#of course we can still use the word 'dysphoria' to describe those feelings if we want

[theabigailthorn]

What in the academic fuck is a GIC assesment

A GIC assessment (Gender Identity Clinic) assessment is the psychiatric interrogation you have to go through in Britain if you want permission to medically transition (and some aspects of legal transition too). Also called a Gender Dysphoria Assessment.

It involves answering a bunch of medically irrelevant, repetitive, deeply humiliating, repetitive questions like how you masturbate, what you wear when you masturbate, your sexual history, your childhood history, what toys you played with as a child, your employment, the clothes you like to wear, your relationship with your partners and family, etc. The classic is "Do you imagine yourself as a woman when you masturbate?" It also involves various psychiatric tests to check whether you're psychotic, which are deeply stigmatising. You will likely have to suffer this interrogation more than once if you want certain medical and legal doors to open. If you do not answer these questions "correctly" you may be refused transition.

If you want to get it for free, you'll need to wait several years, possibly decades depending on where you live, to be admitted to a Gender Identity Clinic.

If you want to go private, it will cost you about £500 a go, maybe more. (It's not technically a GIC Assessment unless it takes place at an NHS GIC; otherwise it's just sparkling humiliation.)

At the end of your interrogation you will - if you answered correctly - be diagnosed with "gender dysphoria." There is no way for them to check whether the answers you gave were truthful or whether you just told them what they want to hear. In Britain, about a third of trans people surveyed said they lied or withheld information during these assessments. There was no way for the 2015 American Psychiatric Association Working Group on gender dysphoria - the cis people who created the diagnosis* - to know that the interview data they based it on wasn't also full of people telling doctors what they wanted to hear! The unreliability of that data, some researchers have said, calls into serious question the use and sense of the diagnosis! * Fun fact: Ray Blanchard and Kenneth Zucker were both on that working group!

The NHS spends somewhere between 20 and 90 million pounds a year (depending on how you count it) on doing this.

Contrast that process to, say, the treatment pathway for menopause, where a cis woman who wants hormone replacement therapy can just get it from her family doctor 🙃

If you'd like to know more about this, I spoke about it here in more detail with citations

And wrote about it here

[gvtted-ratz]

read all our tags/ratings. they r important n give u all u need 2 decide if u wanna actually read or not. do not like the tags/rating? do not read.

FEM ALIGNING/IDENTIFYING PPL (unless mutuals/friends) DNI WITH OUR MLM WORKS. fem ppl can still request tho. respect our wishes or get blocked. yes we do read/check everything. we tag appropriately/use tags that go with our posts.

want 2 request? find the rules: here!

want 2 see all the fics? find em: here!

What’s Your Favourite Scary Movie, Eddie?

Edward Nashton (The Riddler) x Ghostface!Trans!M!Reader

Last Edited: 06/04/2023

TW: gore, blood, murder, stalking, dead bodies, transphobia, foul language, body dysphoria, phone harassment

Requested: no

Word Count: 2,381

AO3 LINK -> HERE

Notes: literally rewatching the batman 2022 as i make this lel. also, kinda think of the ghosftface from dead by daylight as i love that costume/look so the outfit that’s described. i finished this shit on 1 hour of sleep btw so hope u enjoy

He’s an odd man. His schedule used to remain constant until it didn’t. You’re unsure of what changed. He’s still a forensic account by all means. He forged those documents to get the job so of course he wouldn’t simply just quit. That part stayed the same. It’s after work when he deviates from his original schedule. Going out at night, spying on people, and getting odd information. There’s also his online presence getting stronger. You see him on his computer more and more. Sometimes he’s typing, other times he has some sort of outfit on to do live streams.

No matter what, he’s always busy with something. That something has gotten more and more odd these past few weeks. He’s obsessing over a vigilante. A man dressed in black who goes around beating people down until they cannot get up to fight anymore. A “Batman” is what they call him. For someone so many fear, little ol’ Eddie surely loves him. It makes your stomach twist in disgust. How can this man obsess over this random vigilante? Sure, he fights crime but he’s not going for the bigger people. He lets cops run around, nabbing the criminals only to let them go after a bit of bribing. Some saviour he is. Plus, to see this somewhat nerdy and dainty-looking man go for a man who appears to be jacked screws with your head.

You can’t help but want to maul your own skin at this observation. The mousey man wanting the dark, mysterious, and bulky body type makes you think of your own figure. You don’t have the exact body type so may want after all the struggles to so much as get the medicine you needed for your transition. It takes time, ranging from months to years. And the first man you see him obsess over is the usual “jacked” and “hot” man makes you angry. That original figure you had has changed over time, into something you’re more comfortable with. While some changes haven’t been made yet due to the lack of money, you feel better; like you can actually live in your own skin now after so long of feeling like your body was out to destroy you.

But that feeling does fade now and then, especially when you see someone you’ve been watching and pinning over for months wanting the one thing you feel like you can’t be at times. Sometimes it’s your mind, other times it's old words from people you knew. The majority is the people you see online spouting nasty things, all ranging from hatred to fetishizing; there are even times when it’s a mixture of the two. A “real” man is what they want. For some reason as well, a “real” man isn’t someone who takes hormones or changes their body. A “real” man isn’t someone who says they are a man, even if they don’t transition. If they don’t pass their assessments, they’re not a “real man”. But how can they be one? How do they know what a “real” man is? They call those bulky hunks in bars real men. They’ll call the men from the army real men. The men from the gym are real men. But the moment a man so much as acts, looks, sounds different or doesn��t have the “right” body, they’re fake. And to you, it’s all bullshit. No one has any right to tell someone they’re not a “real” man, especially when they themselves know nothing about you or others in the same boat.

So to suddenly see such people in his streams? You can feel yourself losing it. While you wouldn’t kill them for such a thing unless they preached or even tried to kill people for being different or “unreal”, it’s the fact that so many were actual shitbags added to it. From people who wanted to simply kill innocent people, to people wanting to do awful acts to those they hate, you can’t allow that. Spying from the rooftops and alleyways turns into watching him from his very own streams.

Your username on the streams is Gh0stFac3, read as GhostFace, is usually caught in the streams, never saying a word. You let yourself lurk while he’s online, letting out passionate rants about Gotham and some sort of “renewal plan”. You don’t necessarily watch him on these streams. You do listen though, taking down notes on his words. You do have other people to watch and kill later on, of course. Some from his streams, others from night outs. A few are even from your times at bars, hearing their nasty talking or genuine disgust about certain groups of people who’ve done nothing but live their lives.

Another name is jotted down in your notebook, a multitude of pictures clipped to the page with the target. You scratch at your neck from under the mask, sighing. It’s just another asshole really. This one is from one of Edward’s streams. From what you found out, the guy had been sending nasty messages to a coworker who rejected him. Pathetic in your case. But you can feel that itchy feeling creeping up under your skin. You’ll have to kill again soon. It’s like a drug and it makes you feel powerful in a way. From people seeing you as some dainty girl back in the day, nothing more than something to be used for bearing kids and eye candy to look at, to feeling like a man after treatment, meds, and eye-opening articles; along with blogs talking about their own experiences, you feel like you can actually feel and do the things you felt you deserved to do. The people who looked down on you or disowned you disappeared in just a blink. All you needed was time away to find yourself, who you truly are, before returning and dealing out the same amount of pain to them they forced you to go through for so many years.

You snap the notebook closed, rubbing at the face under your mask. All this thinking about how your body is, alongside was, is giving you a headache. It doesn’t help that you have more than just that man as the next victim either. You’re not sure who to choose just yet. Or, well, you do. However, all the constant thinking, together with your inner voice reminding you of all the transphobia you’ve faced thus far, is killing your mood. A snort leaves you. Killing your mood. You’re truly a riot with your own jokes.

You grab the flip phone closest to you, flicking it open. It’s a burner you picked up a bit ago. There were plenty of others but the satisfaction of snapping the phone shut after a call is enough for you to keep it around. You look at Edward’s stream; he’s still going. You give a sharp grin under your scream mask before dialling his number.

You can hear it ring from the stream. Seeing him go silent immediately is satisfying. He looks like a mouse again; a confused one at that. He starts up his rant again, seemingly going to ignore it. Narrowing your eyes, you end the call before texting him. The ding he gets is ignored. Another ding. Another. Another. His hands are shaking, eyes wide and crazed. Finally, you type in chat.

> Hello, Mouse.

The chat, usually fast, stops for a moment. They seem to notice something is off.

> Will you answer your phone?

> I’m calling.

> I’m texting you, Mouse.

People in the chat start to type, sending in a multitude of messages. Some are asking Edward if he knows you. Others are asking if you know him. You don’t answer them at all.

> Answer. I won’t stop calling.

He looks mad, grabbing his computer. “Who do you think you are? You know nothing! You’ve said nothing until now! You’re just someone trying to bring me down aren’t you?! You’re trying to destroy everything I’ve been working for to help Gotham!”

> Answer the phone, Eddie.

Everything stops. It’s like the entire chat froze as well as Edward. You know no one has any idea what his name is. The fact that you know it and suddenly type it with no hesitation only shows you know more than does. With shaking hands, he lets go of the computer and sits back in his chair. “I’m sorry everyone… But it looks like we have a leak. I’ll be making sure to get rid of the mole and that they are dealt with accordingly. I’ll host another stream next week after all of this is fixed.” His voice is eerily blank, almost like he’s bored or in shock. With those final words, the entire stream ends. You sit for a moment before calling him once more. Edwards finally picks up this time.

“Oh, Eddie… Did you really have to take that long?” The voice changer in your mask disguises your voice. From what you’ve been told by many victims before, you sound like a very attractive young man.

“Who are you?” His question, asked in a cold way, makes you hum.

“Ghostface. What about you, Eddie? Are you Edward Nashton? The Riddler? Who are you?” His breathing has changed; he’s panicked. You’ve heard that type of breathing so much that you don’t do much beside coo at him. “Don’t worry, Dear Eddie. I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to destroy all that you’ve been working on. After all, you’ve changed your schedule to fit this odd thing now…” You sigh, leaning forwards in your chair. You prop your masked head on your gloved hand. “After all, you spent so much time and resources on it. It’s honestly been the most interesting thing I’ve seen in years.”

“Why are you calling, Ghostface?” He asks, wanting to get this call over with. You don’t want that though. You like how he sounds in your ear. You like how you can make his breathing change with just a few words.

“What’s Your Favourite Scary Movie, Eddie?” The teasing way you say it only adds character, or that’s what you tell yourself. You want Eddie to like you. You want him to obsess over you as he does Batman. You want him.

“I’m not playing your games!” He’s stressed, practically about to cry from the frustration. You’ve ruined his stream, teased him over the phone, and called him Eddie in front of people who don’t know his name. In his eyes, you’re out to destroy him.

“Eddie…” You feel slightly bad. You really do want him to like you and this is the only thing you had thought of. It’s clearly not working. “I like you, Eddie. You’re doing what others can’t or won’t… How about a deal?” The idea of a deal to possibly end this talk seems to get to him.

“What’s the deal, then? Or are you going to keep talking to me in circles and messing with me?”

“I wasn’t trying to mess with you. As I said before. I like you. You’re the only person who went from a possible victim to something else entirely… You should be proud! No one has ever gotten that far! Usually, I’d be in their home by now, hiding and waiting for the right moment to strike…” As you talk, it seems he’s intently listening to you with genuine intrigue. “The fighting is always hard but so, so fun. And the moment my knife meets their flesh and blood spills? It’s beautiful.” You let out a sigh, one could almost call it dreamy with how you talk about your deadly hobby. “The screams are a bit much, not going to lie there, Eddie. They’re so loud.. But the moment the life is gone from those shitbags, I can make them oh so pretty.” You’re out of your chair, pacing around your apartment. Your combat boots are heavy against the wooden floors of your home. One of your hands moves as you ramble, giving more passion despite the other man unable to see it. “A few more cuts, maybe some mutilation, a bit of stabbing.. Then I have to set them up how I want and take a few selfies. The selfies are always fun… I can send you a few if you’d like. They always turn out great, I make sure of it.”

The silence on the other end snaps you out of whatever state you had been in when talking about your hobby. You don’t hear anything, not even Edward’s breathing. Your hidden lips pull into a frown. Here you are, pouring your heart out and he’s said nothing! No congratulations. No good job. Nothing. The squeaking of your gloves is heard as you tighten your grip on the burner.

“How does this help me? How are you going to help me with some pictures of your pinned-up dead bodies?” You grit your teeth, hating this call more and more.

“I’m saying that I can be your blade, dammit! You can sit in your messy lil’ apartment, talking, coding, streaming! I’ll hunt down whoever you want! I’ll mutilate them! I’ll leave clues or riddles, I don’t care!” You’re yelling into the receiver, finally tired of listening to the man’s complaining. Taking a deep breath, you try to calm yourself. “I do all the killing and you continue doing whatever it is your doing.”

“But what are you looking for? What do you get out of it?” A hum leaves you, letting all that rage go. A nasty smirk crawls over your features.

“I get to watch you work… I love seeing you put your pretty lil’ head to use after all, Baby.” You practically purr, the distorted warmth filling you. It’s unhealthy how much you like him paired with how much you want him to like you. Unhealthy or not, you don’t care. If he can have unhealthy views and plans, so can you.

You hear the end of his line go dead, having hung up on you. You give a mocking put from behind the scream mask. Quickly, you let your thumb fly over the numbers. You snap the phone closed, happy to see that this is the start of something very exciting.

> Can’t wait to work with you, Sweetheart ;))

[fenmere]

System Questionaire

from this post here by @pluralasking

100 questions below the cut!

1. What is your System name and / or the name you collectively go by?

The Inmara

2. Which word do you prefer to use for your System? (example: System, Collective, Constellation, ...)

a plurality (but we're OK-ish with system)

3. What are your Systems origins, if you choose to label them?

our system itself is protogenic with a mix of spiritual and developmental/neurogenic explanations for it (we were born plural and born to be plural), but we've definitely also been shaped by trauma

4. Do you have any Subsystems?

yes, three - one each by hemisphere of the brain, and the third much smaller and somewhere in between (possibly the lymbic system)

5. Do you have any Sidesystems?

no

6. What is your opinion on you& / your& language and similar types?

we think language like this should exist, but we personally find those particular forms autistically grating. We've tried genuinely for years to get used to them, but just cannot.

7. What methodes do you use to keep track of your System and it's Members?

blogging, mostly, though we do have a wiki

8. What is your Systems ways of communication?

basically every way you can think of (even sometimes sticky notes, but usually talking out loud)

9. Is communication hard or easy for you (and why is it the way it is)?

super easy for most day to day communication, which makes the barriers that crop up during stressful times hard to predict, see coming, account for, and accommodate we were born plural and have never not been plural, our brain is set up to do this. but, of course, stress and distress and inner conflict throw up stronger dissociative and amnesiac barriers, and those can really screw us up, because we don't see them coming

10. Do you view yourselves as parts of one person or as multiple people in one body?

we are a people, multiple autonomous individuals, who function as a small nation, with a national identity, with access to this meat mech that works just a little bit like a jaeger from Pacific Rim, allowing us to drift when piloting it - we can pretend to be a single person when we need to, but we are not one person by any stretch of the imagination

11. Who are you out to as plural?

everyone except our doctors and the government

12. What languages do you collectively / one of you speak?

English. We have three conlangs, and we've studied Spanish, German, and a tiny bit of Korean, but we can't speak any of these other languages, unfortunately. There's some kind of cognitive barrier or disability preventing us from learning how.

13. What is something you can't seem to collectively agree on?

what an acceptable body would be like - how to treat our physical dysphoria - this is at the center of why we are plural in the first place

14. If you have a collective Identity (such as Gender or Orientation), what is it?

autistic, plural, intersex, disabled, trigender, trans, therian - we are the Ktletaccete (plus some Outsiders)

15. Do you collectively identify as queer / LGBTQIA+?

WE'RE QUEER. WE HERE. and you know the rest.

16. Do you collectively identify as Otherkin, Alterhuman or Nonhuman?

Therian is our third favorite word, and the most recognizable. Our second favorite is Other, with the capital O, from Wildbow's Otherverse. But, we are Ktletaccete

17. Do you have a collective rentry / carrd / something along those lines? (feel free to share!)

our wiki! http://www.inmara.world/

18. What does switching feel like for you?

most of the time, we don't even notice it. There are a range of sensations when we do notice it. The most common is that it's kind of like when the optometrist flips the testing lenses when you're looking through the scope. Sometimes it's way more full sensory and amazing and just hard to explain.

19. Are you Monoconscious, Polyconscious or something else?

pfft! These words are worthless to describe us! (Hydraconscious comes the closest, but is still wrong.)

20. What does fronting feel like for you?

Becoming the whomever is fronting. We all become them, those of us who are co-conscious, and see through their eyes and perspective. Leaving the front is like becoming whoever replaces us. Usually! We've also experienced some of the other descriptions other systems have given, but usually rarely and during great times of distress.

21. How many System members do you have?

Approximately 4 million. We grow by about 230 members a day. That's according to our census, which we've taken three times. We've hand counted nearly 300 members who've fronted and identified themselves. Believe what you will. This is our experience and what we say to respect ourselves.

22. Which word / words do you prefer to use for members of your System?

Members, sometimes headmates, sometimes sysmates, always people and beings. Some of us are the populace, liaisons, the Crew, the Senior Officers, our Parents, and the Outsiders.

23. Which age group seems to be the most common in your System?

hard to measure, not sure - age is a really weird thing to us and we kind of don't like it.

24. Which gender seems to be the most common in your System?

It's an even split between Dragon and Girl, as far as we can tell. Both are non-binary for us, but Girl is at least female, Dragon is Aporagender/Maverique.

25. Are there any talents / hobbies you picked up because of a Member?

Yes. Every single one. We each specialize in a hobby, special interest, skill, or blorbo.

