breathes, Justin a buoy that he clings to in a vacuum – Justin’s fingers on his spine, Justin’s scent in every inhale, his soft voice a lighthouse as he speaks aimlessly of nothing much at all as they drive through the city, expecting no response. Asking nothing of Brian at all.

Brian breathes.

Justin lets him.

******************

This isn’t blunt-force trauma; no bullets ripping through him, no knife-wound in his chest.

His blood doesn’t stain the seats – doesn’t seep down into the once-red-now-browning-orange fabric.

This won’t kill him.

It’s not a speeding car, 70 miles per hour downhill late at night, blowing her body into the air as a careless breeze carries autumn-burnt leaves.

(And those cars have, and do, and will, come for so many others like him, so many beautiful people whose minds and bodies, like oil and water, couldn’t ever mix, and the thought of all those others, all those graves he uses as stepping stones across this world he doesn’t quite fit into, all the bones of those who come before him that he ties together to build himself bridges, makes his breath catch a little even now.)

This is the bruise that blooms like violet bouquets on dirty elementary-school knees, the child crying more from the shock than the pain of the fall.

This is a papercut across the thumb – the pain greater than the wound, the sort of injury that’s met with rolled eyes and you’ll live, but stinging sweet and sharp.

No sirens; no drama.

He’ll live.

He’ll pull back into place the Jenga-bricks of his soul that shake and scatter themselves loose far too often and far too quickly.

(And some will chip, and some will crack, and more than he’ll own up to are stained and misshapen by now, and he’ll duct-tape them together – until next time.)

He’ll dissolve himself back into his reality; pull himself back to the surface by the thready rope of Justin’s voice.

Justin won’t ask are you okay? – knows this isn’t the sort of thing that is ever okay – and he’ll notice, but won’t mention, the way Brian’s attempt at a smile pulls too tight at reddened lips to be genuine.

As they step back off the bus, into a world whose acceptance of the who and what and why of him – of them – is tempered at every turn with qualifications, Brian watches his ungainly boyfriend swing himself around on a lamppost, singing snippets of showtunes that the other man neither knows nor cares to learn as he wiggles caterpillar brows in time, refusing to stop until he makes his boyfriend laugh.

It doesn’t take long. It’s not quite natural – not yet – as it bursts forth, scratching against his teeth. But it’s there – piercing the dark.

Refusing laughter only snowballs stigma, so they’ll rub humour on the bee stings till they hurt a little less.

With Justin by his side, this will never kill him.

**********************

The intent had been for both men to return to their respective dorms for the evening; with finals approaching, and it being Justin’s senior year, both had to study, as well as navigate relationships with roommates whose begrudging acceptance of their impromptu sleepovers could only be stretched so far.

But Justin sends a text, and then he’s firing excuses one then the next at Brian, citing I need you to read over my French paper and You left your sweater at mine last week and It’s getting late, anyway one after another as reasons that Brian should come back to his dorm, barely pausing for breath between them.

Brian doesn’t take much convincing; neither man wants to end this evening with the slur of a stranger and a sombre bus ride, and Justin knows and trusts that Brian is okay, within the relative confines of the term (knows, from what Brian has said, and what he hasn’t, that he has heard, and does hear, so much worse than that), but, just for tonight, would rather his love was okay with him and not without him.

Nobody should have to make themselves okay alone.

A note pinned to the door, as they arrive, written hurriedly in a lazy scrawl, makes Brian crane his neck to pull Justin into a kiss.

JH -

You owe me one, dude – I’ll take beer or pizza as my payment (jk).

Staying with Tuck – back @ 7am to grab my shit.

Hope ur boy is okay.

Lucas

“You exiled your roommate for me? For the third time this week?! No wonder the guy hates me, Justin!”

“He’ll get over it, he’s a big boy. And he does not hate you, I’ve told you this!”

“Lies, mother, it’s all lies…”

**********************

They share a joint sitting propped up by pillows in Justin’s bed – drag from it what they both need. Brian pulls calm, dispels the low hum of latent anxiety that still nestles itself under the surface of his skin; Justin, peace, to relax the muscles that still pull themselves taut with protective anger at the thought of someone making Bri feel anything less than wonderful perfect amazing beautiful man.

Between episodes of Golden Girls that Brian knows almost as well as Justin by now, ugly selfies, and languid conversation about innocuous topics that somehow feel sacred because it’s them, they build themselves a fortress away from the rest of the world.

Here, nobody can touch them – even she is banished with one word from his lips.

Eventually, with hearts much lighter but eyelids now-too-heavy, lights are turned out and both wait to let sleep claim them.

Between bedsheets too thick for the season (because what self-respecting college student owns more than one set of bedsheets?) Brian clings to Justin.

Clings to him like the other man is the only thing tethering him to earth; pulls him close as though he wants to sink into his bones, crawl inside his skin and feel what it feels like to be born into a body that’s your own.

And Justin presses kisses, smooth like pebbles beaten by waves, into his lover’s shoulders, you are all the man I need you to be caught in a phantom breath between pursed lips.

And in the dark, they dress each other in armour, with closed-mouth kisses and cold feet pressed against another’s legs.

****************

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