#psychology cowardice

[ladyalienist]

What is your position on trauma-related conditions/personality disorders?

Hi! I’m really glad you asked because this is a thing I wanted to make a post about.

So, let’s first start with a bit of general context, shall we? I’ll try to make it as short as I can.

Psychologists and psychiatrists are different in many ways, but they both take care of the same kind of illnesses, distresses and problems, and hence need to communicate between themselves and create a taxonomy of the most common kinds of problems they face. In that taxonomy (DSM, PDM, you name it) it is understood, generally, that people might react to traumatic events in an acute way or in a persistent way (what we usually refer to as PTSD).

In that same taxonomy, personality disorders (PDs) are not seen as trauma responses per se: they are something different. Personality is defined as the unique and fairly consistent patterns of thoughts, feelings, and behaviours that distinguish a person from others. When something in the development of personality goes wrong and those patterns become consistently dysfunctional and hurtful to the person and/or to others, we have a PD. There’s currently about 10-15 of them that have a specific label, all with their specific characteristics: I’m not diving too deep into that because else this thing will become a whole essay and I’d have to charge you money to have you read it.

Now, one thing that seems intuitive but apparently was absolutely not to psychiatrists is that thought/feeling/behaviour patterns are not formed in a vacuum, and require a lot of interactions with external influences to be moulded into a specific shape: hence, a thing that isn’t that obvious is that personality disorders come usually (not always, but very often) from a deeply traumatic childhood.

Especially when it comes to the most (in)famous and debated personality disorder: the Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD), which many feminists (me included) view as an evolution of the so-called hysteria psychs would diagnose women with in the 1800s.

It is, on many levels, the very same situation: we have young women who react to horrifying and prolonged abuse by becoming “bad women”, “untamed women”, and hence need to be corrected with sedation and institutionalization.

Many ladies here on Radblr are unwaveringly anti-psychiatry, or at the very least critical of psychiatry and of the BPD diagnosis altogether: they think that it is a pathologisation of natural responses to the horrific treatment little girls go through in way too many cases, and a tool of oppression in the hands of a patriarchal paradigm of health and science.

Now let me be clear: I understand those critiques and they are in many ways grounded and valid. This is a diagnosis that gets often given without an understanding of the personal history of the woman who displays symptoms, or gets given way too soon (PDs should not get diagnosed before adulthood and many women receive a BPD diagnosis when they are still adolescents).

I am myself… not exactly enthusiastic about psychiatrists and colleagues alike, and I do not appreciate the modern paradigm of mental health, but you already know that, for you asked this specific question.

The fact is that in other ways it is a myopic view of a complex and nuanced issue. My first problem with the General-Radblr-Critique-of-Psychiatry is that many many people do not understand a simple fact: psych language is edulcorated as fuck and a competent psych keeps that in mind. When a psych writes “difficulties in keeping care of personal hygiene” (non-political random example of a typical consequence of severe depression) it doesn’t mean “eh, haven’t showered yesterday because I didn’t stink”, it means “this person hasn’t showered in months because they cannot find the energy/they do not want to see themselves naked/they are actively trying to rot while alive and are succeeding”.

Another problem is that many people are not aware that PD diagnoses are actually… not that gendered: while it is true that BPD is more often female and Narcissistic PD is more often male, and socialization brings wildly different levels of destructiveness, there are men diagnosed with BPD and women with NPD, and they are not a statistical rarity!

The third and last problem is a direct consequence of the first: a thing many do not understand is that a PD diagnosis is not given because you’re a moody teen who is angry at misogyny.

It is mostly given when you are a fucking menace to yourself and people around you.

A person should get this diagnosis when they have a consistent pattern of destructive behaviour and uncontrolled emotional responses. These are people who self harm, who have risky behaviours (reckless driving, substance abuse and addiction, violent relationships) and who can and will treat others like shit with little to no reason.

Now, it should not be given to adolescents and this happens. It should not be given without addressing the causes, which often include sexual trauma or prolonged abuse, and this happens. Medication should be prescribed very, very carefully and this doesn’t happen. This is malpractice, and it is way too widespread. I will not deny that.

But here are just some funky tales of things people I know with that diagnosis did:

Set fire to the car of one of her ex BFs. Gleefully told me. The poor guy had done absolutely nothing wrong except leaving her, which was well within his rights. She absolutely could not understand why what she did was unacceptable.

Kept a merry-go-round between three different partners. Two of them were abusive pieces of shit. No amount of telling her that they were pieces of shit would have her convinced that they needed to be excluded from her life and that it wasn’t a good idea to keep fighting with A, calling B for sex and company, fighting with B, calling C for sex and company, fighting with C, calling A, and so on and so forth. This kept going on for years, I cannot stress this enough.

“I only like violent sex” (multiple people, on multiple occasions).

Cheating and then becoming flabbergasted at the partner’s anger, which was seen as cruelty towards them (multiple people, on multiple occasions).

Had a partner who absolutely loved and cherished her. Her response to compliments was, on average, “can you not?”. She would complain that she was ugly and no people would want to have sex with her: confronted with the fact that she did, actually, have at least one person wanting her, she blurted out “you don’t count”. Had the same reply for “I love you”.

Proceeded to find a partner whose opinion apparently counted: you guessed it, an abusive piece of shit. Could not wrap her head around the fact that the previous partner did not exactly want to stay friends.

All of this has to be added to the typical description: labile sense of identity, difficulty in understanding the limits in interactions, volatile emotions, black-and-white thinking, destructive rage, deep sense of void, self-harm and risky behaviour.

Does this look like something that should not be treated as pathological? Does this look like something that can go away with just some more compassion for trauma?

In conclusion: while I do agree that this is a diagnosis that can and does get used as a tool to silence the reality of gendered/sexual abuse on girls and women and it has an ugly stigma to it, I do not entirely discard it as useless either. What I’d like to see is a different paradigm in mental health, where people who have experienced earthly hell can find ways to heal (people can and do get a lot better!) and learn more constructive ways to deal with the world, but in order to do that we need to have a precise frame for the problem.

I hope I did explain myself, and if I didn’t please, let me know. I’ll try to be clearer.

[ladyalienist]

I'll latch onto this post to add that it has ruined or at least really hindered also every discussion of every other political issue, from environmentalism to class struggle to racism to ableism, and it has destroyed any credibility the field of psychology and social sciences might have.

We cannot discuss mental health because the preschooler cannot be taught responsibility and healthy ways of coping with the world and cannot be told that being destructive and insufferable is not a good thing.

We cannot define the field of study. We cannot talk about deviant behaviour because "it's stigmatizing :(". We cannot talk about societal patterns because the preschooler has decided that he does not live in a society. We annot say that the preschooler is lying or being misled. We cannot even point at him and say "he's a preschooler and he does not know shit about fuck" (this, quite literally). And we cannot critique the behaviour of the parents either, because that's hatred and oppression.

This is a fucking nightmare.

this has been said before and probably better but honestly no one wants to talk about transwomen. seriously. having to talk about transwomen is like... trying to have a college level seminar but there's a preschooler and you have to keep stopping because the preschooler doesn't get what's going on. there is zero joy in having to establish what woman means, what lesbian means, what socialization means, before you can even get to your real ideas, and the preschooler thinks this is all stupid because he wants to be a dog and you can't stop him.

there is no way to talk about women as a class, to talk about women's liberation, if you can't even coherently define what a woman is. and anyway the preschooler's parents are here and they're having you shut down, saying you hate preschoolers.

i'm of two minds, one saying that we need to talk about transwomen because they're eroding women's and lesbian's rights, and the other saying that transwomen are a red herring and it's pointless to argue for plain reality over and over to idiots who've chosen men's reality.

we've been shoved so far backward.