26. Do you have any in-system relationships?

So many, it's impossible to count. Some of them are basically celebrity polycules and couples, though.

27. Do you label roles within your System (and if yes, which ones?)

The most important roles to us are Senior Officers, Liaisons, and Id Monsters (also a gender). We also have the temporary stations of Captain, Pilot, and Support Staff.

28. Are most of your Members introjected, brainmade or something else?

The vast majority of us are introjected, though we kind of really hate that word (we also hate "brainmade" but for completely different and petty/irrelevant reasons). More accurate: The vast majority of us are Liaisons, created by Akailea and the processes of our brain in order to track and understand individual people and characters from outside our system. We can call them factives and fictives, but they are conceived in our brain through the same processes most of the rest of us are, and just are basically method actors of their subjects (what others call "sources", though that's not accurate for us).

29. Do you use names, emojis or something similar to sign off messages (and if yes, which ones and why?)

No. There are way too many of us to do this.

30. Do any of your System members use Xenogenders?

Obviously, most outworlders these days would classify Dragon and Id Monster as xenogenders, but we fucking hate that. Xenogender is a perfectly fine word, but we had a perfectly fine word before it, aporagender, and xenogender implies that Dragon and Id Monster are constructs outside of human society and possible and they are not. Even though we ourselves are not human, our genders are absolutely how we interface with human society - they only matter when we're fronting. To us, they are human genders, imposed upon us by a human world.

31. How do Members pick face claims?

Every way you can conceivably imagine. But since we have fairly accomplished artists, we often just doodle something up until it feels right.

32. Do you have any Introjects of popular sources?

Every single one we've been exposed to, yes.

33. Do you have any Introjects of unpopular sources?

Every single one we've been exposed to, yes.

34. Do you have nonhuman Members?

Some of us play human really well, but we are all nonhuman.

35. Do any of you use Typing Quirks?

Nothing particularly contrived, but we do have different typing and writing habits.

36. Do all of you front, or only a selected amount?

We can have up to three people co-fronting, but that's a strain. Typically it's just one at a time. But we can have up to 18 or 19 members co-conscious with the fronter. Any one of us can front. The vast majority of us never do. It's a bottleneck, not be ability but just numbers.

37. Are there any Members who can't or prefer to not speak?

Yes. Notably Jenifer, one of our two eldest who were born with the body. She's the mother of everyone in the right hemisphere of our brain. She cannot talk without the assistance of other members, and very frequently chooses not to.

38. Are most of you short or tall in height?

We all shape shift. Most of us are Liaisons for human beings, so most of us settle in to average human height. Those of us who front frequently, however, are usually way outside of that range, either really tiny or enormoustly hugely big.

39. Is there a Member that is collectively loved by all in the System?

A few. With different feelings for each. Ink is our system baby, and everyone we know of loves her and considers her a symbol of why we're still alive. Jenifer is our system mother, and grandmother, and is adored and respected for that. Eh is our system parent, and is respected for having taken the Captain's chair for so long and managing our life before we came out as trans and plural. Phage is our Chief Monster, greatest protector, and spiritual hero. And we are all generally in awe of its presence in our system.

40. Do any of you struggle with being front-stuck a lot of the time?

No. Those of us who thought they did found out that they weren't, that is was an illusion created by our conscious gestalt.

41. Do you have a Headspace (if not, is there a reason)?

What do you mean by "a Headspace"? When we were introduced to that word, headspace meant any space created by and for any system member, and that if you had an inworld of any sort you would have many headspaces. We have an inworld. We have a conscious headspace, or fronting room, that we call the Bridge. We have many, many personal and collective headspaces.

42. What does your Headspace look like?

EVERYTHING - but with a definite horror movie cast to it

43. How do Members look like in Headspace? (example: Cartoony, Foggy, Realistic, ...)

Usually foggy to realistic. But there've been some cartoons, which is great. We all can shapeshift and take on various different forms and natures. And we all each also see the others differently, kinda Rashomon-like.

44. Is there a reason why the Headspace looks the way it looks?

A combination of hard work and visualization on our part, and lots of residual trauma and fear.

45. Is it easy for you to enter Headspace?

Those of us who are awake are in the Bridge always, and see that is as simple as paying attention to what's not being seen by our eyes. For the rest of our inworld? Not consciously, except when we fall asleep and dream, no. It's almost impossible for us to do it as a conscious group while awake. But a single individual leaving the front immediately enters it.

46. Do you remember what happened in Headspace when you switch into front?

Only what's happened on the Bridge. The Gestalt on the Bridge is so strong that it overrides working memories brought from inworld. Dreams are kind of the exception, but then basically the whole Bridge has been dreaming.

47. Does time in Headspace pass (and if yes, is it at the same speed as in real life)?

Yes, and absolutely not.

48. What is your favourite place in Headspace?

The Garden of the Sunspot. It's our internal recreation of the fictional world we've created for our novels that supposed to be an allegory of our system. We're trying to turn it into a paracosm, and we've been moderately successful, and we've seen it in dreams, and it's gorgeous and we are absolutely proud of it.

49. Are there "NPCs" within your Headspace?

No, there are 4 million system members. Every person we meet in a dream or in our inworld is a full blown person.

50. Are there any interesting fun facts about your Headspace?

See above, really.

51. Are there any "System Stereotypes" you fit into?

Absolutely. We're not going to list them. There's no need. If you've gotten this far, you can probably already name half of them.

52. Who of you would be considered the "evil alter"? (in a lighthearted, joking manner)

Phage (@ohthatphage) and a handful of the Id Monsters. Some of them actually nearly killed us during our worst times, but they are persecutors turned protector, in the simplest and clumsiest outworlder terms.

53. What is your favourite inside-joke with a Member?

Not with a single member, but all of us: We outnumber Portland We actually outnumber a lot of places even bigger than that, but Portland is the nearest city and it sounds funny.

54. What is your favourite Plural meme?

55. Is there any character that you headcanon as plural?

We headcanon the entire series of Steven Universe as a single plural system - and are fairly convinced that's actual canon, really. At least as an intentional metaphor that's implicit.

56. Is there any show or movie that you believe is a good plural representation, despite that not being its intention?

No. (those that are good rep were obviously intended to be)

57. Is there any song that you believe describes your plural experience?

We have a whole playlist. But "Here to stay" by Lenka is phenomenal and basically our system anthem.

58. What about an artwork that describes your plural experience?

It's really hard to encapsulate it in a piece of art, but the cover of our most recent book comes pretty close:

59. Which Member of your System do you believe to be the prettiest of them all?

We don't play that game. Standards of beauty vary too much and are also arbitrary and used to oppress people.

60. Do you collectively have a lucky number?

Not really?

61. When did you first discover your System?

Ah. Hm. Depends on who you ask. We publicly admitted and declared we were system in late August of 2016. But some of us noticed a lot earlier than that, while fronting even, such as sometime in 1995.

62. How many Members did you know about during your Syscovery?

For our public and full system realization: Three. Anne, Eh, and Phage. Then very quickly after we got Phage to front, we realized that I must be part of our system, too.

63. Was accepting your Plurality a challenge for you?

Absolutely. We didn't think plurality was a real thing until it smacked us in the face right after we came out as trans in 2015. We'd been a system since the mid 1970s, so that's a lot of time in the closet and in denial.

64. How did you learn about Plurality?

In fifth grade, in the mid eighties, a classmate had seen some awful movie or documentary about Multiple Personality Disorder, and everyone else told them it was fake.

65. Where there any signs of your Plurality, if you look back at your past?

Absolutely. Possibly the first outward sign being our "imaginary friend" Spitfire. But, at the very least, between 2012 and 2016, our ex-wife definitely noticed way before we did. But, also, our earliest memories from the crib are divided between our two eldest, Jenifer and Eh.

66. Do you think your Syscovery changed a lot in your life?

Definitely. It made us more psychologically stable and able to manage our disabilities more effectively. It made us so much happier. But, coming out as plural also disrupted our social life way more than coming out as trans ever did.

67. If you're out to others as plural, have they ever told you later on that they already thought about it before you realised?

Yep! Our ex-wife hugged us and cried when we finally admitted it, for instance.

68. What was the biggest struggle during your Syscovery?

Initially, the shock and fear of realizing that the person we thought we were literally didn't exist at all. That what we thought was a single consciousness and soul was actually constructed of millions of souls and awarenesses, each with their own identities and separate memories. Then it was realizing that our collective memories of our past could not be relied upon 100%. We get big things wrong all the time. It's still, like 99% accurate, but that 1% are a bunch of real doozies.

69. Was there any big event that led to your Syscovery?

Coming out as trans and then dealing with being trigender with conflicting dysphorias. This also affected us profoundly before we came out.

70. What is something you want questioning plurals to know?

It's OK. You're probably different from nearly every other conscious being. You can identify however you need to in order to make sense of what is happening in your mind. You get to.

71. Are you Neurodivergent (and if yes, how?)

This is a very silly question of anybody who is plural, because all pluralities are inherently Neurodivergent. Plurality is an atypical neurotype. But, we're Autistic, ADHD, Dyslexic, Synesthetic, Plural, C-PTSD/DID, and Therian, among other things.

72. Do you have any physical disability?

Yep. Some constellation of chronic illnesses, including endometriosis, and some kind of connective tissue disorder.

73. Do you have a dissociative disorder?

We have had DID. Maybe we still do according to the outworld, and for the purposes of certain discourse we will absolutely claim it. But, really, we're not in distress about our plurality and don't like fully embracing any outworld terms, so, it's not really a disorder to us? But it disables the shit out of us for the purposes of functioning like a neurotypical singlet who can work.

74. Do you have any other disorder?

C-PTSD, Endometriosis, dyspraxia, dyslexia, and a bunch of unidentified physical stuff.

75. Do symptom vary in intensity depending on the fronter?

Yep! Even for the physical stuff (thought that's usually a matter of endurance and freshness of tolerance)

76. Do you think your disability / disorder has an influence on your plurality?

probably

77. Do you have amnesia of any kind?

Hahaha! YEP! Usually tiny amusing things, but we've had full blackouts, and aren't fully aware of just how often.

78. Are there Members who deal better with symptoms than others?

Yes. But often it has more to do with who's been resting more lately.

79. Do your disorders / disabilities influence communication or switching within your System in any way?

Yep. Too many subtle ways to recount. Except that when our sensory processing disorder is triggered frequently, that's when our DID symptoms flare up big time and really disrupt our life.

80. Does being plural help with your disorders in any way? (example: another Member switching in to take care of the body during difficult times, ...)

Yep! By switching off to spell each other, we can manage things more easily. Division of labor, application of specialties and talents, that sort of thing. But also the simply emotional support of the whole system is huge. When an entire country has your back, it's powerful.

81. Which is your favourite plural flag?

This one seems pretty good, we think:

82. If you have one, which is your favourite plurality related tumblr blog?

Mine.

83. What is a fun fact about your System?

Gestures upward at the rest of the post. We exist and we're like that!

84. What is a flavour of ice cream that describes you collectively?

Harmless Free Radicals Mint Mocha Chocolate Chunk at Mallard Ice Cream in Bellingham Washington. We, uh, invented it. It's named after my comic.

85. Which pride flag is the prettiest, in your collective opinion?

The trigender pride flag:

86. If you collectively had to choose between being a sweet or a sour candy, which do you pick?

Sour. Like, the sourest. You know the one.

87. Your body always morphs into what the current fronter(s) look like, would you want this power or not?

We've been daydreaming about that power since we were three years old. It is basically a medical requirement for us. It is a moral imperative for anyone and everyone to figure out how to give us this ability.

88. Is there a Hatsune Miku in your System?

Oh, absolutely, of course. At least one.

89. Who has been in your System the longest (if you can remember)?

Jenifer and Eh (born with the body).

90. If you collectively had to choose, would you rather only eat sweet foods or only eat savoury foods for the rest of your life?

No. We will not choose.

91. If you collectively had to choose, would you pick to become a vampire or a werewolf?

werewolf

92. Your body is transfered into one of your Members sources, which do you pick and why?

Nimona. "Why?" you ask. *rolls eyes* See above.

93. If all of you turned into animals right this second, which animals would we find in your System?

94. What would a Minecraft server with all of your Members look like? (example: chaotic, peaceful, laggy, ...)

Laggy as fucking shit. Basically incapable of being run on anything but a supercomputer.

95. If you could choose between only living in Headspace or only living in Meatspace (real life), which would you choose?

Only living in Headspace. We collectively wish that Meatspace had never, ever existed. It's the Worst Thing Ever.

96. What topic would you collectively make a youtube channel about? (it can't be plurality!)

The Sunspot Chronicles - it'd essentially be a video version of a radio play or audio book, with animatics ideally

97. Which superpower would your body obtain, if you had to collectively decide on one?

Nimona.

98. Who would pick the coolest tattoo for the System and who would pick the worst?

We've all collectively picked the coolest tattoo that'd we'd get, Ink. It's possible that our Liaison for Trump would pick the worst. We just don't trust them, for obvious reasons. We wish they weren't in our system, but that's not how our system works.

99. If you only were allowed to eat one food for the rest of your life, but you would have to decide on the food collectively, what would it be and what would the decision making look like?

Pizza. That would be the healthiest food we could stick to eating with the widest variation.

100. What is the most fun about doing polls and answering questions, in your opinion?

Talking about ourselves. We're terrible like that. We want people to know who and what we are so we're not forgotten when we're gone. It may be our strongest collective fear.

[transamorousnetwork]

How To Easily Destroy “Gender Dysphoria”

TRIGGER WARNING: The following is for REGULAR followers of The Transamorous Network. Having background in our material will help navigate the following, highly effective, yet controversial information. If you don’t have experience with our material NAVIGATE AWAY FROM THIS POST.

An interesting question to think about: the term in the title of this posting, which we will not use again because we wish to ignore it, came from somewhere (let’s replace that term with “@$%*!”).

It came from the same folks who once said transgender (AND gay AND bi) was an “abnormality” and a “mental illness”.

Now, of course, we know they were wrong. But how many people suffered and died or faced literal torture under edicts pronounced by mental health “professionals” and the scientific community?

Given that, why on earth would a transgender person go back to the same people, people who got it wrong time after time, and then accept their diagnosis that the transgender person suffers from “@$%*!” ? That term is not something trans people suffer from.

Suffering is an emotion. Physical suffering is an extension, an expansion, of emotional suffering. And all emotions tell us something we must know to get what we want.

All suffering happens when one tells stories incompatible with what we are (divine beings). Suffering also happens when one wants something, but thinks in ways that counter what they want. You’re a regular reader of this blog, so you understand this.

So let’s look at this “@$%*!” from a new perspective. One that can liberate trans people from medications, mental health visits and suicidal urgings. In other words, this article offers a powerful perspective that can allow trans people to live happily in their own skins. Happy and confident with what they are as they expand into something more.

A purposeful discomfort

People are whole and complete. Everyone comes into the world knowing this. They still are this, but they quickly forget. The stress some people feel when they perceive variation between what they know about themselves, and what they think others think about them, can knock them off their knowing. That’s where the variation comes from: They’re considering what they think others think about them. That’s the problem. Not “@$%*!”

Now, I get, some other people’s opinions matter. Or, rather, we make them matter. The problem with that is, when we do that, we set ourselves up for major trouble down the road.

“@$%*!” is variation, manifest inside us. It comes from thinking in a particular way about one’s self. A particular way that does not accept and honor the process of becoming more of what we all are.

The experience “@$%*!” describes is a signal the person experiencing it gives to themselves. That’s right. Humans think they are an integrated, single entity. That is not accurate at all. We are at least two consciousnesses (we are many more than that).

One aspect of that “we-ness” is our human consciousness, our ego. The other, more important one, is that timeless, eternal state of being from which we came and to which we will return. 

That part of us constantly communicates with us, here, in earthly experience. It’s extremely important. Not being able to hear it and follow its communication is what leads to all trouble humanity faces. Not knowing that communication is happening also creates “@$%*!” in trans people. That’s because when that discomfort happens, the person experiencing “@$%*!” thinks something is wrong with them.

But nothing is wrong with them!

A divine knowing something’s up

What’s happening is they’re thinking thoughts that vie with what they want. Specifically, they want to know themselves as a woman (we’re writing specifically about trans women, but this applies to all trans people). And, they want others to see them that way too.

But dominant thoughts (and experiences attracted from those thoughts) tell them they are not women. Those two experiences – thought and experience emerging from the thoughts – create discomfort. That discomfort is a signal; a signal they put there on purpose.

God, the Universe, the higher power, whatever you want to call it, doesn’t make mistakes. Everything emerges perfect. Not perfect as in “complete” or “done”. But perfect as in “ever expanding, eternal, ever new, ever more.”

So this idea being expressed as trans is not something wrong. The person wasn’t born in the wrong body either. That happened on purpose. That purpose brings tremendous value. Value to the individual, to those around them, to the world and the Universe at large.

Built into the perfection we all share comes this signal we’re tapped into. It’s there so we can respond positively to it. And we knew, before we incarnated, that, if we did, over time, we would benefit from listening to the signal. We would become more of what and who we are. We’d live more authentically. As we lived more authentically, we would also benefit countless other people. Our example would call others towards what and who they are. And, we knew we’d thoroughly enjoy every single step of this process.

We also knew we would get everything we want.

The knowing was there

Transgender people nearly all report early on in life knowing they were trans. They may not have known the word “trans”, but they knew something was up. At that moment, they were tuned to the signal.

But the world around them had them disbelieve what they knew with absolute, divine clarity: that they are ok the way they are. However, instead of focusing on the signal and what it tells them, these folks looked outside themselves for help with what’s going on inside them. That’s the problem. Not “@$%*!”.

The majority of people “out there”, have their own problems. They’re looking for people to harmonize with. Seeking solidarity with those people, whether professionals or peers, can feel like it helps. That help can feel like relief.

But “relief” is not enough.

