#tried to stand up for a friend that was being failed for extremely ableist and biased reasons

[starkittnd93]

*glances at Temenos’s distrust of authority figures* same Temenos same. Institutions are very fucked a lot of the time. Go do your doubting that you do. And bonk those authority figures. In the head. With your staff. Doubtfully.

[serialreblogger]

You want to talk more about the bigotry in Harry Potter? Go ahead! I've actually heard stuff like that before, but have yet to do much research on it personally and it's been a while since I read it, so I'm interested.

WELL

Before we begin I should start with a disclaimer: this analysis will be dedicated to examining as many bigoted aspects of Harry Potter’s writing as I can think of, so--while I personally am more or less comfortable balancing critical evaluation with enjoyment of a piece, and strongly advocate developing your own abilities to do the same--I know not everyone is comfortable reading/enjoying a story once they realize its flaws, and again, while I think it’s very important to acknowledge the flaws in culturally impactful stories like Harry Potter, I also know for some people the series is really really important for personal reasons and whatnot. 

So! If you’re one of those people, and you have trouble balancing critical engagement with enjoyment, please feel free to skip this analysis (at least for the time being). Self-care is important, and it’s okay to find your own balance between educating yourself and protecting yourself.

On another note, this is gonna be limited strictly to morally squicky things to do with Rowling’s writing and the narrative itself. Bad stuff characters do won’t be talked about unless it’s affirmed by the narrative (held up as morally justified), and plot holes, unrealistic social structures, etc. will not be addressed (it is, after all, a kid’s series, especially in the first few books. Quidditch doesn’t have to make sense). This is strictly about how Rowling’s personal biases and bigotry impacted the story and writing of Harry Potter.

Sketch Thing #1: Quirrell! I don’t see a lot of people talking about Quirrell and racism, but I feel like it’s a definite thing? Quirinus Quirrell is a white man who wears a turban, gifted to him by an “African prince” (what country? where? I couldn’t find a plausible specific when I was researching it for a fic. If there’s a country which has current/recent royalty that might benevolently interact with someone, and also a current/recent culture where turbans of the appropriate style are common, I couldn’t find it). Of course, it wasn’t actually given to him by an African prince in canon, but it’s still an unfortunate explanation.

More importantly, ALL the latent Islamophobia/xenophobia in the significance of the turban. Like, look at it.

“Man wears turban, smells like weird spices, turns out to be concealing an evil second face under the turban” really sounds like something A Bit Not Good, you know? If you wanted to stoke the flames of fear about foreignness, it would be hard to do it better than to tell children about a strange man who’s hiding something horrible underneath a turban.

Also, Quirrell’s stutter being faked to make you think he was trustworthy is a very ableist trope, and an unfortunately common one. “Disability isn’t actually real, just a trick to make you accommodate and trust them” is not a great message, and it’s delivered way too often by mass media. (Check out season 1 of the Flash for another popular example.)

Sketch Thing #2: The goblins. Much more commonly talked about, in my experience, which is good! The more awareness we have about the messages we’re getting from our popular media, the better, in my view. 

For those who haven’t encountered this bit of analysis before: the goblins in Harry Potter reek of antisemitic stereotypes. Large ears, small eyes, crooked noses, green/gray skin, lust for money, control of the banks, and a resentful desire to overthrow the Good British Government? Very reminiscent of wwii propaganda posters, and in general the hateful rhetoric directed towards Jewish people by other European groups from time immemorial. 

I’m also extremely uncomfortable with how goblin culture is handled by Rowling in general. Like, the goblins were a people that were capable of using magic, but prohibited by the British government from owning wands. That was never addressed. They also had a different culture around ownership, which is why Griphook claimed that the sword of Gryffindor belonged rightfully to the goblins--a gift isn’t passed down to descendants upon death, but instead reverts to the maker. This cultural miscommunication is glossed over, despite the fact that it sounds like Griphook’s voicing a very real, legitimate grievance.