[thepursuitofunderstanding]

Man has it all in his hands, and it all slips through his fingers from sheer cowardice.

Fyodor Dostoevsky

[fiction-quotes]

Nia's eyes filled with tears. “I'm sorry I'm a coward,” she said, and sniffed.

Daja sighed. “You're not a coward,” she told her second student gently. “You just don't know what you're brave at.”

“I'm a coward,” Nia insisted, tears running down her cheeks. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “Jory says I'm always squeaking and jumping, I always hide, I don't argue...”

It bothered Daja to talk so long to a kneeling girl. She knelt and helped to gather buttons. “The bravest person I know is afraid of the dark. She sleeps with a night lamp always, but if her friends are threatened? She suddenly thinks she's a bear twelve feet tall and attacks whoever scared her friends. There are all kinds of courage. You'll find yours.”

  —  Cold Fire (Tamora Pierce)

[toerrishumansodontbeone]

man, its such a drag trying to find objective reviews of books with disturbing content. 9 times out of 10 it will center around the shocking subject and criticize it mainly on how justified was its usage.

Read Tender Is The Flesh yesterday and I wanted to see what more people thought, but ugh its so tiring having to filter through all the shocked normies.

I wanna hear peoples thoughts on the issues of sustainability that have been entirely left out of what is an obvious satire of late stage capitalism and the meat&dairy industry!

I wanna be validated on my nitpicky pro science sceptics pet peeves about how little enthusiasm the author has for the scientific method, how shallow the worldbuilding feels when youre faced with the premise of " all animals carry a virus deadly to humans, so they can no longer eat meat". I have a million questions having some basic interest in biology that I do. I have a million questions from being a vegetarian by simple preference. I wanna hear from other people who have trouble suspending disbelief cus INSECT PROTEIN IS RIGHT THERE AND WHAT DO YOU MEAN PEOPLE KILLED THEMSELVES BECAUSE THEY COULD NO LONGER EAT MEAT THATS INSANE

[perenlop]

pmd explorers of the spirit is like pmd2 no mercy run

[munson-blurbs]

Living After Midnight (Failed Rockstar!Eddie x Motel Worker!Reader)

♫ Summary: Apologies were in order when Eddie's true whereabouts were revealed, but would a rainy evening bring forgiveness or an even harsher storm? (4.6k words)

♫ CW: slowburn, strangers-to-lovers, angst, misunderstanding, anxiety, self-deprication, parental conflict, poverty, jealousy, brief touching, eventual smut (18+ only, minors DNI)

♫ Divider credit to @hellfire--cult

chapter eight: mind your own business

A simple conversation changed everything.

Admittedly, it was not your conversation, but one you had eavesdropped on. 

You had turned in the final exam for your Experimental Psych class, ruminating over any possible wrong answers as soon as your paper touched the pile on your professor’s desk. Did you get an abnormal amount of Cs in the multiple-choice section? Were your short answers detailed enough?

And then you overheard two guys talking in the hall, one sounding like he’d just chain-smoked a carton of cigarettes. 

“Dude, what the fuck happened to your voice?”

“Lost it at a concert the other night. Totally worth it, though.”

“What concert?”

“Death’s Echo.”

You froze, hoping your sudden stop didn’t draw any attention to you. Death’s Echo had a concert? Where was it? Is that where Eddie was on Monday night?

Potential exam mistakes forgotten, you strode over to the guys on a quest for information. “Excuse me.” Your lips curved into your best customer service smile. “Did you say you saw Death’s Echo?”

The hoarse-voiced one nodded. “Yeah, why? You like them?” His eyes narrowed in assessment; you clearly didn’t embody his expectations of a punk music fan. A fair enough judgment, because you certainly weren’t. 

“Where did they play?” You pressed, ignoring his question. 

“Webster Hall,” he coughed, and his buddy laughed at his apparent pain. “You listen to them?”

“Yup,” you lied easily, not wanting to stick around and have him find out why a “fan” didn’t even know about a local gig. “Um, feel better!” You hurried out of the building, head spinning with this newfound knowledge. 

Webster Hall. It was just over an hour to get there, which meant that the concert must have started late; a practice not unheard of for more up-and-coming bands. The prime time slots went to the headliners who brought in the most money. 

If Eddie had gone to the concert on Monday, why wouldn’t he tell you? Did he think you’d be angry? Disappointed?

Or maybe he just didn’t want you to know he was blowing off work for a concert, you reasoned, and your opinion beyond that is irrelevant. 

Should you ask him about it tonight? Could you? He might hole himself up in his room, ignoring your knocks and only coming out after your shift.

Maybe that was for the best. 

His harsh words from last night continued rattling around your brain, barely taking a reprieve during the test. Honestly, you were grateful you wrote down actual psychological terminology instead of I am a total hypocrite over and over until self-deprecation filled the pages. 

Tomorrow was your last official day of your undergraduate career, your own personal deadline for confessing the truth to your parents, and yet you were no closer to being ready than you were when you first made that silent promise. 

The problem spun a web woven from neurons and synapses, its delicate threads slowly taking over your mind and catching the most daunting tasks. 

NYU Essay revisions Graduation The motel Eisen’s Eddie

Too much. It was all too much, but you couldn’t shake them from their entrapment. You wanted to squeeze your eyes shut and only open them once everything had been resolved. 

You had a fleeting thought of boarding the bus and remaining seated as it rolled past the motel, leaving it all behind and reclaiming your sanity. Running away was always an option, in theory; realistically, you would be overwrought with guilt before the bus made it to the next stop. 

What you’d once considered loyalty was now stained with splotches of cowardice. 

Maybe one day, you would be able to see yourself the way you wanted to be seen: as a trailblazer, a go-getter, a woman in pursuit of her dreams. 

Today was not that day. 

Rain streamed down from the clouds in thick sheets as though compensating for the week’s idle threats of stormy weather. It pelted against the motel’s windows like a steady drumbeat that wouldn’t be drowned out by your clock radio cranked up to its maximum volume. 

Darkness loomed in the night sky, heavier than usual. Wind accompanied the rain, jostling the power lines and making the lights flicker. 

If the electricity went out tonight…

You couldn’t finish that thought, not when the front door swung open to reveal Eddie, drenched from head to toe. His curls clung to his forehead, his cheeks, the back and sides of his neck; his chest heaved beneath a faded Black Sabbath t-shirt that was saturated with rainwater. 

He stood in the doorway for a moment, unmoving and catching his breath. 

This was your chance to apologize. To admit what you know—what you might know. The timing of the Death’s Echo concert could have been a coincidence, but your intuition told you it wasn’t. 

Another awkward smile that didn’t reach his eyes, a tentative “hey,” and he was trudging past you without attempting to stop.

Opportunity went as quickly as it came. Every word you had planned had been scrambled like a tornado swept through your brain and left gibberish-laden debris. 

The version of you that had confidently confronted him about smoking pot a few weeks ago would have scoffed at the way you failed to utter a simple apology. But this was much more complex. 

Eddie’s forgiveness—if he forgave you—was only half of the battle. His blatantly false accusations about your work ethic had cut too deep to ignore. 

Did he really think that little of you? Or was that his own defensiveness rearing its ugly head and taking over?

Then came a cry from down the hall.

“Of fuckin’ course!” Eddie boomed loud enough to be heard beyond his closed door. “Goddammit!”