Relief keeps us coming back for more of that. The experience of relief is defined by that which one seeks relief from. So relief is not freedom from what defines it. In other words, the person feeling relief remains trapped by that which they get relief from.

The power of self acceptance and self love

What trans people really want is self acceptance and self love. Not relief. Most forget this is available. Almost every trans person has forgotten this. Same with trans-attracted men, by the way.

Well, it’s time to remember!

When someone feels the way the label “@$%*!” triggers, how do we feel? Most will feel, at first, relief. They finally (think) they know what’s happening in or to them. But in short order, stronger, negative feelings will replace this relief. Why? Because, again, relief is defined by that which one seeks relief from.

Despondent, depressed, insecure, self-conscious, vulnerable, ugly, annoyed, etc., are what those with “@$%*!” feel among other things. Of course someone “diagnosed” with “@$%*!” would feel that way. That’s because the label doesn’t fit! It’s not accurate. A person doesn’t feel discord because they can’t reconcile the gender-oriented physical/mental mismatch. They came into the world knowing that experience would happen.

Why do they feel the discord then?

They’re feeling discord because how they’re thinking about the mismatch is mismatched with their inner knowing. They came into the world with this situation baked in, knowing it would offer awesome opportunity to be more of what they are. That opportunity is still there. It’s waiting for the trans person’s embrace. When embraced, gradually, great power comes into the trans person’s experience.

What does that power feel like?

It feels like self love. It feels like self acceptance. Both are extremely influential on physical reality. They’re so powerful, they will transform other people as well as the person feeling it.

So what to do? And is it really easy? Let’s look at that next.

^^Photo by Kenneth Sørensen on Unsplash

Getting out of the trap

The way out of “@$%*!” is unconventional and, yet, very simple. But it’s not easy. It is guaranteed to work though because the whole Universe works this way. But, like deodorant, we must apply it or our results stink.

We simply tell stories that feel better. Then keep doing that moment by moment, day after day, until our good feelings are just as permanent and recurring as thoughts and feelings associated with “@$%*!” are in this moment. It’s best to do this before getting into the loop of negative stories about “@$%*!”. Because once we’re in it, it’s harder to get out.

At first the practitioner usually doesn’t notice their negative beliefs are active until the practitioner experiences negative emotion. So when they find themselves there, the key is to catch it early.

Say “hmm, I’m feeling negative. What’s the story I’m telling myself that’s causing me to feel this way?” Then look and see. Likely the person is thinking about “@$%*!” or something else triggering the negative signal. When they do that, all the thoughts harmonizing with “@$%*!” become obvious.

For example, a trans woman might look at herself in the mirror, then see something about them they don’t like. Broad shoulders, for example. Narrow hips or a strong jaw line might do it. In a snap, that observation triggers a series of thoughts. That series of thoughts is where the negative emotion comes from. Not “@$%*!” Nor is it the other way around. “@$%*!” doesn’t cause negative thoughts. “@$%*!” is a made up label. A label that’s completely inaccurate. That’s all it is.

The power of thoughts

Now, the person experiencing this wasn’t born not in “the wrong body”. But thoughts they’re thinking about themselves are wrong. Negative emotions tell us that. They also tell us to do something about how we’re thinking.

But by labelling it, “@$%*!” we turn that thought process into a mental illness. That’s not what it is though! What the thought process is, is a clue. A clue we must not overlook.

It’s that communication mentioned earlier in this post telling the thinker to do something about their thoughts. And it’s a positive process; a process designed to move the thinker into more empowerment, self love and self acceptance

So instead, if we catch ourselves as soon as we can, then think different thoughts, in time “@$%*!” will evaporate. It’s that simple. After all “@$%*!” is not real. It’s a made up term used to give relief through treating that which was described with the made up label, which is false.

But we don’t need relief from “@$%*!”. What’s needed is to use the power of thinking. Isn’t it ironic that it is the power of thinking that got the person feeling these negative emotions? Why give it a label? All it is, is flawed thinking. 

Fixing that is simple.

^^Life experience springs from thoughts we think about it. Best then to think thoughts that feel good.

So what thoughts can we think?

Here are examples of thoughts one can think that will counter negative thinking that comes when confronted with aspects of ourselves we don’t like:

“There are a lots of things about me I do like.”

“I’m going to list those things….”

“This is a process and I’m moving through it.”

“I’m not always going to look this way.”

“If I think about it, I can see how far I’ve come already.”

“I’m making progress.”

Then, when the person feels better from thinking these thoughts, the next step is to amplify that better feeling with even better thoughts:

“Wow, I’m feeling better. Look what I did!”

“This stuff really works!”

“Yay me!”

“Wow, I am feeling even better!”

“That was fast!”

“I feel myself feeling even better now!”

“Wow, those negative feelings are completely gone now!”

“That was easy!”

If the person keeps thinking these kinds of thoughts until they catch themselves feeling better, they will, with certainty, eliminate “@$%*!” from their experience over time. But the person must do this any time they feel an onset of negative feelings mental health professionals have slapped that label on.

Try it now and see for yourself how effective this process is.

It’s like shower and soap

No one’s perfect at this at first. But hey, no trans person is perfect with make up or voice and such from the start. So why expect perfection out the gate with this?

Besides, perfection, in the way humanity thinks about it, is a trap. The perfection of this practice is an ever-becoming-more perfection. That is the basis of self acceptance and self love: knowing you are whole and complete right now. And…getting better with every moment.

“@$%*!” is optional for every trans person. Instead of that trans people can enjoy every moment of their trans experience, no matter what stage they’re in right now.

This process is guaranteed to work because it’s how the Universe works. But like taking a shower, unless we get in the water and employ soap, our results stink. In other words, we must use this process and do so as regularly as we can. Then watch and be amazed.

If you think this is all hogwash, then fine, keep suffering with your “@$%*!”. Again, all that suffering is optional. And if you haven’t tried this process and still have a negative opinion of it, your opinion is completely uninformed because you haven’t tried it. No wonder you might think it doesn’t work. You haven’t tried it!

If you are trying it and need help, contact me. I’ll even talk with you to get you started at no cost to you.

Trans people are here to expand what it means to be human. But if they can’t accept themselves, if they turn to an industry that once saw them –– wrongly –– as abnormal and mentally ill, how are they supposed to actuate that expansion?

Deliberate use of the creation process

If you’ve received treatment for “@$%*!” and are feeling great, then great. Many trans people diagnosed with “@$%*!” have found relief. But remember what relief is! Just because that’s soothed doesn’t mean the problem’s fixed. Those thoughts are still there, swirling around in your head. I know because I’ve worked with trans women being treated for “@$%*!” and have talked with many more.

It’s likely additional thoughts have you feeling disempowered. For example, believing the world around you defines you or what’s possible for you. Or thinking you’ll never meet a man who will accept you. 

This “thought process” thing as the origin of human problems is not going to go away simply by treating “@$%*!”. That’s because the “thought process” thing is the basis for the creation of the world you experience. 

The cool thing is, when a person deliberately uses this process, she can create literally amazing things. Nothing is off the table! Including having a fulfilling relationship, a large income, or feeling peace about yourself. 

I encourage everyone to pay less attention to the opinions of others. Especially the mental health industry. Find your empowerment in your self. I’ve written extensively in this blog (and my other one) how to do that.

Nothing compares to seeing your reality, deliberately created by you, emerging from your thoughts. Your thoughts are the only place all realities emerge. So why not take control of that process and make your world how you want it to be?

It’s simple. Not easy. But worth the effort.

[blackbutler-readerinsertsandjunk]

HIIII HOPE YOU HAVE A GOOD DAY<<3333 can i request headcannon of being friends with grell?? and the reader understands her issues of being trans even tho they are from the victorian era? <3

EYYYYY THANK YOU!! you have a good day too bb!!

my personal headcanon for Grell is genderfluid, so I did make some mention of that here

but I also did stick to fem pronouns for this one and hopefully it’s what you’re looking for!!

we stan a supportive friend, good on ya reader!!! <3 <3 <3

Frustratingly enough, she barely knows how to even explain it to herself, let alone how to explain it to someone else. “Sometimes I feel like a woman, sometimes I feel like a man, sometimes I feel like both, sometimes I feel like neither”, doesn’t that sound batty? It sounds batty to her, but that’s how she feels! She doesn’t have any real word for it; thankfully, you at least sort of understand what she thinks is a confusing explanation.

(When she was still human, people took heavy issue with any attempt to describe what she felt that she could give them. When she tried to say she sometimes felt as if she was in the wrong body and sometimes not, she was met with those around her saying that she was ‘accusing God of making a mistake’. Of course, that was unacceptable and earned her punishment, so she learned not to say anything at all. The wildly varying dysphoria and the reactions of those who should have loved her were the biggest reasons behind her eventual suicide.)

Nowadays she’s quite unabashed about who she is, of course. She isn’t afraid to correct you if you’re happening to use the wrong pronouns or title on any given day. Anyone who doesn’t, in passing, she simply walks away from and doesn’t let it bother her; those people don’t know her, after all. You know her, and you’re a sweet little darling who always treats her well. Although you’ve never been outspoken about it, she gets the feeling that if someone hassled her, you’d be at her defense before she had the chance to summon her scythe.

… Oh, you bought her a cute dress?? Holy heavens, and it actually fits?! You’ve been paying attention!! She usually dresses in a more masculine way simply because it makes her job easier, having to move about collecting souls and whatnot… and yet… she’s so weak for getting to dress up. You know her tastes so well by this point, it’s almost as if she picked it out herself. God forbid you have somewhere to take her once she’s all dolled up ― she’ll get quite giddy about being ‘shown off’ as a pretty lady.

Alas… if you just want to be friends, she’ll understand. Much as she craves romance, she does know some things weren’t meant to be, like Romeo and Juliet. Ah, well! It’s almost a blessing, because she really does need more actual friends. Ronald is okay, but he goes out on dates a lot so isn’t quite a constant presence in Grell’s life. Othello is alright too… he’s so focused on his work, though, she sees even less of him than Ronald. And William and Sebastian… well, they’re just playing hard to get! She really could use someone who’s there often and doesn’t have any ulterior motives other than wanting to be her friend.

Well, as a friend and not a lover, she does let you help her with things like… shaving. And getting dressed, complete with tightening her corset. It’s not quite as embarrassing when it’s you, because you sort of get why she wants to do all these things. It’s a safe bet she won’t be as shy with you, and she’ll actually let you help, whereas she probably wouldn’t let a romantic partner assist her with those things. (… Except perhaps the corset part.)

She really is grateful for your presence in her life, you know? There aren’t too many people who would stick around her for better or worse. Even though you might never fully ‘understand’ what she’s going through without being told, maybe not at all if you aren’t cut of the same cloth she is… she doesn’t really care. You accept her for who she is, and that’s enough. The two of you are stuck with each other!

[tiktoks-for-tired-tots]

Hi I wanted to ask a question about transgender. Please don't be offended, I just want to learn. I'm not antitrans, my sister is trans. Actually, when she decided to tell us all, she was in her 30s and she emigrated cos she got so much bullying here. I haven't seen her in over a decade. Anyway.

Can you explain about transmeds? I hadn't heard that term so I looked it up. I am trying to get my head round how someone can be trans without gender dysphoria. I want to understand that. I'm thinking of how my sister described how she'd be feeling about her body, and interpreted what she was describing as something medical. I always thought that the opposite was to think it was a choice. Like people used to think homosexuality was a choice - well some still do of course - but I know it isn't, from my sister's experience.

So if transmed means believing it's a medical thing not a made up thing or a choice how I'd that wrong- I must be misunderstanding it so can you explain?

Thanks, and sorry if I've offended. I want to learn.

Thank you for reaching out to me! I'm not always great at explaining these things but I'll try.

Transmed is a word used to describe a person or idealogy that, as you said, believes that trans people must have dysphoria to 'qualify' as being trans. They often define transness as being about suffering via dysphoria and other things, and are often very adamant about needing to pass as a cis person, altough not always. It often comes along with mocking what they call 'tucutes' or 'trenders' -people who don't conform to cisnormativity or dont have dyshporia. Notable trans figures who do this include kalvin Garrah, a well known transmed. A quick look at any video of his shows how bitter and toxic transmedicalism can make people act.

The issue here is that they try to dictate how people define themselves, and also that they often try to be seen as cisgender as possible, which people criticise for conforming to patriarchal, cisheteronormative society. I personally believe that for trans people to be truly free we need to dismantle cisheteronormaitivity. While of course people may want or need to pass, it does not give them a right to decide whether or not others should. And while some may see dysphoria as a big part of their own identity and not fully understand those without it, again it does not give them a right to decide other people should as well.

At the end of the day each LGBTQA+ individual will have a different experience, and a different view of themselves, and each of these cannot be dictated by somebody else. This applies outside of queer spaces too. If you were in a wheelchair but enjoyed playing football in the chair with other players, and someone told you that you weren't an athlete because you didn't use your legs, would that be a reasonable thing for someone else to decide? Just because they define football players as using their feet, doesn't mean you and other disabled players cant play and call themselves athletes.

It often comes with bullying and harrassment too, which is objectively just messed up. It's led many former transmeds to feel ashamed of not being 'trans enough'.

https://everydayfeminism.com/2015/08/not-all-trans-folks-dysphoria/

I'm sorry I dont have sources for all this, but I did find this article which shows that transmedicalism comes from a feeling of being attacked in a lot of cases, if 'I' experience so much pain as a trans person, how come they get to be part of the same group and not suffer! But this hostility is harmful. Many trans people have dysphoria, many don't and thats no ones business but their own.

Importantly its been argued that transness should not be defined as pain, as all the negative experiences that we face. It's a part of it of course, but just as important as dysphoria is euphoria. Euphoria in figuring out your not cis, in trying on affirming clothing, hearing your name and pronouns being used. Defining transness as pain paints transness as negative, and that only feeds into how cis people have defined us, but how do we define us? the same way transphobes do? I dont think so. It also erases so many other parts and histories of transness. Transness is defined by each of us and how we experience gender, culture, and our upbringing. If someone does not experience the pain of dysphoria that is a good thing. It means they can live without that little extra bit of strife that it brings. And it does not take away from discrimination they face, transitioning that they may undertake, and euphoria they experience as part of the community. It doesn't mean they've chosen to be trans, just that theyve chosen to live as the gender they always were, dysphoria or not.

I'd also like to clear up that lack of dysphoria can happen in both binary and non binary people. And hell, theres even cases where cis people have experienced dysphoria. I am non binary and I experience dysphoria, and that is my own business to deal with.

https://medium.com/transfocus/transmedicalists-are-wrong-79fc75adfe30

https://authorless.blog/2019/08/21/on-hormones-pt-10-growth-or-why-transmedicalism-is-mostly-bullshit/

[westiec]

June 3: Nie Mingjue

trans man Nie Mingjue, first time NieLan, and a little bonus trans!LWJ too

read on ao3

💙💗🤍💗💙

They had cautioned Nie Mingjue, his father and the healers, that students at the lectures might not be familiar with young men like him, that not all sects were as open-minded about such things. For the most part, it hadn't been an issue—the Lan Sect's strictures against gossip and immodesty in dress served to make the particulars of his body irrelevant as compared to his obvious mastery of the saber or his apparently less-obvious talents in the classroom.

(He might prefer martial training, but the first son of Qinghe could hardly allow himself to be found lacking in any of the Six Arts. He would, if pressed, admit that he had a very poor ear for music, but he made up for it by extra diligence in other pursuits.)

So it wasn't until he found himself in a secluded meadow in the back hills, trading kisses with Lan Xichen, that Nie Mingjue even thought to mention it.

"Ah, Xichen," he said, running his nose against the edge of a graceful ear. (Even Lan Xichen's ears were graceful!) "Forgive my presumptuousness, but if you were thinking of taking my robes off, there's something you should know."

"Nothing to forgive," Lan Xichen insisted. He gave another kiss to Nie Mingjue's neck, then sat back, a twinkle in his dark eyes. "I've been thinking about it for some time and hoped you were too."

Nie Mingjue could feel himself blushing. "Awfully bold for a Lan," he muttered.

"Awfully shy for a Nie," Lan Xichen countered, smiling wide and guileless. He wrapped a hand around Nie Mingjue's wrist and rubbed soothing circles with his thumb. "We don't have to if you're not comfortable, you know. I'm more than happy with your kisses."

NMJ shook his head. "It's not that. I just... might not be what you're expecting." Lan Xichen nodded for him to continue, not rushing him, merely patient and attentive. Nie Mingjue took a deep breath and tried to explain this for the first time to anyone outside his family. "They thought I would be a girl, when I was born."

Lan Xichen's face lit with understanding. "Oh, you're like—" he cut himself off with an apologetic shake of his head— "ah, someone else I know." He raised Nie Mingjue's hand to his lips and placed a kiss in the palm. "Thank you for telling me. Please let me know if I do or say anything wrong."

"You haven't yet," Nie Mingjue promised, heart warming in Lan Xichen's gentle understanding. "Did you still want to...?"

"As long as you still do, yes," Lan Xichen said eagerly, blushing a little for the first time. "I haven't done this with anyone before, so you'll have to show me what you like."

"We'll figure it out together, then," Nie Mingjue said and pulled Lan Xichen in for another heated kiss.

[Some NSFW/🔞 content in this one under the cut! Words used for NMJ are: folds, erection, cock; NMJ's chest is not mentioned/described, and he does not experience dysphoria here.]

Nie Mingjue liked Lan Xichen's lips, they discovered, over his collarbones and stomach and hipbones. He liked the sounds Lan Xichen made when he took him in hand, his cock jerking in Nie Mingjue's fist.

He liked when Lan Xichen rubbed long, elegant fingers along Nie Mingjue's folds in return, stroking and tugging at his own erection.

He especially liked it when Lan Xichen whispered sweetly in his ear how hard and hot and eager his cock felt.

They brought each other off like that, mouths hot and hungry against skin and hands exploring new territory, new ways to tease and touch.

After, Nie Mingjue swiped his fingers through the mess Lan Xichen had left on his hip and brought them to his mouth, smacking thoughtfully. "Mine tastes better," he decided. "Must be all those medicinal herbs you Lans eat."

Lan Xichen laughed and showily licked his own fingers clean. "I would happily taste Mingjue-ge more directly next time, if he would like," he said, and Nie Mingjue felt his cheeks burn.

"They told me you Lans would be very prim and private, you know," he said, grinning over at him.

Lan Xichen made a show of looking around, then sniffed, primly. "I don't see anyone else, seems private enough to me." Nie Mingjue laughed and tugged Lan Xichen in for another kiss.

They dressed and did their best to set each other's hair back in order, and Lan Xichen took Nie Mingjue's hand as they began walking back towards the main areas of Cloud Recesses.

"You're right that we are private about things," Lan Xichen said suddenly, "but I know it can be helpful to know someone who understands, sometimes. The person I mentioned before, would you be willing to talk to him? Not about—" he gestured between them, cheeks pinking again "—this, of course, just, in general."

Nie Mingjue consisered, then nodded. He had people to talk to at home—an older cousin, some of the healers—about cultivating his body the way that felt right, meditations, foods, ways to use his qi. His cousin had even figured out how to grow a moustache. He wondered if Lan Xichen would enjoy kissing him with one? Maybe he'd surprise him...

(There was only one person Nie Mingjue could think of for whom Lan Xichen would ask such a personal favor, so he wasn't terribly surprised when, a few days later, Lan Wangji knocked on his door.

He was quiet as ever, but the chubby-cheeked kid he remembered was replaced with the gawky beginnings of long limbs and that tall stature shared by so many of the Lans. He'll look just like Xichen in a few years, Nie Mingjue thought.

"Wangji-di!" he said aloud. "You're looking so grown up! Come in, come in. I understand we might have some things in common...")

Pride Snippets Masterpost!

[a-dragons-journal]

i dont "kin for fun" but through tiktok i found out about the whole kin for fun vs actual otherkin... situation ig? im having a really hard time taking it seriously... maybe im just burnt out and bitter from dealing with the worlds current events, and maybe its because on tiktok the only people i saw mad about it were white people, but you're the most reasonable person ive seen talking about it (a lot of other posts have this odd tone that 12 year olds on tiktok saying kin is the worlds greatest opression and it weirds me out) so ig my question is just... why exactly does this matter? why does it matter enough to post about and care about and not just ignore? /gen

Hey! I don’t blame you for being a bit weirded out by it, we’re a weird subculture and we’re well aware of it! xD I appreciate you taking the time to actually look into it past your first knee-jerk reaction, especially considering burnout and the state of things.

I’m not totally sure if you’re asking why otherkinity matters or why the “kin for fun” being wrong matters, so I’ll answer both - they’re pretty well tied together anyway.

The short version:

Otherkinity is an identity. It’s who we are, we can’t choose to pick it up or put it down, and it comes with struggles - though no, ‘kin are not systematically oppressed (though we are pretty badly bullied and, at this point, pushed out of our own words and spaces).

What people calling roleplay/relating to/projecting onto characters “kinning for fun” does is steal our words, make them meaningless, and in doing so, make it difficult or impossible for us to find each other. If someone says “I kin [x],” I no longer know whether they mean “I am [x] on an intrinsic level” or “haha I relate to this character a lot”. I no longer know whether they actually share my experiences or if they’re going to turn on me and call me “crazy” as soon as they realize I’m not exaggerating or joking or roleplaying. It’s done massive harm to the community as a whole because it’s become difficult to tell whether someone is actually ‘kin or if they’ve misunderstood the whole thing - and because antikin rhetoric, which I’m seeing more and more in KFF spaces, hurts far more when it’s coming from inside what you thought was a community space than when it’s coming from self-labeled “antikin.”

There are other words for roleplaying and relating to and projecting onto characters. Hell, there are words for strongly identifying with-but-not-as characters/things, though usually KFF people don’t even seem serious enough for those to fit in my experience. I’m really not sure why these people are so determined to steal and misuse our words, words that were specifically created to mean something else, when they already have their own and are just refusing to use them. (Or, hell, if you don’t feel like those fit, make your own. We did. It’s your turn to put in the work. (General you, not you-the-anon, of course.))

An analogy, if that still doesn’t quite land for you:

Consider, for a moment, the transgender community. I am aware this is a dangerous thing to say, but bear with me. Obvious CW for hypothetical transphobia up ahead is obvious.

Consider if you were part of the trans community (I don’t know if you are or not), having finally found a word to explain why you feel the way you do about yourself, why your experiences don’t seem to match up with those of everyone else around you. Having found a community, a home, full of other people like you, people you never would have met if not for words like “transgender” and “gender dysphoria/euphoria” that were created specifically to describe your experiences.

Now consider if people suddenly stumbled across your community for the first time who were not trans themselves. They see community jokes and lighthearted posts out of context, because Tumblr and Twitter aren’t exactly conducive to making sure people find the Transgender 101 information posts first. They don’t bother to do further research, assuming they understand: ah, these people like to crossdress! They like to pretend they’re a different gender! This seems like a fun hobby, I want in!

They begin to post things like this. They post photos of them crossdressing and caption them “hi, I’m [name], and I trans men!” and things of the like. Suddenly the concept of “transing for fun” seems to be everywhere - and it’s not at all what being trans actually is, but these people either don’t know or don’t care. When actual trans people try to politely correct them, they’re accused of “gatekeeping” - and to be clear, this is not “nonbinary people aren’t real,” it’s “transgender means you identify as a gender other than the one you were assigned at birth, and you’re self-identifying as the gender you were assigned at birth 100% and telling us this is just a fun hobby for you, therefore you’re not trans, you’re crossdressing or doing drag or being GNC. That’s fine, but it’s not being trans - you have other words to describe that, use those.”

(Yes, I am aware these things have a history with the trans community - please just ignore that for the sake of the analogy and bear with me on the slightly simplified version of this. “Kinning for fun” does not have that same history with the otherkin community.)

...And then the response to those attempted corrections, in some corners, turns into “wait, you ACTUALLY think you’re another gender? idk that sounds pretty unhealthy, maybe you should see a psychologist or something :\” and “you’re taking this too seriously.”

I imagine, in this hypothetical scenario, you’d also be pretty fuckin peeved.

(Obviously, in this hypothetical scenario, systematic transphobia would be an issue as well, which isn’t the case for otherkin - again, you’re gonna have to bear with me on the simplification for sake of analogy there.)

(EDIT: this is not an anti-MOGAI/exclusionist argument, this is “you’re literally telling me you don’t fit the definition,” explanation on that here)

The long version, which is probably still worth reading if you have the time and energy:

Otherkinity is... pretty core to who I am, who we as a group of individuals are. We live with being otherkin on a daily basis. Many of us spent a long time feeling different and disconnected and not understanding why until we found the otherkin community. Even people like me, who don’t share that experience and still had social connection - I’ve still had to live with weird differences that I had to learn to mask when necessary; instincts that don’t line up with human society well, feeling body parts that weren’t there and that no one else ever seemed to have, things that other kids grew out of because it was just make-believe for them and I... didn’t, because it was never make-believe for me to begin with. Oh, sure, I played make-believe too - I played warrior cats and house and all those things with the other kids, but there were things that weren’t play-pretend for me too. I didn’t have an explanation for it for a long time - it was just how I was, I was weird, and fortunately for me personally I was okay with that (many of those with species dysphoria or more trouble connecting with humans have more problems from that than I did).

And then I found the word “otherkin.” And suddenly everything fell into place, and I had an explanation for the things I’d been experiencing, and there were other people like me. Something I’d assumed didn’t exist. I found others who shared my unique experiences, who were talking about how to cope with the instinct to growl or snap jaws at people instead of expressing annoyance in a human way instead of just saying “that’s weird, don’t do that��, who were talking about dealing with phantom wings and tails, who understood me. I wasn’t weird, I wasn’t broken, I was exactly what one would expect from a dragon living in human skin. I found an explanation for myself. I found a home.

That is why otherkinity matters - it is who we are, it’s not something we can walk away from (certainly not most of us, anyway), and it’s something many of us need the support of the community to help deal with on a daily basis. Being a nonhuman in human society isn’t always easy, but it’s not something we can just magically stop being - it’s core to who we are, we (generally) didn’t choose to be this way, and we (generally) can’t choose to stop. Which is fine - the vast majority of us can cope with it just fine, with a little advice and help and space to be our authentic selves in. We found each other, we built this community from the ground up to make a space and words to make finding each other easier - or possible at all.

Thus we come to the second half of our story.

It was only a couple of years ago that the “kin for fun” trend started getting big. It had existed before that, of course, but it only started going mainstream two, maybe three years ago, from what I can tell. Suddenly people were treating “kin” like it meant relating to, projecting onto, roleplaying as, or just really really liking a character or thing - not being that thing, which is what it actually means. Not long after that, it became hard to tell whether someone saying “I kin this” meant they were that thing, that they were actually part of our community - or that they really really liked that thing and either didn’t know or couldn’t be bothered to learn that that wasn’t the case for us.

Not long after that, it became relatively commonplace to hear phrases like “otherkin are ruining kinning!!” and “you’re taking this too seriously” and “idk, if it’s that serious for you that sounds unhealthy. maybe you should get some help :\” (all directly quoted, or as exactly quoted as I can remember, from things KFF people have said to me or people I know).

It is a special kind of hell, I think, to be told “you’re taking this too seriously, that’s unhealthy” by people who are taking words created to describe your experiences, not theirs, and misusing them to mean something that you do for fun on a weekend instead of something that’s intrinsic to your being.

Perhaps more importantly, like I’ve said, it’s making it almost impossible to know whether someone who says “I kin [x]” is actually ‘kin or if they’re misusing our words to mean something else entirely. The entire point of words is to communicate ideas, and once you start misusing words to mean something totally different than what they actually mean, that communication falls apart and suddenly we might as well not have those words at all. Especially when the community is small enough and obscure enough that we’re starting to be outnumbered by the misinformation. We’re being run out of our own words, words we created to describe our experiences specifically - because we’re a small community that the wider internet can easily drown out by sheer numbers of people who either don’t know any better or don’t care to learn.

That’s the harm it does - the harm it is doing, right now. That’s why it’s important enough to post about. That’s why it matters - because we’re fighting desperately to hang onto our own words so that others like us can actually find us. Because we’re seeing young nonhumans go “this isn’t a kin, I actually am this” and screaming “No, I’m so sorry that this is what the misinformation has done to you, that’s exactly what otherkin means, you have a place here, please don’t let these non-’kin misusing our words drive you away from the very community you’re looking for and that you belong in.” Because we can’t even communicate effectively about our own experiences anymore except in semi-closed spaces like Discord servers and forums (and the number of Discord servers overrun with KFF people is absurd).

......This got very long. Hopefully it at least explained why it matters so much to me and others a bit better ^^; Thanks for hearing me out, and thank you again for looking into this beyond your initial knee-jerk reaction - I really do appreciate it.

(For further reading, if that text wall didn’t blow you out of the water completely, I recommend my “kin for fun” tag, which has more posts like this in both short and long form.)

[emmybooknook]

The Genesis of Gender by Abigail Favale

Note: This is the first philosophy book I've read. I had to read this for a class, so I apologize for the more studious nature of the review (unless that's your thing)

Summary--

In the book, Genesis of Gender by Abigail Favale, she talks about her personal experiences with gender theory. She dives into these theories and reveals hidden nuances and fallacies. In the second chapter ‘Cosmos’, Favale sets the reader up with the necessary tools they will need in order to navigate and understand some of the following theories. She is using Christianity to establish these building blocks which may be unappealing to some readers. Whether or not someone is religious though, there is still a truth that lies in these words. The deeper meaning she gleams from the bible can be understood and appreciated by all.

Then, she lays out a cohesive history of feminism, the waves it has had, and the effects each wave has had, not all being wholly beneficial. This is where she introduces the main influences people like Judith Butler and Simone de Beauvoir have had on modern culture, namely the gender paradigm. These theories culminate in Margaret Sanger, a eugenicist and the ‘founder’ of birth control. A major point Favale speaks on is the consequences that birth control has had on us as a society. Specifically, how birth control has led to females being objects of pleasure, then leading to the idea of the body being an object. This separation of body and spirit has had harsh consequences.

She goes on to describe how these ideas culminate with an understanding of gender being separate from the self, creating our current gender paradigm and its many effects. One of those effects is the stereotyping of the sexes and the ‘gender ideal.’ The idea is that to be a female I must look and act like other people’s ideal female. She describes how we need to make room in these boxes of male and female and appreciate others.

 Wrapping up the book, she discusses how, through God, we can understand ourselves better. Not only ourselves but each other. Everyone is on their own path, filled with detours and wrong turns, and how to offer respect to those in need.

My thoughts--

Rereading the book, I understand the points she will be making, but as a new reader, some of her claims do seem absurd. The complexity of these claims is unraveled throughout the chapters, the beginning is merely just to plant the seeds of doubt. She starts with a statement that most people can agree with, feminism should be about women, and then shows how peeling back the layers of theory and fancy language, the foundation of feminism is not about women.

She makes a wild claim that birth control is a purposeful malfunction of a female’s body. While I understand her point and agree that the views of Sanger were to pathologize periods and make females more male. Hormones and certain birth control medications can be beneficial to those with mental disorders, especially for those with premenstrual syndrome (PMS) or premenstrual dysphoric disorder (PMDD). While PMDD has ‘dysphoric’ in the name it is not like gender dysphoria, PMDD is just a greater depressive episode than PMS. These symptoms are not true of all women, and there are more holistic approaches to these disorders, but I feel like Favale is leaving out a good portion of women by not mentioning such things. Another portion of women she leaves out is the non-invasive options of birth control. I know a woman who is on birth control that still lets her have periods, it’s a contraceptive because it isn’t allowing sperm to enter the uterus by thickening vaginal secretions. Of course, this isn’t the standard birth control offered to most women. But her comment about birth control being a malfunction just seemed so wrong to me.

I do understand and agree with the greater argument she is making about birth control and how sex is more recreational than ever. She talks about separating sex from life and how this idea is “fueling a consumerist sexual paradigm that trumpets liberation while enslaving us.” (Favale,107) When having a conversation with others about this idea, I was surprised that most of the men agreed. It’s everywhere, the idea that sex is something fun to do on a Friday night, with hookup apps like Tinder causing the idea to spread like wildfire. I think Favale does well by describing that this idea is painted as liberation while in reality, it’s abuse. I’ve wrestled with these ideas myself, convincing myself that male attention would somehow make me more whole. At the end of the day, respecting the body is about also respecting the person within. This idea crumbled down on top of me when I was abused during sex. I cried and was ashamed of the person I had become, and the acts that had led me to that moment. I was treating my body, and myself as a sex object, rather than a full human being. Moreover, I was inviting men to do the same. Personally, I believe it came from a deep-seated long-term disrespect for myself, but I can’t say the same for other women.  I will say however, I think Favale strikes the heart of the issue when she says that we need “cultivated habits that liberate us from being pawns of our appetites.” (Favale,105) There is this strange Stockholm syndrome happening to these women who try to convince themselves that there is some benefit in sex work. They have become slaves to their appetites, doomed to become nothing more than a stale sock under the bed. Fueled by a lack of respect and the unwillingness to change.

The idea of objectifying the body and in turn the self becomes twofold when mixed with the gender sphere we live in today. I want to take a moment to mention sin and how these truths can give a deeper understanding of these issues. Favale’s take on the original sin gives greater depth to the traditional understanding of that sin. In most cases, people and Christians alike have viewed the original sin as something that can be fixed here on earth, in most cases through prayer and baptism. Filling the gap that sin leaves with faith. Favale takes a deeper look and shows with John Paull II, that the original sin is more of a schism between body and soul. An “inner rupture,” causing a state of concupiscence, but not one that can’t be overcome. (Favale,47) I enjoy the Catholic optimism of “The human heart is a ‘battlefield between love and concupiscence,’ but the battle is not yet lost.” (Favale,49) I find these words to be extremely meaningful in today’s age, where puberty is a hefty battle and identity matters more than anything. Most people I have talked to have had some kind of wedge driven into that schism during puberty.  In a misguided way, this separation experienced during puberty turns into a navigation of the language we use today. Instead of that schism being brought together through a love and understanding of self, it is a battle of titles. A fight to know oneself and to have that magical one word, to sum up our lives and experiences. This is where the mismatched idea of intersectionalism comes in, an idea that I became more familiar with in middle school and high school although I did not know this creature by name. Favale makes a note about intersectionalism and how it strives to show that “We are not unique individuals; we are Frankensteinian composites, stitched together hubs of group memberships.” (Favale,81)  I understand what Favale means by this sentence regarding how intersectionalism affects people namely teens. For some reason, there is a pleasure in stuffing oneself into boxes. I believe as teens and when discovering one’s identity sharing ideas with like-minded, similarly experienced people, is beneficial. While it is beneficial to interact with like minds, it is not beneficial to occupy as many boxes at once. This can be said about the gender argument as well. Occupying a box, or fitting a stereotype, is not conducive to finding one’s identity. While the many interests and groups I am a part of may affect my life or my experiences, my lens of life is wholly unique to me. You can be a part of a box or group, but you are more than that box or group. Favale goes on to state, “Like Joseph, with his Dreamcoat of many colors, whoever sports the greatest array of marginalized memberships is awarded social dominance over peers.” (Favale,81) This assertion, while sadly true in the modern era, is such an absurd one. If someone is more oppressed than others, they are given special privilege to have privilege over others. Breaking these ideas down and standing them, in reality, shows just how convoluted and absurd they are. I think intersectionalism is in a way shadowing a deeper truth. People with unique experiences, those unlike the norm, should have a vehicle of sorts in which to shed light on darker issues lurking in society. Victims of abuse or rape should be able to point out the flaws that exist in society, that facilitate those experiences. I think of it as accessibility more than the social dominance that it has become. People who are confined to a wheelchair need a special ramp to get into certain buildings. This is a normal thing that exists to help those who struggle. I think the same should be said for those suffering from depression. Now I say this with boundaries. It is not normal to be disabled or have depression, but it should be normal to go to therapy and seek treatment. It should be normal to have help. Unfortunately for teens like myself, it became necessary to hold onto the idea that I was a victim, constraining myself to that box.