You abandoned the desk, grabbing your essay papers and bolting to his room. He was at the window, violently pushing down on the pane, but it remained open. The shirt he’d been wearing earlier laid right next to the door as though he’d peeled it off as soon as he stepped into the room. 

Your eyes landed on the dusting of hair that was now plastered to his pecs, another effect from the weather, the soft brown tendrils partially obscured by his demon head tattoo. 

This wasn’t the first time you’d seen him bare-chested. The night he had arrived, he answered your knock in only his Calvin Klein boxers. He was wearing Fruit of the Loom tonight, the elastic waistband exposed from the weight of his rain-sodden jeans. 

Heat burned in your belly, a sensation you hadn’t experienced in a long while. 

“Little help?” Eddie grunted impatiently, and you nodded, tossing the essay onto his nightstand among a sea of his own handwritten papers. 

Had he caught you staring? 

He moved over, bringing both of his hands to the right side so you could press both of yours to the left. The combined force was enough to smack it closed, the resulting burst of wind sending the papers airborne. They floated to the ground, paragraph-laden parachutes, but all you could focus on was the patch of carpet beneath you. It was completely soaked, visibly darker where the rain had seeped in, and it squelched under your sneakers.

“I’ll grab towels.” You started towards the door, pausing to scoop up a sheet of looseleaf that had landed near your feet. It was obviously Eddie’s; his was not as meticulously curated as yours, full of scratch-outs and barely legible, but the words you could make out were enough to pique your interest.

Want what I can’t have

She’s got me mixed fucked mixed up

You couldn’t read any more of it without him noticing, and you certainly did not want to get caught snooping after upsetting him, so you placed it on the bed as casually as you could.

There were extra towels stored in the supply closet, and you jogged back to the lobby, mentally calculating how many you’d need to sop up the mess. Taking as many as you could carry, you perched your chin atop the oversized pile and lumbered into Eddie’s room, dropping them to the ground. 

To your dismay, he had put on a new shirt, but it did nothing to temper your thoughts of running your fingertips over his inked skin. 

The air was now rife with the scent of burning tobacco, the cigarette between Eddie’s lips already smoked halfway to the filter.

“Thanks.” It was muffled and gruff, hardly an olive branch, but it was enough to tug the corners of your mouth in a tepid smile.

You wanted to stay, wanted to ask about what he had been writing, but Eddie snatched up your essay papers from where they’d scattered before you could ask. He shoved them towards you, leaving the edges creased where they crinkled under his grip. 

“Don’t worry, I didn’t vandalize them,” he sneered. A gray cloud whorled from his lips as he spoke, but it didn’t hide his sarcastic grin. 

You steeled your gaze and forced yourself to look just above the glowing ember and into his eyes. “I’m sorry.” You let your apology float downwards, watching for any indication of a softening expression, but he remained tense. 

“You didn’t even bother asking where I was,” he spit. 

“I’m sorry,” you repeated, less abrasive this time. “I assumed...because you were so mean to Ben…” Any further explanation felt too much like an excuse, so you left the sentence unfinished.

Eddie’s chest deflated slightly, his bravado extinguished. He’d been expecting a fight, you realized. 

You refused to give him one. 

“Were you at Webster Hall?” Your voice deliberately turned up at the end, careful to pose it as a question rather than a declaration. Certainly not as an accusation. 

Eddie flinched, his forefinger and thumb quickly pinching his cigarette to keep it from falling. “What?”

“Monday night,” you said. You pushed your right foot into the mound of towels, hit with a sudden bout of antsiness. “Was your errand seeing Death’s Echo play at Webster Hall?”

He said nothing, just looked at you. Really looked at you, assessing whether or not you deserved to know the truth. 

The admission came out gradually, as if it was being met with resistance, pulled from a place so deep he had forgotten its existence. 

“Yeah.” 

“Why?”

Eddie took another drag from his cigarette. He held the smoke in his lungs until forced out with a cough. “Wanted to hear how they sounded with their new, ah, frontman.”

Lower lip tucked snugly beneath your front teeth, you nodded. “And how did they sound?”

“Great. Really fuckin’ great.” His wry smile held more sadness than amusement. “Better than when I was with them.”

Your heart lurched. Without thinking, you reached out and took his hand, giving it just a little squeeze before letting go. “I know that’s not true,” you said. “I heard you playing on Sunday, and you’re good, Eddie. Not just anyone could pull off playing Metallica without an amp, but you did.” 

You wished he could see himself from your perspective, see the man whose talent was too vast for a dingy subway station, whose music deserved to be heard by sold-out crowds at The Garden.

Eddie didn’t agree, but he didn’t disagree, either. His face remained neutral, and given the circumstances, you considered that a win.

“I can work tonight. Hang the new wallpaper.” A lightning-speed subject change, but you were becoming accustomed to seamlessly shifting tracks to follow his train of thought. “I’ll be back out as soon as I finish this.” He lifted the cigarette to his mouth again and you nodded, closing the door behind you.

Part of you expected him not to return. If his brain worked like yours, he would overthink the conversation, replaying it over and over until he’d wrung out all the positives and left it saturated with the negatives. He’d opt to stay in his room and smoke out his pack, leaving the wallpaper job unfinished. But you heard the door hinge creak and his footsteps pattering into the lobby.

One thousand words flooded your brain to form myriad sentences, from a joking long time, no see to a much more serious who were you writing about?

Ben thought Eddie had feelings for you, ones that stretched past the platonic confines. But he’d only met him once, briefly. He didn’t really know him. 

Want what I can’t have She’s got me mixed up

Did you really know him?

Eddie had an endless list of things he couldn’t have, which often was the case for people facing poverty. As for the girl who had him mixed up, you couldn’t narrow that down, either. The only women you’d seen him interact with were Phyllis (an unlikely muse, but it wouldn’t be the most bizarre case of unrequited love you’d ever heard of), your mom (again, not likely), and you. 

There was no doubt you had him mixed up. Maybe even fucked up, as he’d written and crossed out. But had you had enough of an effect on him to warrant poetry or song lyrics–

Song lyrics.

It all clicked into place: The band; more specifically, the drummer who happened to be his ex-girlfriend. He’d gone to see them play. He could have spoken to her, and maybe realized that a spark was still present. A real spark, not whatever pathetic flicker you might have felt that night when he’d held your hand as you removed wallpaper, or when you’d exchanged gentle touches after his unfortunate wasp’s nest encounter, or when he’d loomed over you in the subway car and a delicate dip in your belly made itself known.

You decided that this explanation, the one in which you had little to no involvement, held the most logic. His inspiration was his past love–potentially his current love–and your argument was a mere distraction from a much more complicated situation.

A natural silence fell over the lobby, a healing balm over the wound you’d taken turns picking at and reopening. It was the perfect setting to finish editing your essay, and yet you found the task impossible. Any threatening grammatical errors paled in comparison to the slight movements of Eddie’s back muscles, visible through his white cotton shirt as he smoothed down the wallpaper panels. 

The pronounced flex of his tricep as he drove the paper cutter above the moldings with utter precision. 

The soft grunt that escaped his lips as he pressed on his thighs to stand up and admire his handiwork. 

You didn’t know how long you’d been staring at him before the slamming front door snapped you out of it. 

“L-Looks good,” you managed, throat suddenly bone-dry. 

Eddie crossed his arms, took a small step back, and nodded. Wide brown eyes scoured the wall for any uneven edges or unglued seams, his lips pursed in concentration. “Not my best work but, uh, it’ll do.” He smirked at you, then jutted his chin to your left.

A middle-age man stood beside the desk, rainwater dripping off of the slope of his nose. He held an umbrella, turned inside out and rendered useless by the wind. 

“Sign out front says ‘vacancy.’” He grumbled and swiped at his bushy eyebrows, revealing a sliver of beer gut when he raised his arm. “Just need a room for the night.”

“Mhm, of course.” You found your footing with a polite smile and collected the stranger’s money, just as you always had, just as you were supposed to. Because you were at work, and that was your job–not watching Eddie hang wallpaper.

As you scanned the wall behind you for a key, a warm whisper tickled your ear, breath tinged with a smoky aroma. A shiver reflexively wiggled down your spine as Eddie spoke, your body unused to this level of proximity.

“Put him away from my room. He looks like a snorer.”

You tucked your lips into your mouth to stifle your laughter. Eddie was right; you weren’t quite sure what it was about the man, but he did look like he snored. Loudly. 

You meant to look over your paper after your shift, but sleep was too seductive to resist. Just one more day, one more final exam, and then you were done. At least until August. 

Summer stretched before you, and though you would still be spending nights behind the desk, your days were wide open. 

Days that might be spent alongside Eddie. 

There was no formal apology from him last night, a fact that nagged at you throughout the bus ride to school and prevented you from looking past the first page of your essay. That, and the burdens of shame both you and Eddie carried: yours from the blatantly wrong accusation, his from…what, exactly? Why was he embarrassed to tell you where he’d been?

The wound was still too raw last night to press on it, to ask further questions; instead, you kept the conversation light and airy. The only foray into dangerous territory came from Eddie himself when he asked about the vandalism at Eisen’s. You couldn’t answer fast enough before clumsily pivoting the discussion to the warming weather.

And maybe it was your inner people pleaser that craved reconciliation, needed it to unfurl and bloom like a budding rose, that lowered your guard and bade you to talk with him. But people-pleasing didn’t explain the warmth that crept through your body, lazily winding through your veins, when he laughed at your jokes.

That laugh–the gentle nose scrunch it evoked, the lightheartedness it exuded, how it chiseled away at the remaining iciness between you. It was all you thought about that night, your heart relaxing as the friendship was no longer in limbo. 

But when you got to class and flipped through your essay one last time, that newfound homeostasis meant nothing. Yes, there were ten pages present and ready to be stapled, but unless your conclusion focused on angsty song lyrics, you were missing the final page.

Dread’s chill pricked at you, followed by an overbearing wash of heat. The granola bar you’d scarfed down threatened to make a reappearance. 

Stupid. How could I have been so careless? All I had to do was check before I left home, but I was too busy thinking about Eddie to do the bare minimum.

It was a bad dream; you’d wake up and find yourself in bed with your full essay safely stored in your bag. All you had to do was wake up and page ten would be a continuation of psychological development in infancy. 

Your eyes opened hopefully, but you were still in the classroom, and the page still beared Eddie’s sloppy scrawl:

I’m the castle She’s the queen Can’t be a king I’m too obscene

The lyrics a few lines down stopped mid-sentence:

Crushed beneath a broken dream Failed to launch now I

You were wasting precious time. If you left now, you could probably make it home and back before the professor left. You’d have to fork over the money for a dollar cab and forgo your afternoon coffee, but it was a sacrifice you needed to make. 

Stupid stupid stupid—

Your name being called drew you from your pit of self-loathing. It wasn’t Nora; the voice was too masculine and too far away for it to come from beside you. 

It was someone with the same name. Just a coincidence. 

And then you heard it again. Loud enough so it echoed down the hall, but not frantic. And yet your heart fluttered in your chest. 

Eddie. 

There was no way; he couldn’t be—

You squeezed past Nora and thundered towards the door, trying to quell your hopes before they rose too high. 

But there he stood, sweat pasting his hair to his forehead. His chest heaved beneath a white cotton undershirt that was tight around the biceps. Deep brown eyes lit up when he spotted you in the doorway, his lips curving in a triumphant smile. 

“I have your paper!” Sure enough, your conclusion paragraph was clenched in his calloused hand.

You could have cried with relief. Fueled by gratefulness and residual adrenaline, you flung your arms around him. Your hands found his back muscles; at first tensed, almost reflexively, but quickly relaxed. The paper crinkling between your torsos jarred you out of the moment, and you took a step back before he could return the gesture—if he even would have. 

“Sorry, I…” Words suddenly evaded you, eviscerated by the musky scent of his deodorant. He didn’t appear to be uncomfortable, all soft doe eyes and lazy grins from his unlikely heroism, but…still. Your relationship now teetered between employee and friend, and you couldn’t afford to knock it off-balance. “How did you get here so fast? And how did you find me?”

Eddie exhaled a chuckle. “Took a cab. And when I got here, I asked every other person where the psychology classes were.”

“You walked from where the dollar cab dropped you off?” How many blocks was that? No wonder he was sweating. 

His cheeks, already flushed from exertion, tinged a deeper shade of pink. “N-No, I, um…it was a regular cab.”

Sheer disbelief widened your eyes. He must have dipped into his meager savings to shell out the money for an actual cab, putting him even farther behind in his journey home. 

“I…” There were one thousand ways to finish your sentence. 

I can pay you back. 

I can’t believe you did this for me. 

I am so sorry I ever doubted your character. 

I wish we’d hugged just a moment longer. 

You finally settled on a string of words that required no courage at all, just a genuine thankful smile. “I have your lyrics. Let me turn in my paper and I’ll grab them for you.”

Eddie’s timid expression shifted into one of amusement. “Shit, yeah,” he said with a laugh. “Was wondering where those went.”

Opportunity splayed out in front of you, tempting you to ask him about the woman who had him mixed up. Every cell in your body ached to know if she was the same queen he’d placed on a royal pedestal, unattainable despite his valiant efforts. 

Was it fear or politeness that held your tongue? You weren’t supposed to see the lyrics in the first place; how could you justify your questions? Sorry I read your innermost thoughts without permission, but could I pick your brain about them?

Any doubts about your intentions were confirmed when he took the page from you, cocked his head, and asked: “What’d you think?”

There it was. Your opening. You could see it, practically touch it, your fingertips brushing the chance to admit that the songs’ mysterious inspiration gnawed at you—

But then he might ask why you wanted to know. And, quite honestly, you lacked the energy to figure it out for yourself. The desire was too strong to be nosiness, too personal to be gossip. 

Not to mention the inexplicable sourness that burned your esophagus when you’d considered the high probability that he’d written them about his ex-girlfriend. 

“Really good,” you managed. “I can’t wait for the finished product.”

Coward. 

“Me, too,” he agreed with a laugh. “I’m sure the folks at the train station are dying to hear it.”

“The rats’ll give you a standing ovation.”

He snickered. “My biggest fans.” 

A hand squeezing yours prevented you from getting lost in the slight dimple that appeared when he smiled. Nora now stood beside you, expression innocuous to Eddie or any other man, but her dark brown eyes silently asked, are you okay?

I’m fine, you replied with a squeeze of your own, grateful for someone who swooped in seeing you with a man she didn’t know.

“Nora, this is Eddie,” you introduced her. “He’s–he’s my friend who’s been helping us out around the motel. Eddie, this is Nora, best friend and study buddy extraordinaire.”

“Ahh, Wallpaper Boy.” Nora furrowed a brow. “You go to school here?”

Eddie cleared his throat and scratched the back of his head. “No, I…she left her paper, so…” He trailed off as though embarrassed by his chivalry. 