Intersectionalism fails because it can’t make do on the promise it wishes to give, that one magic word that will make me whole, and sum myself up in a neat box. Favale notices this same failing when she states that, “neatly distinguishing between sex and gender, then oversimplifies the complexity of personhood.” (Favale,148) Imagine taking any activity, say reading, and introducing yourself by only having that interest. That does not do justice to a whole person. To say I am only a female, a girl, a woman, does not do justice to understanding my whole personhood. This also goes along with intersectionalism. Teens who are striving to find their identity may realize they don’t fit the stereotype of their birth sex, and then have a growing need to change it. This idea is the opposite of what should be done. I similarly identified myself because I felt that I did not fit the female stereotype. There should be more room in the box of females so that all females can feel comfortable in it. When talking with other students about their feelings on gender, most if not all agree with the idea that a person should be able to do whatever they want and still be considered a male or female. When speaking about the ideas of anima and animus, presented by Carl Yung, I think it fits well, albeit in an abstract form. I agree that there exists a femaleness and maleness in each person, but that it is based on stereotypes. Activities and hobbies should not come with a requirement to be a certain sex. Favale makes a great point when she says, “as if the products we want define what we are.” (Favale,157) Too often I see the argument that because a child didn’t play with Barbies means that they must somehow be a man. Barbies are lame, for one, she doesn’t have bendable knees or elbows. Toy cars and things can be seen as more exciting for kids. Racing down Danger Mountain with my Hot Wheels is much more exciting than trying to fit Barbies foot into an odd-shaped shoe for the billionth time. I also strongly agree with Favale that the products that we want do not define who we are, boredom and fun are open-ended definitions.

While I could write a full book on the consequences of intersectionalism on society and my first-hand accounts of it, I want to move on to address God. In a way, my experiences with intersectionalism led me to God. Favale talks about how the idea of creating oneself needs to be dismantled and goes against the idea of being created. She states it well by saying, “Once understood as created, selfhood, including one’s sex, becomes a gift that can be accepted rather than something that must be constructed.” (Favale,225) The problem is also the solution, and a person can find peace in knowing they were created. Recently I have become part of the Christian faith, going to a bible study for women provided through the school. Along with therapy, there is a deep peace and healing in the notion that I was created, and made to be the human that I am, namely imperfect but nonetheless lovable. I think part of the perfectionism I had was rooted in the ideas of intersectionalism, the idea that I didn’t fit the female stereotype and was somehow lesser because of it. Accepting a holy love, I have found that it’s not true. I think Favale speaks an ultimate truth when she says, “Part of the work of conversion is learning to love who you are, because you’ve been made for love, and made by Love—a Love that dreamed you up and, in this and every moment, sings the song of your existence.” (Favale,201) This is something I am learning and experiencing in my bible study sessions, that I am fearfully and wonderfully made. I agree with Favale in the notion that through Christ we can find our wholeness.

[gavin-plz-call-me]

Melted Ice Cream

TW: Internalized Acephobia, brief mentions of gender dysphoria and blood.

All Vincent wanted to do was cuddle on the couch with his boyfriends and watch a movie, but they had different plans. Them having sex without him leads Vincent to question his place in the relationship.

Fandom: Boyfriends (webcomic)

Use of Cannon Names: Prep-Vincent

Jock-Kevin

Nerd-Adrian

Goth-Felix

AO3

Words: 3K

The movie that Adrian had picked out was surprisingly really good. It was some cute slice-of-life anime movie that Vincent was sure would be a bit boring, not that he’d ever complain when he got to be in the arms of his boyfriends, but the characters were compelling and the storyline was phenomenal. Vincent was cuddled up next to Kevin, who held an arm around Vincent, drawing mindless circles against him as the four paid attention to the movie. This, Vincent decided, was the most perfect moment he had ever lived: watching a good movie and basking in the love of his boyfriends.

That didn’t last long.

It started off subtly enough, the couch moving slightly under Vincent as someone shifted their position, the quiet sound of a peck on a cheek. They were things that were so often just the background noise to Vincent’s life, that he could easily tune them out in favor of seeing if the girls in the movie would confess or not. Kevin’s arm slowly moved away from Vincent’s shoulder, he shuddered at the loss of warmth and finally looked up to see what was happening beyond the movie. Kevin’s retreated hand found its way to Vincent’s thigh, squeezing it firmly as he nibbled on Adrian’s ear. Adrian, who was currently making out with Felix, subtle moans already starting to form in his throat.

As appealing as the scene before him was, Vincent knew already that tonight was not the night he wanted to do this. All he wanted to do was cuddle up with his boyfriends and finish the movie, but they had other plans. Not wanting to impede their pleasure, Vincent resisted as Kevin tried to pull him off of the couch. “Not tonight guys,” He said, laying down on the couch, looking up at the men currently standing up, about to move to the bedroom, “I’m gonna finish the movie, you guys have fun.”

Kevin knelt down, his warm hand brushing the hair out of Vincent’s face, “Are you sure?” he asked, “‘Cuz if you’d rather, we can all finish the movie and-”

“No,” Vincent interrupted, he could already see the hard-on blooming in Kevin’s pants as he knelt down beside him, and Adrian’s face was already his signature shade of beet red as he gazed at Vincent too, they wouldn’t enjoy the movie now anyways, “go have fun, really.” Kevin gave Vincent’s face a good look for another few seconds before pressing a kiss to his forehead and disappearing into the bedroom with Felix and Adrian.

Vincent grabbed a blanket from a nearby chair, laying down on the couch. The heat from where the other three had been sitting moments ago was still there, but it was quickly fading. Vincent could finish movie night by himself, maybe get some cleaning done around the apartment, then, when his boyfriends were finished, he could cuddle up with them and fall asleep. That would be nice. The movie was getting better and better by the second, the girls having finally confessed, went on a date, which was currently being interrupted by one of their ex’s.

A loud moan of pleasure ripped through the apartment, covering up the audio to the pivotal scene. No one was louder than Adrian, that’s for sure, and while it was hot when he was participating, Vincent felt more like an annoyed neighbor than a loving boyfriend. He didn’t dare turn up the TV, though, he wouldn’t want even more noise complaints. The moans showed no signs of stopping anytime soon, so Vincent paused the movie, grabbed his keys, and headed out the door, locking it behind him. There was no way he’d be able to concentrate, let alone hear the rest of the movie, and with his relaxing night interrupted, he didn’t have the heart to clean. A nice drive would do him good. The blonde moved down the stairs of the apartment complex, into the parking garage, and clicked his key to remember just where he had parked. His car gave a satisfying beep that echoed through the enclosed space.

Vincent climbed into his convertible, whose roof was currently up, turned it on, and quickly made his way out of the garage and onto one of the main roads. Vincent rolled down his window, letting the wind fall softly across his face. None of the stations were playing anything that interested him, and Vincent didn’t feel like hooking up his own phone, so he turned it off, basking in the silence.

Silence rarely brings good things to a mind in crisis.

Bored, Vincent’s mind began to wander to his boyfriends. He hoped they were having a good time together, but it was hard to imagine any of those three could leave the others unsatisfied, so there wasn’t too much to worry about there. Did they miss him?

A sudden red light had Vincent slamming on the break, stopping his car, but not his thoughts. Did they miss him? Of course they did, the logical side of Vincent’s head said, but the more he thought about it, the more unsure he grew. They were probably having mind-blowing sex over at home, he probably handn’t appeared in their thoughts since the second they closed the bedroom door. Why would they? He wasn’t there providing them pleasure, he almost never was. For some reason, Vincent’s sex drive was just never as high as the others, he was always turning them down, day after day. It was only a matter of time before they stopped trying to include him, it was only a matter of time before they-

“MOVE IT ASSHOLE!” A scream accompanied by a cluster of honks brought Vincent back to; the light was green. Vincent slammed on the accelerator, taking off once again. He really shouldn’t be driving if he was going to keep getting distracted, so he signaled and turned into a parking lot, rolling his window back up. He leaned back in his seat, eyes gazing up at nothing in particular. Maybe he was broken. That had to be it. There was asexuality, but Vincent was sure that didn’t describe him. He liked sex, he wanted to have sex, at least every once in a while, and he thought his boyfriends were incredibly sexy, so what was the problem?

Tears began to sting in his eyes. The problem must lie within himself. They’d see that soon, wouldn’t they? He hoped to whatever gods were out there in the universe that they’d never see the problem, but Felix, Adrian, and Kevin were smart. They’d realize it eventually, and he… where would he fit in once they realized?

Tears free-flowed down his face now. Vincent didn’t bother trying to stop them, just letting himself silently cry. Thoughts swirled around his head, too frantically for Vincent to stop them. They clouded his mind as his tears clouded his vision. A sudden buzz of his phone pulled him out of his thoughts for a moment. He picked it up and was greeted by a picture of Felix flipping the camera off. Why was Felix calling him so soon? It was only...Vincent had been in the car much longer than he thought he had. Taking a few deep breaths in an attempt to compose himself, Vincent picked up the phone.

“Vince, where are you?” Felix’s voice sounded in his ear with that slightly groggily tone his voice always got right after sex. Vincent could tell he was on speaker “Your keys are gone.”

“Yeah, I…” Vincent looked out the window, looking for an excuse that wouldn’t expose his hurt, “The movie got boring so I thought I’d get us some ice cream.”

“Ooh!” Adrian interrupted before Vincent could say more, secretly he was grateful as he could feel his throat beginning to tighten again. “Get me cotton candy please!” Kevin and Felix called out their orders, cookies and cream and mint chocolate chip respectively, after Adrian. Vincent hummed in acknowledgment, before letting out a quick “love you” and hanging up the phone. Something about their cheery attitudes made him want to start crying again, but he forcefully held the tears in, hoping his eyes wouldn’t look too blotchy when he got home.

Vincent quickly made his way through the drive-through, ordering the three ice creams, not bothering to order one for himself. His stomach was in knots, and the thought of eating made him more nauseous than anything. He turned the radio up, not particularly caring what blasted through his speakers, only wanting something to keep his mind away from dark thoughts. When he arrived back at the parking garage Vincent thanked his past self for putting concealer in his glove compartment. He quickly touched up his under eyes, masking the remnants of red that remained on his face, then finally left the car to take the elevator upstairs.

The living room to the apartment was still empty when Vincent finally unlocked the door, stepping inside. Vincent let out a slight shiver as a blast of cold air from the apartment hit him. He made his way to the bedroom. There he found Felix, Adrian, and Kevin cuddled against each other. Felix was dressed in basketball shorts and a t-shirt, Adrian in Kevin’s shirt, and Kevin in nothing but his underwear. Vincent was glad that they at least dressed before he came home, but the room, which still smelt strongly of sex with a bottle of lube haphazardly strung onto the floor, still gave away what activities they had been partaking in. Vincent handed out the ice creams, flopping into bed next to Felix when he was finally done.

Kevin reached over and stroked Vincent’s arm, “Didn’t you get yourself any, baby?” He asked through a spoonful of his treat.

Vincent hesitated for a moment before nodding, “Already ate it,” he lied.

“God,” Adrian called out from beside Kevin, “Cotton candy ice cream is the best.” He moaned in delight, savoring the sweet taste of his ice cream. Vincent slightly tensed at the moan, broken, his mind called out.

Vincent leaped out of bed, “I’m gonna go do the dishes,” he said, not facing his boyfriends. If he got one look at them he knew he’d cry again.

“What?” Adrian whined, “But cuddles? Dishes can wait.”

“I won’t be able to relax knowing the dishes aren’t done, I-” He tried to get more words out, but his breath hitched slightly. Praying his boyfriends didn’t notice, he quickly escaped the room for the kitchen. There really weren’t many dishes in the sink, just a few plates, cups, and silverware lay. It could have waited till morning, Adrian was right, Vincent knew that, but he turned on the sink anyways. The rush of water from the faucet did nothing to cover up his returning bad thoughts. Why couldn’t he be more normal? He couldn’t even eat ice cream with his boyfriends, couldn’t even cuddle up with them, and relax because his brain just wouldn’t stop thinking. His throat began closing in on itself as his hands shook from the exertion of keeping the tears inside. He wouldn’t cry, he wouldn’t place that burden on his boyfriends. They were already burdened enough to have him in their lives, right?

CRASH

The glass that Vincent had been washing slipped from his hands unceremoniously and fell to the ground, smashing into hundreds of pieces. A piece ground horribly into his calf, leaving an angry red mark that began to bleed, but the pain of the scratch was nothing compared to the pain in his heart. The broken cup, as broken as him, would be yet another burden on Felix, Adrian, and Kevin. Ignoring the blood, ignoring the loud sobs that had finally begun racking his body, Vincent kneeled on the ground, trying to pick up the mess with shaking hands.

Before he could satisfyingly clean up his mess, a pair of hands grabbed his, forcing the glass back onto the floor. Vincent tried to pull away, the only thing on his mind was cleaning up the mess, not being a burden on his boyfriends, maybe they’d keep him around longer if he did this. “Vincent,” A voice called out, stern and full of concern. The blonde refused to turn towards the voice, just struggling to get to the glass, “Vincent,” the voice called out again, “You’re bleeding.”

Those words caused Vincent to snap back. He looked down through still misty eyes at his own hands, which were still being held still by the wrists. Blood was leaking out of his palms from the shards of glass that had embedded themselves into his skin, the blood dripped onto the floor and onto the hands of the hands holding his. “We’re gonna get you cleaned up, okay.” The voice from earlier, that Vincent finally recognized as Kevin’s, said softly into his ear. Vincent nodded, allowing Kevin to help him up and walk towards the couch. Kevin supported Vincent as he slowly sat down, then sat next to the blonde, keeping him close. Soon enough, Adrian came running in with the first aid kit, his glasses slightly foggy from the exertion of running around looking for it.

Felix grabbed the first aid kit from the nerd, kneeling down in front of Vincent and grabbing the worst injured hand. They all sat in silence for a while as Felix fished out the glass shards from Vincent’s hands with a pair of tweezers. Vincent whimpered from the pain, hiding his face in Kevin’s neck, reveling in the warmth of his presence. Tears continued to leisurely roll down Vincent’s face; tears from the pain and because of the lingering smell of sex that permeated around him. Adrian sat opposite of Kevin, rubbing the prep’s shoulder supportively. “You’re doing so good, baby.” Kevin was the first to speak, pressing a kiss to his boyfriend’s forehead. Vincent’s tears leaked out of his eyes with renewed vigor at the simple, loving action.

When his hands and leg were properly cleaned and bandaged, Felix placed gentle kisses against his hands. “This isn’t just about the cup, is it?” Adrian asked, cuddling closer to the crying figure, “You…you were acting off for a bit there. If you wanna talk about it, we’re here for you, Vince.”

Vincent really didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want the burden of his own brokenness, his own feelings, to be dropped on his boyfriends, but sitting there being held by the three men he loves more than anything or anyone in the universe, he couldn’t help it. “I-” Vincent choked on a sob, “Why do you guys keep me around?”

There was silence for only a brief second before Felix bolted up grasping Vincent’s face in his shaking hands, “Why would you say that Vince?” His slightly calloused fingers wiped tears away from the prep’s face.

“I mean, I’m broken.” Vincent averted his eyes from Felix’s, looking down at his own empty palms, “Who’d want a boyfriend who never wants to have sex?” The three other boys opened their mouths to speak at the same time, but Vincent only continued, “I mean, tonight, you guys were...were together and...and I could only think about how jealous I was. About how much I just wanted to cuddle on the couch with you guys, but...but if I told you to stay, you’d find out how broken I really am. Can’t have sex, can’t communicate, hell, I can’t even wash the dishes right.”

Felix’s hand slowed to a stop on Vincent’s face, “Look at me, sweetheart,” he said softly, gently encouraging Vincent’s face to move upwards, but he refused. “Vincent, please look at me, please.” His voice cracked slightly. At that sound, Vincent finally looked back up at Felix, whose eyes were now flooded with tears to match his. “You are not broken,” he said firmly, “and I will not sit here and let you talk about yourself like that.”

“But it’s-”

“You have always been there for me when I’m feeling dysphoric. When I look in the mirror and all I see is a girl, you’re there to help me find myself again. You shut me down when I insult myself, so like hell am I’m gonna sit here and let you do that to yourself.” Felix’s forehead met Vincent’s, whispering against it, “please let me, let us, help you see the you we see.”

Two more heads made their way towards Felix and Vincent’s, tears rolling down their faces as well, “We’ll keep you around forever,” Kevin murmured into Vincent’s collarbone, “You’ve done so much for us, you’re so good.”

“I’d never have sex again if it meant keeping you by our side,” Adrian sobbed, grasping Vincent’s shirt that had long grown damp from the four men’s tears.

Vincent wanted to insist that he didn’t have to do that, but his tears stopped his words. They were no longer tears of sadness, or fear, or self-hatred. They were tears of happiness. His boyfriends, the men he loves more than anyone else in the world, were there by his side. Vincent’s eyes may only see the bad in himself, but their eyes? They saw an amazing man whom they love, who may not be perfect, but who is? The flaws Vincent saw were perfections to them, and Vincent felt all that love at that moment. So much love, it was almost too much to bear.

After a while of crying together, Vincent finally spoke again, laughing slightly through tears, “your guy’s ice cream is probably melted.”