“So now she can graduate!” Nora wrapped you in an embrace so tight that you briefly worried about your shoulder dislocating. She leaned in knowingly, her tone teasing with an air of seriousness. “And keep me company at the ceremony, right?”

You rolled your eyes, acutely aware that Eddie was watching the entire interaction. The last thing you wanted was attention drawn to the fact that you weren’t attending graduation. “Maybe,” was all you said, and Nora left it at that.

There was an awkward beat before anyone spoke again, and it was Eddie who eventually filled the silence. “Heading home now?” He asked you, already starting towards the building’s doors. 

“No, I’m going to Eisen’s. I promised Ben that I’d help clean the graffiti.” You braced yourself for a volatile reaction, or at least something akin to annoyance, but his response was more surprising than any snarky remark. 

“I’ll come with.”

Cocking a disbelieving brow, you did your best to keep your tone free of judgment. You were waiting for the gotcha, but you couldn’t let him know that. “Seriously?”

Eddie nodded. “Yeah, why not? I’ve got the day free, and I have some…expertise in graffiti removal.” He relented with a shrug when you and Nora exchanged curious glances, a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “My trailer got hit a time or twelve back in the day. The tragic life of a Satan-worshiping freak, y’know?”

“But I bet the vandalizers were upstanding citizens.”

“Keys to the city and everything.” Eddie stuck out his hand, palm up, and you could see the details etched into his pale skin. Calluses decorated the pads of his fingers; you’d assumed they were mostly from guitar playing, but now you could add physical labor to their origins. He looked down at his hand, then back at you. “Shall we?”

Your own hands were suddenly slick with anxious perspiration, like a middle school student on her first-ever date. Even that juvenile scenario held more significance than this—two friends scrubbing down a hardware store was a far cry from the Sandra Brown romance novels you secretly devoured in high school. 

And yet, you felt it—that soft electricity that crackled through your whorls of fingerprints when you slid your palm against his, the jolt of energy as he tugged you forward and laced his fingers with yours. If he noticed the nervousness that embarrassing seeped from your pores, he didn’t mention it. 

Nora, ever astute, excused herself with a story about not wanting to miss the bus, but not before whispering in your ear, “he’s cute.” An approval that would almost certainly be followed up with a phone call later to discuss the fine details of the afternoon’s escapades. 

There are no ‘escapades,’ you reminded yourself. You’re removing graffiti, not embarking on a Parisian vacation. 

Eddie led the way until he reached the building’s doors, blinking as his eyes once again adjusted to the sunlight. “I, uh, I have no idea where we’re going.”

You laughed at his candor. “Follow me.”

It was an opportunity to break the grasp, to unleash the anxiety that threatened to cleave you and Eddie back into two separate pieces. He was dangerous because he was temporary; if you allowed him in even farther than you already had—beyond the confines of friendship—his inevitable departure would destroy you. 

Let go. Let go. Let. Go. 

And yet you kept holding on, adjusting only to take the lead. Eddie’s thumb brushed against yours, pausing just at the knuckle to press down in subtle acknowledgment. 

Hi. 

You pressed back with an accompanying smile. 

Hi. 

This time when you reached the subway station, you both jumped the turnstile. 

--

taglist (now closed ♥):

@theintimatewriter @mandyjo8719 @storiesbyrhi @lady-munson @moonmark98 @squidscottjeans @therealbaberuthless @emxxblog @munson-mjstan @loves0phelia @kthomps914 @aysheashea @munsonsbtch @mmunson86 @b-irock @ginasellsbooks @erinekc @the-unforgivenn @dashingdeb16 @micheledawn1975 @yujyujj @eddies-acousticguitar @daisy-munson @kellsck @foreveranexpatsposts @mykuup @chatteringfox @feelinglikeineedlotsofnaps @sapphire4082 @katethetank @sidthedollface2 @eddies-stinky-battle-jacket @mysteris-things @mrsjellymunson @josephquinnsfreckles @the-disaster-in-waiting @eddielowe @hugdealer @rip-quizilla @munson-girl@fishwithtitz @costellation-hunter @cloudroomblog @emsgoodthinkin

[fadingstudentbananacookie]

It's hilarious how Daemon and Rhaenyra's grandchildren carry the Green's legacy in spirit by destroying House Targaryen through internal conflicts decades later.

Aegon IV grows up to be far more extreme and gluttonous than Aegon II could ever be, coupled with a greater degree of cowardice (Aegon II would never). His sister Naerys is a little Helaena/Alicent-coded, but her cousin Daena mirrors Alicent more than I could imagine. And I am precisely talking about book!Alicent here.

Both Alicent and Daena were unapologetic in their pursuit of power after years of abuse and neglect, demanding the realm recognize their sons as kings by birthright. Neither of them gave two fucks about starting a civil war and I call that a slayyy. Go, my queens!

If Daena had been more like Rhaenyra, believe me when I say I wouldn't have liked her as much. It's their defiance that makes both Alicent and Daena more compelling characters.

I don't necessarily think Daena would have liked Alicent, but she would have definitely felt grudging respect and admiration for her courage.

Daeron the Young Dragon is just like Daeron the Daring (both are extremely popular among the nobles and the smallfolk). Both died young and were eternalized. Baelor the Blessed is obsessed with catholicism and guilt to a point that would even scare Alicent and Criston.

Aemon the Dragonknight is essentially a more refined, though not necessarily cooler, version of Aemond One-Eye. Aemon literally stood aside while his sister endured years of sexual and psychological abuse from her brother-husband. Aemond would never have stood by if Aegon II had tried to harm Helaena. His loyalty and protectiveness towards his sister would have driven him to intervene. Their love stories are similar too, with many fans shipping Aemond with Helaena, and Aemon with Naerys.

Elaena is intriguing, but there's not much to say about her or her sister Rhaena.

Daemon and Rhaenyra's grandchildren are worse than the Targtowers in every aspect. Alicent (the Hightowers) and her children de-stabilized House Targaryen during the Dance, but Rhaenyra's grandchildren did so much worse by starting a civil war that lasted for generations to come. Team Black got the realm and power back, and they still fucked up. Again.

Another intriguing aspect is that Alicent and her children had legitimate reasons to resist and fight for Aegon's claim to the throne by feudal right—even if those reasons were fueled by spite and revenge. Alicent endured years of sexual abuse from Viserys, bearing children he barely acknowledged. She was humiliated in court and called "mad" when her son lost his eye, and Rhaenyra's son faced no repercussions—not even a slap on the wrist.

The Targtower children were neglected by their father for years and were practically forgotten when Rhaenyra lived in the Red Keep with her sons in tow. (And if you think Rhaenyra didn’t use her father’s love and rejection of his other children as a political machination, then you’re an absolute idiot.) If usurping her throne was the biggest fuck you they could give Rhaenyra and Viserys, then I fully support it!

Despite their complicated and angry feelings towards each other, the Greens would never act on them to cause significant harm. They understood that they only had each other for support and protection. But Rhaenyra's grandchildren, who were also in a similar situation, harbored outright hatred for each other for no reason! You'd think after the Dance, they would have learned a thing or two about the importance of family, but the gang didn't give a single fuck LMAO.

Daemon and Rhaenyra's grandchildren didn't have significant opposition. House Targaryen still held substantial power and ruled over the other Great Houses. Although they had to be more cautious without having dragons to threaten others, the internal strife could have been avoided if Daena and her sisters had been treated like actual human beings rather than cattle. (If Alicent was treated better and her children were acknowledged by Viserys and the rest of his family). The lack of care and respect towards them sowed the seeds of war, leading to the internal conflicts that ultimately weakened the dynasty.