“Who cares,” Kevin said, “Who needs ice cream when we have you?” And so the boys stayed, enjoying each other's embrace, wiping each other’s tears, while the three melted ice creams and the broken cup lay forgotten until morning.

[gay-doodlebug-with-adhd916]

Alright, so here’s the thing

As Neurodivergent people living in a Neurotypical world, most things just aren’t aimed towards us. Even for those of us with ADHD (like myself), while ADHD seems to be talked about frequently, it still frequently seems to be talked about from the neurotypical or stereotypical perspective of the disorder. I mean, it’s directly labeled “Attention-Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder”, so from the perspective of a Neurotypical world, even often from the perspective of people with ADHD living in the Neurotypical world, ADHD can often be twisted, labeled and defined as a Neurotypical’s way of getting distracted or being energetic. In a way, the word “ADHD” in the Neurotypical world has become a catchphrase for a personality or a mood that anyone could have, something synonymous for “distracted” or “energetic”, to an extent where sometimes I wonder if they’ve forgotten that the “D” part of ADHD stands for disorder. 

Sadly, I (and probably many of us) have been stuck in a place where our own ADHD has been “explained” to us by Neurotypical people who aren’t any type of professional on neuroscience or psychology for quite a while. However, the (somewhat) recent development where society has become more and more open about Neurodiversity and talking about ableism and what it means to be Neurodivergent in a Neurotypical world has given many Neurodivergent individuals like myself an ability that we didn’t feel like we had before to talk about our experiences, how we see the world, how our brains and disorders affect us to make us into our unique selves. 

And many of us with ADHD have been using words and phrases like “executive dysfunction”, “rejection sensitive dysphoria”, “auditory processing” and even “stimming” much more frequently than we might’ve seemed to be using them before. Many of us, in fact, have probably just started using these phrases altogether fairly recently. And I’ve heard many Neurotypical people complaining about how we “didn’t have these ‘aspects’ before” because we didn’t talk about them, or how we’re “just now talking about these things to be trendy”. But I feel like I truly can’t emphasize enough the fact that a lot of us didn’t use those words earlier on because most of us weren’t given these words to be part of our vocabulary.

But that doesn’t mean the actual parts we talk about now weren’t there. A lot of us just gave them different names. If we’ve been living in a world where most people around us told us that our disorder was just about getting easily distracted and wanting to run around more, who was there to tell us that our “odd little dances” we did “to make ourselves feel happy” were actually called stimming? I was diagnosed with ADHD inattentive type in early elementary school and since I can remember I needed about a gazillion routines and to-do checklists and rules and people nearby to remind me what my next step was in tasks as simple as getting ready for my day, but never once had I heard the term “executive dysfunction”, so of course I didn’t describe my need for other people to write routines and lists and rules for me as executive dysfunction, even though that ruled my life. It was in the very beginning of the (hopefully ongoing) process where Neurodiversity is normalized and celebrated that I was able to learn a better (and more accurate) vocabulary for different tidbits of my own mind that I previously was beginning to accept as embarrassing and nameless flaws about me that I had to push under the rug in order to make friends or be respectable.

My RSD (Rejection-Sensitive Dysphoria) was just dismissed as “insufferable people pleasing” and “being too sensitive” or “too dramatic” before I was able to add RSD to my vocabulary. 

What adults around me as I grew up labeled as “being slow to understand” or “not listening/paying attention”, I later learned was called auditory processing problems (which made much more sense to me than what adults used to describe because I vividly remembered doing everything I could to try and listen and understand what my teachers were saying, but the words coming out of their mouths felt like they had no meaning at all). 

These aforementioned things as well as so many other things are rather common aspects of ADHD, so myself or any other person with this disorder suddenly using the real words for these things isn’t a way for us to be hypochondriacs. Chances are, we’ve always been talking about these things and how they affect us, (and even if we don’t openly talk about them, they could still be large parts of our lives that we’ve tried to keep private before all of this), but now we’ve been handed more tools and a better vocabulary to describe ourselves and the nooks and crannies of our own minds.

[catharsis-in-a-bottle]

ALL MY THOUGHTS ON GENDER:

A brain dump / essay-ish thing

Hello, dear humans! I had no particular inspiration for this massive chunk of text beyond “it’s late and there are thoughts in my little human brain.” And so here are all my current thoughts on gender - all of the thoughts that I can... think of... at least. Disclaimer: much of this is speculation and personal opinion. This isn’t a research essay. This is a brain dump. These are thoughts that have been shit out of my head, tidied up, and sprayed with perfume; proceed, therefore, with a critical mind.

There arises a thought, and likely a rather common one among those who think about gender on a regular basis. What if this heap of gender baggage - the expected appearance, personality, and occupation of a given sex - did not exist? What if people disregarded genitalia in favor of raising all sexes with the same status quo, or perhaps even without expressional expectations?

My question is: what, then, would become of gender dysphoria? If the differences between men and women in society were not so heightened - if the existence of nonbinary people was something normalized... I don’t think I would be dysphoric. My mind would be nonbinary - as gender itself is possibly an intrinsic part of neurology, whereas the gender baggage (roles and expectations) is socially constructed - my mind would be nonbinary, but there wouldn’t be an ideal body to ‘transition’ to. So what would I do? The only difference now would be biological sex. And perhaps, for some, this alone is enough for incongruence and/or dysphoria.

And if all sexes were raised not only equally, but better yet encouraged to express themselves as they wished - how might the face of the earth be changed? In terms of fashion, form-fitting clothing would not be made only to accentuate “feminine” curves. Maybe it would simply accentuate *human* curves and features. If the only recognized differences between sexes were natural physical appearances and roles in reproduction, and we DID NOT create gender roles to accommodate those roles in reproduction... Our world, the products we create, the ways we act... everything could be very, very different.

This imagined world is, of course, an unlikely outcome of our societal evolution. In the animal kingdom, different sexes are assigned different roles and jobs. Why should humans be any different? The task of physical labor to men arises from the sole biological factor of higher potential muscle mass - and in our prehistory, that muscle mass was real. Everyone was working hard as hell in the fight for survival.

And so the differences in sexes grew and grew. With a gap in the jobs they were expected to perform based on their reproductive and physical capabilities, societally recognized men and woman drifted apart. And as humankind grew, these differences were portrayed in wildly different ways in differently developing cultures. So in our prehistory, there were hunters and gatherers, caretakers and fighters; but in the beautifully diversifying cultures developing across the globe, the gender baggage differed. Ideas of femininity, masculinity, neutrality, and combination of expression were quite different as one moved from place to place. In western culture, neutrality was rejected and stomped upon, while in many non-western cultures, neutrality, ambiguity, and overall third genders received their own baggage and thrived in the gender arena (which is now a term, thank you very much.)

Gender expression and gender roles were socially constructed. But what of gender itself? What is gender? We say it’s a personal identity, what’s in our minds and hearts. Is it neurological? If so, that would explain gender incongruence at the base level - feeling that incongruence based solely upon one’s sex. If not, if gender itself is in fact entirely social construct and not just the baggage, what of transness? What would it mean to be trans? That’s not my place to answer, because I don’t know and all of these rhetorical questions are sheer speculation. Whether or not gender is an intrinsic, neurological part of our individual selves, trans people still exist.

And not only do trans people exist, but we deserve to live as the height of our true personal expression. Freedom is so fucking important. Speaking your mind and being yourself and showing the world, or showing a loved one, or knowing and loving who you are - this is all freedom, this is all personal expression. For trans people it is emancipation and liberation from the shackles of all of that gender baggage. In one way or another, gender differs from biological sex, and the sheer difference in what each gender is supposed to do, present as, act as - that difference is what feels so absolutely, goddamn confining. If we returned to my unrealistic little scenario in which we somehow suppressed the evolution of gender baggage, the societal confinement would not exist. It would be biological confinement. And who knows what that would entail; certainly not I, a non-omnipotent little Homo sapiens.

Being a woman and having society tell you you’re a man is confining. Being a man and having society tell you you’re a woman is confining. Being nonbinary and having cultures in which that is simply *not historically a thing* tell you that “you’re whatever’s in your pants” is confining. In my own personal experience in western society, this enby confinement is different than that of binary confinement, as a neutral role - a good old nonbinary baggage suitcase - is a new thing. Nonbinary PEOPLE are not new; a nonbinary suitcase (I love making terms up) is new though, once again illustrating the difference between the gender baggage and gender itself. The struggle of nonbinary people is not to be compared to that of binary trans people, as it is a separate category. They are related but not the same. Binary trans people push against gender baggage that has developed, evolved, and existed for centuries; nonbinary trans people are making a new category (in cultures in which that isn’t a defined gender role). And we don’t necessarily want to create any more ‘baggage’ for nonbinary people, as once again this is what causes that suffocating feeling of confinement within society.

Xenogenders are sort of similar in this sense - an entirely new category is surfacing. At first I did not understand them. But not understanding something is never a basis for disrespect. I don’t know the people identifying as xenogenders, and I don’t know how they feel or what their personal struggles are, so who am I to say “ahahaha trender”? Their existence does not affect me. “But they make the trans community look like a joke.” Well, people with xenogenders are not the face of the trans community, and those who think they are simply cherry-pick the “cringiest” examples in a varied community that they can find, which is already shitty in itself. And also, the problem is not “trenders”. The problem is people with already transphobic mindsets, whether that be passively transphobic or actively transphobic. That mindset is just being extended to this emerging group of people. I don’t give a shit if someone uses neopronouns or describes themself using a neogender, because I do not know them and their existence does not affect me negatively in any way, nor does it affect the trans community negatively. By simply their identity, they are not hateful or discriminatory. And so what trans people should really be fighting against is passive and active transphobia within society - the actual, real life problem. We shouldn’t be turning inwards and setting our own dogs loose on each other.

Here we are in the world. Femininity, masculinity, neutrality and ambiguity have become established fashion codes and expressional standards in my good ol’ western society. Occupational gender roles still exist heavily, because that’s literally an intrinsic part of our evolution as humans, but these occupational roles are being fought against. Which is due, because anything otherwise would be archaic and non-progressive. Personality and personal expression are still heavily scrutinized when differing from one’s own assigned gender. The latter is an issue; the fashion codes and expressional standards have their deep problems, such as violence on the basis of expression, but once femininity, masculinity, neutrality, and ambiguity have been extended and allowed to all genders and socially accepted, these issues should fade. It’s sad that we must base the resolution of violence on social acceptance. But we must push for this social acceptance. We must push for the elimination of confinement, and for the absolute freedom of personal expression for all people; once real, true freedom of expression becomes normalized, becomes the status quo, it will no longer be met with challenge and hate.

That’s one thing we want deeply in life. To exist as we wish to exist without challenge and hate.

That concludes my... words. I hope that entire thing could be perceived as relatively orderly. I encourage you to leave your thoughts in the notes or ask a question or whatever you want to do.

[arcanalogue]

The Book of Symbols: Beard

I’ve been meaning to give myself something to do in the morning that involves reading and writing, but isn’t journaling. Something meditative that isn’t meditation. Something to stand in for the gargantuan influx of media that I wake up and try to absorb each morning, which is such a terrible way to start the day. And also something that adds value to my practice, but which doesn’t  “feel like work” or require me to be firing on all cylinders while I scrape myself together.

Also, perhaps most importantly, something that doesn’t need to happen every day in order to be worthwhile. Because that’s a major commitment, babes. And I’m not there!

But I do have this cinder-block-sized tome by Taschen called THE BOOK OF SYMBOLS: Reflections on Archetypal Images, which has been haunting me for years because it’s never been put to proper use. And what use might that be? It’s not explicitly clear, which is part of the book’s allure. 

The editors have gathered hundreds of entries based on visual archetypes. These have been grouped into categories: CREATION AND COSMOS, PLANT WORLD, ANIMAL WORLD, HUMAN WORLD, and SPIRIT WORLD. The publisher has provided a ribbon bookmark for each of these, as well as a notched “thumb index” cut into the side of the book for quick reference. And then each of these categories is further reduced into several smaller ones. But there’s no table of contents — just a standard index, which is a lovely way to wander, or to hunt for something specific, but it’s not the same as just a numbered list of archetypes in the order presented, the absence of which has foiled me on several occasions.

But this doesn’t seem to be stopping Gisele... so what’s my excuse??

This book has been guilting me for quite a while, but I still hadn’t figured out how to use it. In addition to being an exquisite object, and seems incredibly valuable to the practice of divination, as a reference to help one recognize and interpret various symbolic elements, and I’ve wanted to create a method for dipping into it that would be akin to divination itself. However, it’s hard to flip to a “random” entry in an 800-page book. So, I’ve decided to use a random number generator to pick an entry for me, to read that entry, and then write down a handful of notes to help it stick in my brain. This could take up ten minutes or an hour, whatever I have time for. And the only way to test it out is to test it out, which I did this morning!

I dunno if I’ll end up post all of my adventures in random symbolist musings, but I’m happy to show the one that I kicked off with. 

BEARD (pg. 368)

Firstly, this was a more amusing beginning than expected, simply because “beard” is just a funny word to me, no matter the context. I always giggle at the part in Björk’s otherwise quite reverent “Cocoon” when she sings: “To inhale a beard / loaded with courage.” I guess most consider beards to be a perfectly normal thing to have on one’s face, but I’ve always found them rather preposterous to look at.

The book points out all the obvious associations with masculinity, which of course overlaps with ideas related to wisdom and sovereign power, even down to Egyptian rulers (including queens) who wore false beards or were portrayed with beards. But one part in the text that struck me referred to the way a beard naturally frames and emphasizes the mouth, and thus became associated with language, making it a symbolic feature of teachers, philosophers, and those “who work with the mind by means of words.” 

This makes me wonder if there’s any overlap, symbolically, with lipstick; we’ve all read about the sexual connotations of presenting “flushed” or otherwise brightly colored lips, but additionally, by accenting or exaggerating the mouth, it’s also another way of assuming a mantle of adulthood and authority, encouraging others to pay attention when one speaks.

The book does highlight a beard’s potential for deception and concealment, but I was disappointed to find that they didn’t include the queer vernacular, in which a “beard” describes a woman who agrees to marriage or a relationship with a closeted gay man, as a way of disguising his homosexuality.

The article also neglects to highlight the uncomfortable fact that facial hair can be a universal trait among the sexes, depending on genetic or hormonal influences. It has become symbolically important for women to remove their facial hair as a condition of their womanhood (though many have ultimately declined to do so, and even incorporate it into their interpretation of femininity). This remains a common source of gender dysphoria in cisgender women. 

Beards are considered a secondary sex characteristic, and as such, the inability of more naturally smooth-skinned people to grow a full beard is often presented as an indictment against their masculinity — one of those areas in which racism has colluded with sexism.

I’ve never had any interest in growing a beard and find it extremely itchy and uncomfortable past a certain point, not to mention that it significantly triggers my trichotillomania — I start attacking the various weird hairs and double-follicles (known as pili multigemini) until there are bald patches. And it should be noted that it can be very difficult to brandish both facial hair and lipstick effectively, because even when freshly shaved (which I rarely am) there’s a sudden change in texture of the skin around the mouth. Usually I’d rather have the gloss than the grizzle.

But as the gender binary breaks down further and bearded drag looks have become their own venerable tradition, we see much greater support for the idea that one can present both, uncovering additional symbolic layers in the apparent contradiction.

Anyhow, that’s it for now. More thrilling adventures in technologically-aided archetypal exploration coming soon!

[roomfullofpigeons]

okay so my dad

when i first came out as trans he was super not supportive. not kick-you-out-of-the-house not supportive, but the you’re-not-actually-a-guy-its-just-a-phase type of unsupportive, y’know? he pulled out a transphobic article about rapid onset gender dysphoria (it’s not real incase you didn’t know. you can’t catch the trans. gender dysphoria is surprisingly not a commutive disease) and was telling me that many young AFAB people think they’re trans and i got it from the internet or school or something i cant remember it was a while back.

basically what happened was i came out of the closet. terrified but knowing i needed to do this to be happy. tentatively, i pushed open the metaphorical closet door. actually no i’m fancy it’s one of those closets with sliding doors. treat myself while i suffer from dysphoria, y’know. i deserve something nice.

so i metaphorically slid the metaphorical fancy sliding doors of the closet, metaphorically taking a metaphorical step outside and metaphorically revealing my true self. ok so actually the last one wasn’t a metaphor. oh well.

taking my first step from the cold dark closet (with fancy sliding doors) i announced my true self to the world. my dad, the only other person in the room, decided that he did not like the new addition of my true self to the family, so pushed me back in to the closet and slid the fancy sliding doors shut.

anyway my dysphoria’s been getting worse lately. well not really worse just harder to deal with. you don’t need to know the details. anyway i decided you know what? i can’t take this closet life anymore!

i won’t go through the process of metaphorically describing my metaphorical leaving of the metaphorical closet with the metaphorical sliding doors again. the metaphorical doors are very metaphorically heavy and are very metaphorically hard to metaphorically move.

i asked him for a binder. he knows my chest dysphoria’s been really bad for me lately. he said no but he seemed less transphobic more concerned about my ribs not dying. i’ll probably buy one for myself when i’m 18 and can get a measuring tape off ebay or something to check my size. 

i then decided, you know what, things are starting to come into place. i mean i know literally nothing has changed but still. i mentioned medically transitioning to him. i told him i was going to contact my gp to get a referral. he now knows that the first step to medically transitioning in the uk on the NHS would be to contact your gp about gender dysphoria. 

i discussed with him and he supports me going to see if i can get a gp appointment tomorrow to get a referral. he thinks i should wait a bit to since i’m busy for half the day tomorrow but he seems semi-supportive. 

anyway now that he knows trans stuff, and he knows one of my irl friends is trans (they’re nonbinary but i’m not explaining non binary genders to my dad. he called him they quite a lit (he uses he/they pronouns*) so i think he (dad) might know that they’re not binary trans but anyway). anyway he asked me,,, he asked me if they’ve got a referral to a gender clinic yet. 

i explained to him that i dont even know if they’re planning on medically transitioning, as i dont pay that much attention to what my friends are doing to their bodies and i feel it’s a little inappropriate to straight up ask people what they’re going to do to their bodies [except if it’s in a semi-formal anonymous survey online, because that’s totally different, and is for statistics]

anyway this was funnier in my head but it’s all a true story. apart from the sliding doors on the closet which was completely metaphorical**. we don’t really have closets in the uk (except to store lgbtq+ people of course. and skeletons) but we have wardrobes to keep our clothes in (like a tall box with doors) and i saw adverts on tv for one with sliding doors as a young kid and you know how young kids are impressionable? and how adverts are designed to make you want the thing? i wanted a sliding door wardrobe as a present one year. i didn’t get it, of course.

*my friend not my dad, obviously

**metaphor doesn’t sound like a word anymore. this is what i do for my terrible comedy that nobody will find funny

[nightsysdoesart]

yeah so

so i had a mental health crisis last night and didn’t go to bed until after 5:30 and i wrote this sort of as a coping thing. it was really cathartic, but as you might guess, it’s really depressing. tws in the tags

The first 1k words are some fluff and the last 1k are all depressing. I pulled most of this from my real life, with some changes (obviously. i mean, i am sitting here typing this) yes the people in this are based off people i know/knew irl

reader discretion advised, this is really sad and upsetting. i just wanted to post it to get it out of my saved writings that never see the light of day. plus i spent all night on this.

2241 words

She’s talking, hands flapping excitedly as she infodumps about butterflies and moths, lepidopterans, she calls them. She’s loud and expressive and bubbly, the opposite of me. Maybe that’s why I love her so much. Love. What a crazy thing, the chemicals in your brain firing in such a way when you meet the right person that you’re willing to do anything for them. People pass on the sidewalk in front of us, and kids play on the playground behind us. Leaves crunch under their feet, and our breaths are visible in the cool autumn air. Laughter and chatter echo through the park.

Her curly hair shines in the dying afternoon light. It seems to be getting dark earlier and earlier. Her eyes are bright, though. They shine with excitement as she tells me about the coloring patterns of poisonous butterflies, how they warn animals away, and how some non-poisonous species mimic the poisonous ones to survive. I feel my lips curve into a smile, her enthusiasm infectious. My eyes snag on her mouth, moving quickly as she speaks so fast I can barely keep up. Her lips, always so quick to tilt into a smile, make everything out to be the best it possibly can be. Always so quick to offer reassurance and a positive comment. The best part of this world I’ve been condemned to.

Police sirens startle both of us, her hand flaps turning nervous as she goes silent. They fade into the distance, and I quickly sign to her, trying my best to reassure her. It takes a few minutes, but her breathing goes back to normal. I sign and question, and she nods. I put my hand on her shoulder, hoping to reassure her with touch. She turns to me, looking at my shoulder as I watch her chin. It starts to wobble after a second, and I gently pull her into my arms as she collapses into my chest. I play with the ends of her hair as she sobs, coming down from the adrenaline shock of fear.

I press my eyes closed as a breeze comes through, threatening to make my eyes water. She shivers, and I wrap my arms more fully around her, dipping my chin to lean my head on her. Her hair smells like her hair products. I don’t know how to describe it, but it’s inexplicably her. Through both of us adjusting to get more comfortable, she ends up in my lap. Her shaking slows down, and she looks up at me. I offer her a small smile and cup her cheek with my hand. She leans into it and closes her eyes, being absolutely adorable. I clench my gut at the onslaught of emotion I feel when her lips curve into a small smile. She looks happy and content. With me. Because of me.

But I can’t keep this up. I can’t keep her safe. Not from everything that’s going on. Not from the world that will keep hurting her, for no fault of her own. I can’t protect her, keep her smile on her face. I will inevitably fail. This is a situation I can’t succeed in. I’m bound to disappoint her. I don’t want to fail her; she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. If only I could do better, be better, then I could make sure she was never sad or in pain. If I could do more, I could make sure she didn’t have to deal with racists, misogynists, queerphobes… I could make her happy, always. I could make sure the smile never left her face and make sure she had everything she ever wanted.

Her eyes flutter open, catching on my ear. She asks a question I don’t fully process. She noticed me tensing up, drifting away in my mind. I shrug my shoulders, wanting to savor this moment with her rather than dive into it right now. She seems to understand, falling silent again. This time, it’s a comfortable, companionable silence. She leans her head against my shoulder, and I rub her cheek with my finger. Sometimes the world gets so fast I forget to stop and appreciate what I have. What I don’t deserve. What I won’t always have.

I press a kiss to the crown of her head and feel one of her arms disentangling from around me to happy stim. I suppress a smile and press another to her forehead, another to her nose. She lifts her head a bit, guessing my next question. I still ask, though. I tap the corner of her mouth with my pointer finger, and she nods, smiling and happy stimming a bit more. I grin, feeling my mouth go lopsided as I close my eyes and press my lips to her.

Every time feels like the first time.

Nevermind the facts that it’s only been a handful of times. I will treasure every kiss I get from her. They are gifts, and I can’t be more grateful. Kisses from her feel like how looking at outer space feels when you’re in an area with low light pollution. I feel simultaneously small and in awe and wonder of how something, someone, so amazing could exist. And I have the honor of being here, at this moment, to experience it.

It doesn’t feel like the fireworks and explosions I’ve read; it feels like a quiet night where you might see a shooting star, but even more importantly, you’re sitting on a blanket with the one you love as the sky blazes purple and blue with twinkly lights here and there. I learned all about the constellations when I was younger, but I can’t sign to her while she looks up. I wish I could infodump to her the same way she does to me. I wish I was verbal like her; I wish I could take the words in my brain and put them in other people’s ears.

Her phone goes off, buzzing against my thigh as we separate. Her face dims as she reads the text. She lets me know she has to go as she stands and collects her bag. I stand up too, opening my arms as an invitation for one last hug. She takes me up, wrapping her arms around my midsection. I lean down a little to rest my head on hers, closing my eyes as I savor the moment. She pulls back, and I mirror, expecting her to leave, but she surprises me with another kiss. I happy stim as well, thumbing the spinner ring on my finger as I kiss her back. I try to memorize the feel of her lips on mine, her hands on my back, her curly hair in my fingers, our bodies pressed together- nevermind the fact I won’t have the memories for too much longer.

I do my best to make her last memory of me a good one. We break apart and I sign to her how much I love her, no matter what. She smiles and signs back, still learning. She waves goodbye and heads down the street to her apartment. I picked this park for our last meeting place so I wouldn’t have to worry about her getting home safely. This city isn’t as bad as others, but there are always bad people. I watch as she strides confidently down the sidewalk, a look I’ve seen more and more on her as we’ve been together longer. She’s grown so much, gotten so much happier- which is why I need to do this before I ruin it. Before I hurt her like I always do with those I love. Once she’s out of sight, I head back towards my apartment. It’s several blocks away, and I use that time to run over my plan in my head, to ensure that there will be no hiccups. I switch my music to instrumental and try to relax.

It doesn’t work, though, as I fumble with my keys and nearly drop them trying to get my door open. My hands are shaking so badly it takes me four tries to get the key in the lock. What am I, scared? No, I’m ready for this. I’ve come close many times, but this is the time. I’m going to do it tonight.

I swallow a handful of ibuprofen and down another glass of water. I’ve been drinking a lot more water than I usually do the past few days. Sparkling water, of course, I have sensory issues with plain water. I turn on the spout in the bathtub, getting it warm but not too hot. I grab some candles, lighting them to help me feel more relaxed. I put a bath bomb in the slowly filling tub for the same reason. Switching my music to the speakers placed strategically around the small space, I wander into the kitchen for a knife and sharpener. I change into a swimsuit because fully clothed would feel weird, but my dysphoria is bad enough to unsettle me right now.

Moving to the bathroom, I sit on the edge of the bathtub with my feet in the water as it slowly rises. I work on sharpening the blade as my hands shake uncontrollably. I sigh, setting down the knife and sharpener to move to the kitchen. It takes a minute of digging, but I find the bottle of vodka I had put back there in case I needed it. I squirt a ton of water flavoring in; I’ve never loved the flavor of alcohol. I take a sip and put in some more flavoring.

Making my way back to the tub, I find that it’s mostly full. I set the blade on the ledge of the tub and slide in, sighing at the warmth. Picking up the vodka bottle that’s now filled with green liquid, I take a big gulp, the liquid burning as it goes down. I keep sipping as I think. I let my mind fill with thoughts of her as the tub finishes filling with water. I push the remains of the bath bomb around with my finger, watching the colors trail out of it. Rainbow colors, like the colors of all the dresses she wears. Rainbow colors, like all the colors she’s dyed her hair. Bright and wonderful, like her. 

She’ll be happier with me gone. She’ll be able to find someone new, someone who can say “I love you” out loud. Someone who can infodump verbally, someone who can do all the things I can’t. She deserves someone more, someone who is better. She’s better off without me; the whole world is. With that in mind, I pick up the knife and start cutting. Right arm first. I dig in, barely feeling the pain. It’s bleeding a lot, which is good. But I can’t really see if I’m cutting in the right place or not, so I just keep pressing the knife in deeper until it hurts too badly to continue. I don’t know if I hit the artery or not, but it’s bleeding pretty heavily, so I’ll leave it at that. I dunk my hand in the water, watching as blood swirls and dissipates in the water. More blood comes out of my wrist immediately, which is a good sign.

I switch my knife to the other hand and immediately drop it into the water, my hand wet and slippery. I fish it out and dry my hands off with the bath towel hanging on the wall. I sip some more alcohol, hoping to get deeper on my other wrist. I take a deep breath and check the time on my phone. Good, I have plenty of time before my roommate will be home. I pick up the blade again and start on the other wrist, the shaking worse than before. Now, I feel every little movement in my right wrist, and it’s not responding normally; I think I nicked the tendons in there. My usual coordination is gone, and I’m glad I did my non dominant hand first.

I’m getting kind of lightheaded, and I’m not entirely sure why, but I just keep going. I’m not going to let some dizziness stop me. I’m doing this, and I’m doing it now. 

Spots swim in front of my eyes as I start breathing faster, almost like I’m hyperventilating. I try to remember my breathing exercises, but I can’t remember what counts they were. Was it four in or seven in? Why can’t I remember? I’ve literally used this same exercise for most of my life. Am I? What am I… ? Something slips from my hand, there’s noise in the background. A splash and noise, radiating pain and- what’s going on? I just wanted to hit quit. Why do I have to put so much work into it?

My head drops, and I can’t keep my eyes open. Am I? Why am I in the bathtub with my swimsuit? There’s a noise that won’t stop. I know it from somewhere. Over the throbbing of my head and the sound of my breath, I hear the front door unlocking. Why is my roommate home so early?? Oh well, they’ll leave me alone for a little bit. I can’t see anything; the pain is gone, there’s nothing to sense. The sound bounces in my head. The video chat ringtone I set for her, echoing off into the void.

[aroworlds]

Those With More, Part Two

When Mara Hill's magic results in her brother's impossible, wondrous transition, of course Suki wants to know how she did it! What if Sirenne's magic workers can help others find euphoria? What if this magic can heal Suki's hands—or at least lessen her pain? But Mara, distrustful of priests after their failure in protecting Esher, won't share her power.

A senior priest must bear responsibility, but Suki suspects her problems lie deeper than lack of oversight, and her reluctance to discuss her aromanticism with a woman who needs support only proves it. Would she have preserved Mara's faith and Esher's health if she hadn't first avoided revealing herself to her aromantic kin? If she'd faced their expectations that she shoulder their pain and grief as well as her own?

Suki has lived her life by the Sojourner's second precept, but how does she serve when she doesn't have more to give—and never will?

Contains: A disabled, non-partnering allo-aro woman struggling with the expectations of her young, fledgling aromantic community; an autistic, aromantic priest reconsidering their expectations of their community's leader; and an allo-aro woman in need of support as she struggles with her non-partnering, aro-ace brother's illness.

Content Advisory: Please expect many references to or depictions of aro antagonism, allo-aro antagonism, amatonormativity, familial abuse, mental illness, suicidal ideation, death, gender dysphoria, chronic pain, ableism and ageism. This piece contains non-detailed, non-specific reference to a character's past suicide attempts. This section includes characters embracing and touching.

Length: 4, 691 words (part two of two).

Note: This is the last story in my Suki mini-series, but it refers to characters introduced in The Sorcerous Compendium of Postmortem Query and is best read following the stand-alone story What Makes Us Human. You can find links to all on my pinned post or on this Tumblr master post.

Some scars are long years in the fading, if at all. 

***

She isn’t surprised when Moll strides, their braid and girdle book swinging with each step, down the path to her garden. Sirenne rarely leaves its rules unsaid, an admirable quality to Suki’s way of thinking, but one needn’t long elaborate to impart the expectation that junior priests arrive promptly when summoned. Moll, despite the lifetime of alienation that leads to questioning rules and a habit of interaction best described as “restrained”, hasn’t dawdled upon hearing her request. A problem, that.

She understands, though, in the way of a woman once a girl who couldn’t have understood at all.

Obedience to conformity isn’t something she feels in the heart; Suki responds to being haltered with sharp words and loud arguments. Amadi, knowing this, kept her with em for a year before taking her to Sirenne, a year of learning to accept reasonable restrictions before facing the greater challenge of an acolyte’s service. That bitter, aching, defiant Suki would have scorned Moll’s flushed face and hurried pace, not seeing that she reacted to the same set of weighty, dehumanising beliefs and demands.

Submission and rebellion are just two sides of the same coin.

She doesn’t approve, but she understands.

“Don’t you even think about it,” she says, gleefully irascible, as Moll opens their mouth. “No clucking allowed. Sit down. The food’s safe, but it’s been half an hour. The tea’s probably cold.”

Moll nods and settles themself on Mara’s recently-vacated bench, the tea tray resting between them and Suki’s chair. As always, they move slowly, carefully, cautiously—like a wolfhound sniffing a newborn kitten or a man allowing a butterfly to alight on his finger. Like a tall, broad, boulder-shaped priest attempting to avoid threatening or scaring, however inadvertently, those around them. Like a puppy lying on its back, belly bared and paws tucked under its chin, its defencelessness a performance made before all would-be predators.

I won’t hurt you, so don’t hurt me.

They look more like a fig tree towering over the world’s seedlings than a puppy, but while a fig possesses an ancient, confident majesty in its quest to subsume another life in its great roots, Moll is … Moll. Shy, awkward, hesitant, uncertain. Rarely does she see them widen their arms or roll their hips, as if forever working to make their immense body appear smaller, softer, lighter. Just as a fig, for all its grandeur, lies vulnerable to any woman wielding an axe, Moll lies vulnerable to the wounds wrought by tongue, expression and gesture.

She wants to, simultaneously, swathe that nervous puppy in a warm blanket while taking a sharp blade to that fig’s trunk and daring Moll to defend themself.

Some scars are long years in the fading, if at all.

“Do you … mind, if I heat the tea?”

“Clucking,” she says, fighting to bite back her impatience. She doesn’t want to be the kind of old woman who moans about the young’s blathering, but sometimes they make her silence difficult! “If I objected, couldn’t you cool it down? Or tell me to pour a cup and let time have its way? I’d tell me, personally, to stick my head where the sun never shines. Try, if you want.”

Moll’s deep-set brown eyes put her in mind of shadowed pools—their fathomless serenity now disturbed by a crotchety priest’s thrown rock. Wordlessly, they pour a small amount of tea into a saucer before resting one hand on the teapot’s handle. The other guides a finger to the saucer, dampens a fingertip and traces, with careful delicacy, evaporating glyphs atop the tan glaze.

Many magicians speak loudly or write in great looping script, their magic become another performance of wordplay and artistry—as if, Suki always thinks, they find adoration for their art more useful than magic itself. Moll works in gestures and murmurs, collected and subtle. Everything must be reduced, depressed and lessened for safety, and she sighs, for even she recognises that they’re no casual magician. Why shouldn’t the world outside a small, backcountry monastery welcome or accommodate such ability?

Why shouldn’t Freehome welcome Suki’s free, unrestrained, honest self?

Such pondering, when she knows the answers to both questions, provides only one thing: delay.

“How old were you,” she asks, “when you learnt the word for your aromanticism?”

A slight frown, more the suggestion of expression than the actuality, shifts Moll’s brow. “I know exactly,” they say in their slow, deep voice, “because I learnt five weeks and two days after my acceptance as acolyte.” They purse their lips, studying the movement of their finger across the teapot. When a breath of steam issues from the spout, they pull back their hand. “I knew what I was since childhood, but knowing that I am loveless isn’t the same as a more … academic term. Loveless … people have other ideas about what that means.”

She always knew whom and what she was, clinging to a truth so obvious part of Suki still finds it absurd that Mama Lewis persisted in her stubborn obliviousness. Knowing, though, isn’t recognition, isn’t identification and permission; knowing isn’t the certain categorisation of the self as a different, acknowledged, communicable manner of ordinary.

Knowing isn’t pride.

“When do you think I found the word?”

Moll shakes their head, pouring now-steaming tea into a clay mug, the glaze chipped about the rim from years of use, the handle too small to fit all of Moll’s fingers. Their expression shows not the slightest hint of curiosity towards her questions. “I wouldn’t begin to guess, sir.”

Given Moll’s newness to the red, they can easily rough-reckon the numbers, so she answers as they did. “One and a half years before you, and leave off the ‘sir’! What are we, Astreuch?” Suki draws a shaking breath, her voice undeservedly sharp, but how can she fight both her acid tongue and the awful surge of hurt? How can she fight both her acid tongue and a nebulous tension that only fuels and strengthens her aching joints? “I was accepted, in a ‘some people don’t like relationships’ way. My mentor, Amadi, was like us. But the word? I didn’t know words until a cluster of young priests brought books from Khaloun. I found it, unexpectedly, while reading. So I made it my life’s work to have, here, our library.” She pauses, rueful. “Or the rest of my life’s work, since…”

Moll has given only patient, considered answers. Moll hasn’t asked questions coated in that dread mingling of need, hope and dismissal. Moll has done nothing to deserve her mood beyond asking one question, in the vegetable garden, that they had and have every right to voice.