The generational cycle of abuse and neglect within House Targaryen is one of the main key reasons why they were driven to extinction in merely three centuries. House Hightower and House Baratheon only did so little to show their true color.

Rhaenyra's claim that "The only thing that could tear down the House of the Dragon was itself," couldn't be more accurate!

[serpentface]

Janeys about to win his first ever duel to the death, mostly by virtue of being a less shitty swordsman than his opponent.

DUELING IN IMPERIAL WARDIN

Dueling is partially legal in Imperial Wardin, with official duels overseen and regulated by authority figures, and unoffical duels regulated largely by social contract. This form of combat allows disputes, accusations, acts of vengeance, and slights of honor to be settled outside of court or pure interpersonal violence. Ritualized aspects of the practice act as a sort of self-regulation, allowing scores to be settled while dissuading the developments of outright feuds.

No one is materially compelled to accept a challenge to a duel, but refusing can be a tricky maneuver. In many cases, this will be taken as cowardice and a stain on the challenged party's honor and masculinity, and may add significant fuel to the challenger's accusations. The circumstances where it is socially 'safe' to refuse are when the challenger is VASTLY physically outmatched, or is of markedly lower status or otherwise seen as a social inferior (being lower class, a eunuch/woman/akoshos, an infamously dishonored party, a sex worker, etc), though even this can be risky depending on the circumstances.

Women and akoshos cannot be challenged in duels, nor can they Legally be challengers (with a very specific exception for Odonii priestesses, who have men's legal rights), though they can indirectly do so via a male relation acting as their proxy in combat. The alternative is not Entirely unheard of, but very rare, and rarer still that a male opponent will accept. The concept is, however, a motif in heroic folktales wherein a young woman disguises herself as a man and enters into a duel to avenge the murder of her brother or another family member. In most variants, this is cast as a heroic as an act of extreme familial piety, with her masculinization being an entirely temporary means of doing so (which is immediately abandoned post-duel).

Once the challenge is accepted, both parties will negotiate terms through a proxy (by convention, this is a blood relative or other legal kin). This decides the time and location of the match, as well as its stakes. The majority of duels are Not to the death, rather to a lesser end- first blood, incapacitation, submission, etc. In fully legal duels, this agreement is submitted to a local authority and its terms become legally enforceable. Even in 'off the books' duels, the terms will generally be enforced by overwhelming social contract. There is effectively no backing out once the formal agreements have been made. One party not showing up at the agreed time and place effectively concedes a victorious social high ground to their opponent, but without the matter being 'settled' (encouraging further escalation).

Legally, duels must either be fought on private property or outside of city limits (as wearing a weapon in any of the capital cities is illegal for most civilians). You can find semi-legal underground dueling sites in most of the cities, though this tends to be associated with the petty, dirty squabblings of commoners and most nobility will opt to fight in the countryside.

Duels are typically overseen by a neutral third party, with legal duels being specifically officiated by a socially protected individual (usually a priest) who directs the ritual elements of the proceedings and observes and records its outcome. The arena is measured out in a circle approximately twelve paces wide, and marked with stakes and a binding of sanctified amenchil rope wound left to right. This form of binding is broadly used in cultural practice to delineate and spiritually protect sacred spaces (wound right to left in these contexts). Its reversed use in duels provides a regulatory psychological function- the arena becomes a segregated liminal space, and the rest of the world is symbolically bound with a protective barrier, keeping the violence of the dispute confined to this space and time.

Additionally, both combatants (and their familial proxies) swear a binding oath (before a holy relic in priest-officiated duels) - swearing to obey pre-negotiated terms and rules, and declaring that the victor shall be recognized as the righteous party and that the outcome of the duel wholly resolves the dispute. Being bound to such an oath might not settle things on an emotional level, but HEAVILY disincentivizes a duel starting or worsening family feuds- even in fatal duels, the defeated party's family has no justification to demand a blood price or avenge their slain kin, or otherwise commit direct reprisals over the dispute (and would be breaking a solemn oath before God, which will have consequences).

Both parties prepare themselves to fight. Exact traditions vary across the region, but duels are near-ubiquitously fought unarmored with a single blade (sometimes, but not always, replaced by staffs or blunted swords for non-fatal fights). In the south of the region (as depicted here), it's traditional to fight topless with one's cloak clasped around their hips and hair bound into a topknot (the gull feather here is not a dueling norm, but it's lucky).

Both combatants enter the ring and stand at opposing sides, and the dual begins at the overseer's signal. The challenging party is not permitted to make the first attack, and instead must dodge or block their opponent's first swing before they can begin to retaliate. The duel will then proceed to its pre-negotiated ending.

There are additional compacts that direct the fighting. Fleeing from the arena is an automatic loss (and an EXTREME stain on one's honor and masculinity). If the combat spills out past the boundaries, it must be halted and the arena entirely moved and re-bound before restarting. Surrender is possible even in fatal fights, and it is generally taboo to kill an opponent who has verbally declared defeat (as they have lost the duel in doing so, and the matter is thus settled- proceeding further is murder). These rules will be enforced by the authority in legally overseen fights, and are largely (though not universally) enforced by social convention in illegal duels.

Upon resolution, the winner extracts a verbal affirmation of their victory from the loser (if they survived), or from the loser's familial proxy (if they didn't). In some traditions, they are specifically permitted to cut the loser's hair (which is a humiliating and somewhat emasculating act, only adolescent boys (and mourners) wear their hair short in most of the Wardi cultural sphere). A winner who feels the loser fought/died valiantly or is otherwise highly respectable may abstain, as a means of protecting their opponent's dignity. The resolution of the fight ostensibly concludes the dispute, with the winning party justified as righteous in their cause, and gaining social capital and Masc Points in their victory.

[astrosouldivinity]

𝑯𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒐 𝑫𝒆𝒂𝒍 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑬𝒗𝒊𝒍 𝑬𝒚𝒆: ⁺⋆🧿⋆⁺ (𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚃𝚠𝚘)

Practice Discernment: 👁️

Trust your intuition to identify the source of energy around you. Visualize yourself skillfully maneuvering away from the negative energy, much like a clever fox evading a trap. Stay adaptable and flexible; they can’t control what they cannot access.

Transmute Negative Energy: 🦋

When others project negativity, they are still sending you their energy. Use this to your advantage by transmuting their negative energy into something beneficial for yourself. For example, any negativity directed your way can be repurposed towards your own abundance.

Mantra: "I release all negativity sent my way; only positive energy flows to me."

Visualize: “I am surrounded by a shield of light; negativity cannot touch me."

Embody a Karmic Mirror: 🪞

Reflect back to others their true selves at their core. Their disdain for you often stems from their own self-loathing. Consider the concept of Dorian Gray’s painting; you become a portrait that reveals their darker aspects.

• Exercise caution with this tactic, as it can provoke the worst in people, so be prepared for backlash. Some individuals will retaliate by attempting to silence you, while others express their hatred openly, or do so more covertly. Identify the type of person you’re dealing with and respond accordingly. Fortunately, some may choose to distance themselves out of cowardice, which can work to your advantage.

Example 1: If you choose to call them out, they may avoid facing their own shadow and simply choose to avoid you. Problem solved. People who dislike facing the truth or who are non-confrontational will most likely react this way.

Example 2: They may react with anger and could initiate a smear campaign aimed at damaging your reputation. If they can’t control you, they will try to control how others perceive you, or they will attempt to undermine you in any way possible. There are many different ways people can harm you, which I will talk more about in the future.

-How to Deal with a Smear Campaign: Ignore it and allow it to run its course. If they can’t trigger you they have no control over you.

Utilize Strategies With Caution: ⚠️

Interacting with egos requires a strategic approach. This is essential when navigating the spiritual and psychological battles that accompany the influence of the evil eye. Remember that many individuals are often unaware of their own energy, so it’s important to display compassion towards them.

𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 1

𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 3

𝙼𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝

𝙽𝚘 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚣𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍. 𝙷𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛, 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚝: @𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚢 🖤

✨ ✨🧿✨✨🧿✨✨🧿✨✨🧿✨✨🧿✨✨

𝙸 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚜𝚢𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚏𝚊𝚛𝚎. 𝙷𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎, 𝙸’𝚖 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚘 𝚗𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚎𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚢. 𝙸 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜. 🙏🏿

[ladyalienist]

So apparently a new revision of the DSM has been published and of course the changes are as stupid as imaginable. A new name for what was called Intellectual Disability, now named Intellectual Developement Disorder (God forbid we call a spade a spade and stop using fucking euphemisms to avoid dealing with "icky" realities). The (re)introduction of Prolonged Grief Disorder (ok) and slight changes to diagnostic criteria in plenty of conditions, mainly substituting symptoms/diagnosis/disorder with problems, just to again keep on using euphemisms because people cannot fucking handle reality.

Interestingly they keep on pushing for inclusive language, muddling the already ridiculous criteria for gender dysphoria and claiming they will also discuss the impact of racism/discrimination in mental distress (and of course the latter is important but allow me to have my doubts they will actually write something that makes sense, especially outside of the USA) and a new guideline for self-harm behaviour (I have the same doubts as before).

✨Things they did not do:✨

exploring the impact of new technologies on mental developement (no changes in the ADHD diagnosis, for real?)

exploring the impact of porn

exploring the impact of social media on distress and social contagion

discuss a new paradigm for trauma-related conditions, including personality disorders (on which my position is slightly different than the one Radbr usually has, but that is not the point)

discuss different forms of treatment for various forms of distress (surely in 10 fucking years there must have been some significant innovation...)

So basically this is a useless fucking thing just to try and justify APA's existence and spending 200 euros on a manual that has little to no substance to provide.

Fucking parasites, that's what they are.

EDIT because of course I do not notice stuff and someone else does:

✨The things they did not do✨ also include:

exploring/discussing the impact of Covid, either for the long-term consequence of the infection itself or the isolation and societal changes in the pandemic period

related to Covid, the awfully big number of people whose grief process never began to begin with: people who are not processing the death of a beloved one, a significant distress that APA would keep in mind if they gave two fucks about human welfare instead of money.

[verdantwyrm]

I’m sure you’ve had enough discourse to last a lifetime so here’s the heads up. About the new interview. I’m already seeing certain sides of Twitter going “see? She said Curly covers up for Jimmy. That means any possible action I can imagine him doing for Jimmy is on the table, canonically.” When the paragraph right before that (not written by the dev) says that curlys someone who did not act, a passive enabler. I’ll admit I’m a little split, but I was wondering what you think. (At the very least, I’m a little annoyed that the paragraph, that’s clearly about how the ideas in the game can translate into the real world, is being used for shipping fodder.)

Hopefully, that expresses exactly how I feel about the whole situation. Listen, I'm grateful for the interview, I really am. It has proven my own headcanons/theories and validated how I feel towards Jimmy and the game itself, but I knew from the moment it was released (the interview) that it was going to only get so, so so much worse.

In case you were worried, do not fear my dear Anon, I will stand my ground as Curly's defender, his lawyer at this point. I'm going to quickly pull up the interview myself to keynote a very important part that I know for a fact that people are going to look over.

“Curly represents the kind of good-intentioned downplaying that is unfortunately common but very human,” and "He represents the enabler, someone who did not act, either out of cowardice or lack of awareness."

I don't know how people can see this, said by one of the devs directly, that Curly represents the very human enabler that didn't act because of cowardice or lack of awareness, and say he's manipulative or abusive or downright cruel towards Anya in every way. Curly can't cover and protect Jimmy if he doesn't know what happened, which is very much the case. Curly himself is in a position where he is very much so capable of covering for Jimmy. But he doesn't do that because he doesn't know what's even happening. The 'in the real world' quote is about how people in Curly's position do protect people like Jimmy.

Literally, the first line of that paragraph is basically saying "Yes he is an enabler but only because he didn't know what was happening to actually do something" and yet, people are going to not read it.

“In the real world, it can and does escalate to where people like him are defending perpetrators or use their power to cover up for misbehaving friends while still thinking they are doing a good, generous thing. ... Good intentions don’t mean a whole lot after the situation has already gotten massively out of hand.”

He did downplay Jimmy's actions (eg The "sexually attracted to cartoon horses" comment but that can easily be taken as a crude joke) which is very common and very human, Curly's character and behaviour are incredibly human to the point of uncomfortable. But he still goes out of his way to take responsibility for Jimmy's psychological evaluation after seeing how uncomfortable it made Anya.

I'm going to plug my own thread which does talk partially about this, but with this Interview being released, my stance will not change, I will be defending Curly for as long as I live.

[dragon-ball-meta]

And another thing.

I'm so beyond tired of seeing Vegeta Apologists try to minimize or spin what he did as excusable or "expected" because "he's Vegeta and wants a real challenge", so let me just go ahead and remind people of what exactly he did. No frills, no fog of memory, just the events as they happened.

The complete and utter betrayal, the way he attacked his own son to literally help it happen, the way he called his terror and horrified memories cowardice, and all this just to try to prove his machismo. But somehow this isn't as bad as tossing Cell a Senzu as a psychological ploy, or refusing to murder someone who's hiding, terrified, someone who'd frankly done nothing to warrant her death, when there were TWO people strong enough to kill that monster already in play on the battlefield. This is beyond favoritism at this point.

[fiction-quotes]

We all knew, of course. Everyone knows, but no one looks. We don't look because if we look it makes us evil because we aren't doing something about it, or it makes us sad because we can't do anything about it, or it proves that we're monsters when we always thought we were righteous because we won't do anything about it. Either way, safer not to look.

  —  84K (Claire North)

[skaruresonic]

Silent Hill 2 critically examines and challenges many of our presupposed notions of gender roles, marriage, and the nuclear family unit. The game would not resonate as hard as it does if James and Mary were not married, because marriage carries with it a heavy emotional and cultural baggage.

In this post, I'm going to talk about cultural misogyny, how it's woven into the narrative. Apologies if it's not very well-structured, since I'll be offering my thoughts on an off-the-cuff basis.

The misogyny SH2 explores is a lot subtler and more structural in nature than is portrayed in the remake. While the remake is more blatant and not nearly critical enough of its portrayal of James as a more stereotypical hero, the original attacks the very premise that it's necessarily "wrong" for a woman to lose her worth via a loss of physical beauty, and that a man needs to perform the role of "protector" at the cost of being considered a failure.

To that end, I think some vital nuance is lost when the remake recharacterizes James as a more typical rugged Stronk Man, stoic and impatient, egotistical, and way more prone to violence than his original counterpart.

Original!James runs from his problems whenever possible. What's more, his cowardice serves a thematic purpose of showing us that even well-intentioned "nice guys" can be misogynistic. Because, again, the misogynistic framework that upholds Western constructs of marriage and family is structural, not individual.