Anticipatory fear and aching memory, poisonously entwined, have ever raised her hackles.

Suki counts backwards from ten, breathing long and slow, before realising that the Stormcoast’s culture of tiptoeing around advancing age—one daren’t observe that another approaches a state of “elderly” or “ancient”—has left Moll dwelling in a stone-faced, finger-entwining, staring-at-the-ferns silence.

“Which relative told you off as a child for calling another relative ‘old’?” she asks, grinning. “You think I don’t know I’m over the bloody hill and rolling down the other side? Yes, it’s the rest of my life’s work, because most of my life happened beforehand! Why pretend otherwise?”

“Many.” Moll rolls their shoulders back, softening. “How old were you?”

“Seventy-nine.” Suki silently applauds them for avoiding the tired “may I ask how old were you” approach and leaves the rest of the reckoning to Moll, carefully shifting her hands. Too often, these days, she earns nothing for her restful efforts but more time yearning for the work around which she has anchored her life. “Sometimes I feel like I was alive when the Sojourner supposedly lead hir band of survivors from the Change-ravaged North. Sometimes the world feels impossibly different, from then to now. Mostly, I feel the same as I always was, and the world's less different than people think, but people treat me like a ... a relic. Fancy attempting to educate me about theories I promoted because the old can’t understand the new!” She sighs. “Pour me a cup of plain tea, please, and put a pill on the saucer. The rats are gnawing today. Bloody rats.”

If her pain becomes unbearable, she’ll ask Thanh for hir set of nerve-blocking spells. She won’t be able to move or feel much of her body, but since she’s already remaining still, the real difference lies in consideration for Thanh. Ze’s had enough on hir metaphorical plate over the last week without Suki’s adding to hir work—and she hates to call on hir when she unnecessarily provoked at least half the throb in her hands, knees and ankles. Thanh has never made her feel as though she shouldn’t, but she does nonetheless.

She’s learnt the hard way how much her mood, and her guilt over wishing for relief, stokes and banks her pain.

Moll sets down their mug and pours another. “Can I do anything for you?”

Suki laughs. “I don’t suppose there’s the slightest chance you’ve figured out Thanh’s nerve blockers?”

They shake their head with speed enough that she guesses this a source of some frustration. “I don’t know how! There’s so much grafting onto nerve points, and in trying to describe it all and then shell … I make too many mistakes in the spell compression. It isn’t something in which you want mistakes.” They stop, breathing out long and slow. “I’m sorry, s—I’m sorry.”

Suki considers asking why, since she can’t expect a former quartermaster to reveal mastery of an art for which Thanh spent years studying at Eastern universities, but isn’t all this another distraction? “Don’t be. Thank you. Can you put the tray, just the cup and saucer, on my lap?”

Moll shifts the teapot and plate of corn muffins onto the bench before, as carefully as if handling fragile porcelain, arranging the rest of the tray on Suki’s lap. “Do you want to eat?”

“No.” Once, she could clasp a cup without provoking or worsening the pulling, throbbing pain in her wrist and fingers. So simple a thing to hold a cup, to drink, to return it to her tray! The tea’s heat doesn’t ease her pain, but the warm, tingling sensation distracts her somewhat, so she cradles the cup in both hands before raising them to her face. Now, at least, she needn’t waste her time in hope. As much as she yearns for Mara’s unlooked-for shape of witchcraft, there’s no reason to think her magic anything but sorcery, distant and unattainable. So be it.

She has blessings to count: a home, acolytes to help her wash and dress, purpose.

The bitter pill sticks to her tongue before she swallows it down.

“I can imagine,” Moll says, settling themself back onto the bench, “but in that way of theory. I can’t know, in the heart, the longest rhythms of time unknowing or half-knowing, given all denied us because we lack comprehension’s authority and…” They trail off, taking up their mug and, likely unconsciously, mirroring the position of her hands. “Place. That sense of place in time, in space, in community, in family, that … existential assuredness. Place. I know separation, distance, but I won’t pretend that I know that deeper shape.”

That Moll thinks their service should encompass only the safety of the vegetable garden is both tragedy and metaphor, but their still face suggests they don’t realise the contradictory echo of old words behind the new.

Mara wanted her kindred’s acknowledgement of her pain, someone to help her shoulder the weight of her agony in the validation and sympathy offered only by one who understands. Was Suki wrong to think, for so long, that she can’t risk seeking comfort? Does Moll’s rare consideration, offered unprompted no less, betoken safety enough for her to try?

“Do you have place, now?”

Moll cocks their head to the side, tapping one finger against the mug’s brown handle.

Suki waits.

“I don’t know that I will ever have that … neat, puzzle-piece sense of fitting into any time or space shared with others. Just autism alone, just aromanticism alone, just genderlessness alone … possibly. But they can’t stand alone, even if others want them to.” Moll exhales, hissing their breath over their lips in the loud, habitual easing of a priest performing and, through performance, encouraging the behaviour. “Sometimes … I want, so much, the ease of that fit, the confidence of an unquestioned place. And always … not, never, at that price.”

It shames her that, for all she has long held Moll at arm’s length, they are so willing to share.

“Burn the whole damn puzzle,” Suki says through a terrible, crooked grin.

Moll nods, a slight frown creasing their lips.

Do they realise? The shock of their first conversation in the vegetable garden, followed by an induction into the events surrounding the Hill siblings, may have seen them miss or put aside the obvious, for all that they touched upon it in their question of her. Moll owns too much perception to remain in acceptance of the thick paint covering the wallpaper beneath, and priests must do just that: question.

No thought or word can be worth anything if crumpling under curious, inquisitive challenge, so the question remains: have they the courage to ask?

“Do you know,” she says in a would-be conversational voice, “that the best thing about being a priest is that you can, amongst other priests, speak your mind? The trick lies in only having something worth speaking. Try it.”

With the speed and presence of a glacier, Moll turns their head to look Suki in the eyes. Their brow sits low and heavy, their controlled voice too tense for indifference: “What is this, then?”

Suki shakes her head. “No, try again.”

Moll’s lips shift, as if they mean to mouth a word before deciding otherwise. “Do you want honesty?”

“Your own mind will tear you apart if you say anything less, so why should I expect otherwise?”

A slight crease of Moll’s brow may suggest amusement—or consternation. Both, perhaps. “You’re discussing,” they say with painful slowness, “aro—” They hold up a hand, stopping her from remarking on their woeful statement of the obvious, and Suki, despite her anxiety-fuelled throbbing, works to hide a smile. “When you’ve had five years to start a conversation, why now?”

Their breath hisses over lips and teeth, one hand sketching lines on the meat of their robe-covered thigh.

Suki nods her encouragement.

“I did think that if this were well-known, I’d have heard. Someone would have said so in explaining to me? I also thought that your answer to my question … undermined your sense of the importance that we guide our own, especially now.”

“Do you feel that with Esher Hill?” Suki asks, wondering if they’ll dare put damning thought to voice. “Importance?”

"Yes." Moll shifts the girdle book and the bunched-up length of brown belt fastening said book to their waist. Their robe spills over thighs and knees, leaving ankles and shoulders bared; unlike Suki, they don’t appear the least bit cold. “He doesn’t trust me, but I think seeing himself reflected in that tangle of sharedness does more to help him survive than anything else. It matters.” They draw a breath, their voice firming and harshening: “So why do you talk sharedness now?”

Good! Only pain and the fear that Moll will take a somewhat-deserved offence keeps her from clapping. If she spends her remaining months or years helping Moll craft a more intentional relationship to obedience, even the Sojourner must reckon this time well served.

Easier to think about that than her own fear of an unvoiced answer.

Easier to frame this as a lesson or a guiding, her conversation possessed of another’s purpose.

Easier to think of anything but guilt and the damning thoughts an old woman must dare speak.

“Why do you?” Moll sips from their mug, their body angled towards her, their soft tone less a question than a prompting. “Isn’t that it?”

Only then does Suki realise that she embodies her own lingering, encloaking silence.

Her eyes rest, fleeing Moll, on the fern-encrusted garden wall and its uneven rows of red and yellow orchids. Her plants, fronds and leaves stirred into bobbing by the evening breeze, appear peaceful and fearless, but even allowing for flora’s unknowable sentience, that can’t be true. What stops a priest from consigning her flowers to the compost heap? A swarm of thrip from devouring the vegetable garden? Ferns, too, live their lives at the whims of the weather, the season, the denizens of the land upon which they take root. Plants grow, flourish, sicken, die. Peaceful?

What is peace but illusion: the hope of a perfect shelter from nature’s whims, ways and hurts?

“It goes the same way,” she says, now staring at her lawn and its mushrooms, those glistening fruits of the fungus conquering the soil beneath. “You learn something you didn’t know existed: the word. Once you find it fits, you feel the betrayal, the ache of once not knowing something fundamental, the deep cuts left by ignorance. You want sympathy, reassurance and validation to heal, and where are they when most don’t understand?”

Deep creases form across Moll’s brow as they thread their fingers together. “Yes. Esher needs it from me.” They hesitate, lips parted. “He needs it. So does Mara.”

“You can say it,” Suki murmurs, wondering the cost of standing, stepping onto the lawn and pulling the closest mushroom … with her back, conveniently, facing the priest beside her. Perhaps she and Moll aren’t so dissimilar if she wants to turn her hurt to fighting fungi. Perhaps this only crosses a mind looking to find a replacement for her knitting. “Please.”

“And I needed it from you.”

They may be referring to that first vegetable garden conversation. They may be referring to the years that passed between Moll’s learning the word “aromantic” as a descriptor and discovering that another priest is also aromantic. Both are truth.

“Nobody but Amadi had anything close.” Suki yawns in the first touch of medicine’s giddiness. Pity, as always, that she feels the effect in her head long before her joints. “Given nameless, remaining nameless with eir last breath.”

Only the stirring of hair and robe by breeze and breath mars Moll’s quiet stillness.

“Those with more,” she says bitterly, “serve to guide those with less. How doesn’t aromanticism apply? But we know the other side of its truth: a priest must have more to serve. More knowledge, more support, more sense of place, more safety, more community. A priest offers sympathy, provides reassurance, validates feeling, illuminates direction. A priest does what the world so often can’t in telling the different that we aren’t wrong to exist as we are.”

Mama Lewis wanted Suki to be safe, happy, loved. Mama Lewis never valued the daughter she had over the image of the daughter she thought herself entitled to have.

The part of Suki still yearning for the promise of her mother’s love can’t surrender one tainted, maggot-ridden idea: that a concept bearing an academic-sounding, official name must have made a difference.

Or will she still exist in this same circumstance, a trailblazer struggling with the full and challenging consequences of being this path’s guide?

“You think that I’ve known our word for years. You think that age means my hurt no longer throbs and I will carry your pain. You think I have more.” She presses her lips together, fearing the tears threatening to burst their dam. No, Suki takes pride in being the human equivalent of a splinter under a fingernail! She doesn’t weep. She rebels. “I have more knowledge only! You’ve … thirty, forty, fifty years of knowing ahead. You won’t find the word when you’re at death’s doorstep. You won’t bear the pain of a word unknown for eight decades. Your guide came delayed, but your guide still came!”

Suki learnt her words from books, not other priests. Moll had Gennifer, who’d learnt of aromanticism from her and affirmed in person the name of their identity and human worth. Moll, now, has Suki, even if five years later than right or deserved. Mara and Esher Hill have the wonder of identified validation provided by other aromantics, but Suki lived in a time when even the best affirmation went unnamed.

She tried openness for a year. She tried talking, despite such guiding never being her strongest art, to those guests who showed signs of aromanticism. She tried to find and connect with her own.

Easier, so much easier, to withdraw, to leave nurturing the younger aromantic starting their novitiate to other priests, to trust that Moll’s future will achieve what hers can’t.

Easier, so much easier, to avoid the young’s self-involved cruelty in relegating her only to their mentorship: the provider of their needed validation and support, the priest with more.

Easier, so much easier, to avoid speaking of her named identity with her aromantic kin … until a man almost died in part because of how he took a priest’s careless words, a situation that may not have existed if everyone knew “aromantic” described her and understood its context. Her failure, her cowardice, her unwillingness to build aromanticism more obviously into all her priests’ knowledge and service. Her inability to survive the bruises dealt her by others in pain. Her rebellion offering no direction or answer.

“You want me to strengthen you, shore you, shelter you. I can’t. I can’t when even thinking of sharing your agony reminds me of mine. I can’t when listening to you…” She sucks in a harsh, shaking breath, her throat tightening like a python’s jaws around a struggling rat. “I don’t have more. I’ll never have more. But acknowledging that isn’t enough!”

No lie slipped from her lips when she spoke to Moll in the vegetable garden, carefully dealing in careless and shallow words: how can a priest best guide someone when that guiding means taking further injury to damaged flesh? How can she serve their guests and her belief when she fights to keep back her screams, when pain and defensiveness sharpen her words to cruelty?

How much did the ostensible Sojourner struggle in leading hir collection of rent and ruined survivors along such a frightening, untrodden road?

She wishes herself able enough to march into the kitchen, grab a stack of the cracked plates she kept aside for such purposes and find a private courtyard where she can hurl them at a particularly offensive wall.

“I’m sorry,” she rasps, “because you needed. Because what happened to Esher wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t retreated. I didn’t question. I didn’t try to find an answer. I used the precept as a shield; I failed it. I’m sorry, I—”

She doesn’t realise she’s weeping until Moll slides towards her, closes their warm hand about her bony shoulders and pulls her into their chest, her tears soaking their red linen robe. They don’t speak. They don’t do anything but sit, awkwardly leaned over the arm of her chair, and hold her like a fresh-hatched chick in a pair of sheltering hands.

Guiding priests don’t, by custom, embrace their guests.

A lifetime’s grief spills from her eyes, stinging creased, dry cheeks. Not until the evening’s chill increases to something unignorable does Suki find again her composure. She sniffs, draws a shaking breath and speaks in her ever-readily barbed tongue: “Ten years ago, before your novitiate, I’d have asked if you were interested in bedding. Or even just sleeping, because you’re better than a dog and a hot brick for keeping an old woman toasty.”

Moll sits upright, only a strained shift of shoulder suggesting any stiffness or discomfort. Their wet eyes glisten even in the dim light, an odd contrast to their twisted lips and crumpled chin—and then a noise between a hoarse laugh and a snort explodes above the breeze’s whisper. “Don’t distract!”

They sound like Suki does when objecting to the young's woeful blathering.

She straightens, wiping her face on a corner of her shawl before smiling in pride. “Yes. I…”

“Thank you for trusting me enough to share.” They’re priestly words, taken right from the instruction manual, but Moll’s following sentences aren’t: “You said my guide came delayed, but she came, she showed herself when needed, she served. She’s here. I don’t know … how people reacted, what was asked, all of what you feel, how you bear the weight. I want to know. Your guide came delayed, so delayed … but they’re here. Even at the last.”

Emotion cracks and shreds her voice: “I’d rather not cry again, thank you very much.”

Moll doesn’t dilute their blank stare with speech or gesture.

“What path, then?” she croaks—tired, giddy, shivering, relieved.

Part of her, the wary woman once a distrustful girl, feels it ludicrous that Moll, so junior a priest, can answer something she can’t. The girl does them no justice: Moll hasn’t asked her to carry their pain. They’ve shared only at her prompting. They’ve treated her with a friend’s warmth and courtesy. If she holds no faith in their sacred service, is there anything left of Suki but damaged bones in an aching body? Isn’t this the same old difficulty: a woman fighting herself to trust another person, simultaneously needing and fearing?

Moll rests a hand on the arm of her chair, fingers half curled in invitation.

Suki nods and rests her stiff hand in their soft one.

“Someday,” they say slowly, “as how it seems incredulous to question one eschewing gender, we will be history. My school, years ago, taught that: the tears and blood spent to make a world where I can shrug at gender. Not just as a past to avoid repeating, but as … respect for the pain that birthed the now.”

They motion with their other hand, fingers curled inwards—the mug and teapot sitting, long abandoned, on the bench.

Suki yawns, presses her trembling lips together and waits.

“We need books of names and definitions, and we need books of stories. Our futures and hopes written on the page. Stories of the past that we’re hoping become … incredulous. We need the stories of those who wept. We can’t forget.” They turn to glance at Suki before speaking in a voice marred by quivering: “May I write down your story? So I can understand—so we can understand, all those who come after?”

They won’t offer power. They can’t violently remake a world so wrought against her. They don’t provide resolution to the ache felt by a woman struggling with the community who need her to help them bear and understand theirs. They haven't a solution.

They offer direction, one balancing their hopes for the future with the harms of the present. A direction that doesn’t make her feel like a relic to be cast aside but a paving stone at the road’s beginning, one small part of ensuring the steady, continuing passing of feet and wheels.

Moll’s suggestion is why she believes in the concept of the Sojourner, even though she can’t make herself ascribe to certainty in god.

“I don’t mean to be impudent—”

“Never cluck when you’re doing a bitchy old woman a kindness.” Suki draws a shaking breath of her own. “I’d … like that. Very much. Thank you.”

At first, she thinks Moll’s expression—a slight curve of lips, only a smile by comparison—speaks more of relief than happiness. No. Don’t they also straddle a complex and confused struggle to build their place? Don’t they also feel the sacred power in their service? Aren’t they also in need of friendship?

“May I ask—” Moll stops themself, raising a palm. “Why did you talk to me, at the beginning, as though guiding a priest? Why didn’t you talk about this straight out?”

Suki grins at both the correction and the question. “I’m the Guide. What else do you think I’m going to do?”