James cannot meet any of the girls or women he meets in the eye whenever they castigate him. This in and of itself challenges the notion that James ought to be "in charge" of any of them.

Maria's emasculation starts early, and it doesn't really let up, resulting in James' mixed feelings of arousal and repulsion.

Angela, likewise, rejects being considered an object of pity, for pity implies condescension. James cannot save her by white-knighting her problems.

James initially feels compelled to "protect" Laura as a presumed damsel in distress when, ironically enough, she's the safest of anyone in Silent Hill. In fact, she places James in the position of "damsel in distress" by locking him in a room full of monsters.

This is a game where the women lead and James follows: a gendered frustration embodied by Pyramid Head, who cannot be placated, only fled.

It's no coincidence that most of the monsters you encounter are feminine in nature - rather helpless, sickly, and pathetic at that - while the one monster you cannot beat into submission is an intense expression of hypermasculinity.

Unlike James, whose emotions render him "less than" in the eyes of a patriarchal culture, Pyramid Head is stoic and never speaks. Pyramid Head is powerful and virile. Pyramid Head does not succumb to grief or suffer feelings of guilt for his misdeeds. Pyramid Head is a lone wolf that relies on no one else. Pyramid Head is "strong" enough to carry the psychological burden represented by the Great Knife with ease.

Although some degree of sexual frustration does factor in here, it's not the only message Team Silent were trying to impart via the monster dynamics. Pyramid Head is repeatedly seen dominating and subjugating the more "feminine" monsters. It doesn't take much onion-peeling here to see that James is harboring some subconscious grudges over his "failings" to meet society's standards of what a man is supposed to be like.

He isn't strong: he can't open a fridge without Maria's help. He isn't powerful: reading all the medical textbooks he could didn't save Mary. He isn't courageous: he can hardly look Maria or Angela in the eye when they force him to confront uncomfortable truths. He isn't, even, particularly respected at times: Laura locks him in a room just to laugh at him. The only person he has a leg up on is Eddie, but after a brutal shootout in a literal meat locker: one of the many implications being that this kind of pressure to be considered "real men" can potentially turn human beings into butchers for a sliver of domination.

For all intents and purposes, James is a "failed" man, just as Mary is a "failed" woman. By falling ill and losing her sexual allure, she failed to meet the culturally-ingrained expectations of a wife.

It's worth noting that both Mary and James hold these expectations and biases without realizing it. It's simply more obvious in James' psyche because we see the manifestations firsthand.

But Mary holds these values to be self-evident, too, when she laments that between the disease and the drugs, she looks "like a monster." Because patriarchy has taught her that a woman's worth lies in her looks, she laments the loss of her beauty to disease; she becomes worthless, "undeserving" of flowers (that is to say, basic decency on her husband's part).

She even laments being "ugly" and "disgusting" James in her last letter to him, as if she's failed him somehow through contracting an illness she never asked for.

Although the statistic that men divorce their wives if their wives fall ill is not necessarily true, it is true that women, as the presumed caretakers of the family, tend to survive at rates less than men if they do fall terminally ill due to a lack of support system.

We further see the mother's failure when Angela admits that her own mother said she (Angela) deserved her rape at her father's hands.

Furthermore, these gendered themes are expressed through the game's treatment of Maria. As a sentient entity born from James' selfish wishes, Maria lies trapped in an existentially horrifying state: objectification.

It's interesting that Maria professes interests and dislikes in Born from a Wish and early in Letter From Silent Heaven - in the former, she confesses that she's not much for literature, and in the latter, she opines "I hate bowling" - but slowly loses her individuality as time goes on. In addition, Maria stops insisting she's "real" and starts insisting that she can be whatever James wants her to be.

Eventually, she assumes Mary's voice and face (despite James having already noted that she bears an uncanny resemblance to Mary because of her face and voice) out of a false hope that doing so will ingratiate her to a man who doesn't want her.

Maria does not live for herself but owes her existence to a man. She becomes anything James needs her to be: a lesson taught when she dies; bait on a hook when she attempts to seduce him; even a version of his dead wife that will "never yell at [him] or make [him] feel bad." She bears Mary's face and voice, but not much else. Her thoughts and feelings ultimately do not matter because she is "not Mary."

Maria is treated like an object, despite being flesh and blood, and she has internalized this, displaying an unnerving willingness to contort herself in whatever shape necessary to keep James, for, again, without James she would not exist. When James states that he no longer needs her, she cries, "How can you throw me away?"

All of these things form the overarching reason why the renewed prioritization of combat disturbs me. It's almost like the remake is saying that violence is justified, but more specifically, the kind of gendered violence that culminated in James smothering his terminally-ill wife. Making combat "satisfying" defeats the point that combat shouldn't be a reward for violence.

Making the monsters extra aggressive so that combat is "provoked" and therefore justified, in fact, hits uncomfortably close to the nerve of "she brought it on herself." The idea that Mannequins now bumrush you when in the original, they only moved once perceived, allows the player to ignore how James must go out of his way to commit violence.

James, likewise, going "You're not here anymore" in the In Water ending does not bode well for his respect for Mary as a person, if he thinks his duty to her memory stops the moment her heart does.

In addition, Remake!James is more egotistical and entitled than Original!James.

While this may not inherently be a problem, I feel this has the potential to have audiences let James off the hook in a sort of Calvinist way. By dismissing his poor judgment and misdeeds as a result of his gender. "Oh, he was always an asshole, he deserves whatever he gets," rather than the more salient question, "What would we do in his situation? How could we restructure the ways we think about marriage, family, and gender roles so that the vulnerable don't slip through the cracks?"

As I've noted in previous posts, Remake!James' speech patterns reflect a more self-centered nature. When he tells Angela that his goal is to find Mary following Angela's emotional breakdown, he frames it as though Mary is his possession:

Notice how his priority is protecting his self-image as a good person and not in comforting Angela or trying to defuse the situation, like in the original.

Remake!James be like "Listen here, you audacious bitch, I don't know who you think I am, but I'm #notlikeallmen. I just want to get my wife back. 😤"

[girl4music]

Episode 11. Damn. That’s was cute but disheartening.

Catra’s trauma runs deep. She’s been made to believe that Adora only kept protecting her because she thought that she was weak and couldn’t handle it on her own when that’s never been the truth. That’s just what’s been instilled into her by the Horde and Shadow Weaver. That she was never anything more than weak and a failure unless Adora was with her - saving her.

Ooft that’s a tough one. I wonder how they’re going to do it. Child Catra and Adora were adorable. But it all just goes to show that this has been Catra’s experience since they were children. The constant psychological conditioning that she wasn’t ever strong enough to win her own battles, be her own warrior and hero - never mind anyone else’s. She wants to prove to herself that she can but she’s putting Adora in danger to prove it.

She needs to be shown that letting others struggle and even fall in the effort to climb higher is not a heroic act.

In fact it’s the opposite. It’s cowardice. She’s got it all backwards and upside down. But that’s psychological conditioning for you. You don’t think selfishness is bad.

I guess the question is will their friendship survive this psychological conditioning? Better yet. Will their love for each other help to heal it? For Catra, time will tell.

It’s not that Catra is a bad friend. I mean when it comes down to it, she does instinctively put Adora first. But because that trauma within her runs deep, so does the belief that she should be the one that’s put first. The way she sees it is it’s her time now to be the strong one. She doesn’t need Adora. She doesn’t need anyone to be heroic. But she’ll soon see that even heroes need help.

I know I keep saying it but I’m in awe. This really is such an ambitious storyline for a children’s show. It’s great!