To be honest, apart from the antisemitism, the way Goblin culture is treated by the narrative in Harry Potter is very uncomfortably reminiscent to me of how First Nations were treated by English settlers in North America, before the genocide really got started. The Goblins even have a history of “rebellions,” which both raises the question of why another species is ruling them to begin with, and more significantly, is eerily reminiscent of the Red River Rebellion in Canada (which, for the record, wasn’t actually a rebellion--it was Metis people fighting against the Canadian government when it tried to claim the land that legally, rightfully belonged to the Metis. But that’s another story)

In sum: I Don’t Like the implications of how Rowling treats the goblins.

Sketch Thing #3: Muggles. Ok because we’re all “muggles” (presumably) and because I’m white, talking about this might rapidly degenerate into thinly-veiled “reverse racism” discourse, so please y’all correct me if I stray into that kind of colossal stupidity. However, I am not comfortable with the way non-magical humans are treated by Rowling’s narrative.

The whole premise of Harry Potter is that Evil Wizards Want To Hurt The Muggles, right? Except that it’s not. Voldemort’s goal is to subjugate the inferior humans, rule over non-magical people as the rightful overlords, but that’s hardly mentioned by the narrative. Instead, it focuses on the (also egregious and uncomfortably metaphorical) “blood purism” of wizarding culture, and how wizards would be persecuted for their heritage.

But muggles, actual muggles, are arguably the ones who stand to lose the most to Voldemort, and they’re never notified of their danger. We, the muggles reading it, don’t even really register that we’re the collateral damage in this narrative. Because throughout the series, muggles are set up as laughingstocks. Even the kindest, most muggle-friendly wizards are more obsessed with non-magical people as a curiosity than actually able to relate to them as people. 

I dunno, friends, I’m just uncomfortable with the level of dehumanization that’s assigned to non-magical humans. (Like, there’s not even a non-offensive term for them in canon. There’s “muggle,” which is humorously indulgent at best and actively insulting at worst, and there’s “squib,” which is literally the word for a firework that fails to spark.) It’s not like “muggles” are actually a real people group that can be oppressed, and like I said this kind of analysis sounds a bit like the whining of “reverse racism” advocates where the powerful majority complains about being insulted, but... it kind of also reeks of ableism. People that are not able to do a certain cool, useful thing (use magic) are inherently inferior, funny at best and disposable at worst. They suffer and die every day from things that can easily be cured with magic, but magic-users don’t bother to help them, and even when they’re actively attacked the tragedy of hundreds dying is barely mourned by the narrative. 

It gives me bad vibes. I don’t Love It. It sounds uncomfortably like Rowling’s saying “people that are unable to access this common skill are inherently inferior,” and that really does sound like ableism to me. 

Either way, there’s something icky about consigning an entire group of people to the role of “funny clumsy stupid,” regardless of any real-world connections there may or may not be to that people group. Don’t teach children that a single genetic characteristic can impact someone’s personhood, or make them inherently less worthy of being taken seriously. Just, like... don’t do that.

Sketch Thing #4: The house elves. Everyone knows about the house elves, I think. The implications of “they’re slaves but they like it” and the only person who sees it as an issue having her campaign turned into a joke by the narrative (“S.P.E.W.”? Really? It might as well stand for “Stupidly Pleading for Expendable Workers”) are pretty clear.

Sketch Thing #5: Azkaban. Are we gonna talk about how wizarding prison involves literal psychological torture, to the point where prisoners (who are at least sometimes there wrongly, hence the plot of book 3) almost universally go “insane”? This is sort of touched on by the narrative--“dementors are bad and we shouldn’t be using them” was a strongly delivered message, but it was less “because torturing people, even bad people, is not a great policy” and more “because dementors are by their natures monstrous and impossible to fully control.” 

“This humanoid species is monstrous and impossible to control” is, once again, a very concerning message to deliver, and it doesn’t actually address the real issue of “prison torture is bad, actually.” Please, let’s not normalize the idea that prison is inherently horrific. Of course, prison as it exists in North America and Britain is, indeed, inherently horrific and often involves torture (solitary confinement, anyone?), but like--that’s a bad thing, y’all, it’s deeply dysfunctional and fundamentally unjust. Don’t normalize it.

Sketch Thing #6: Werewolves. Because Rowling explicitly stated that lycanthropy in her series is a metaphor for “blood-borne diseases like HIV/AIDS”. The linked article says it better than I could:

Rowling lumps HIV and AIDS in with other blood-borne illnesses, which ignores their uniquely devastating history. And Lupin’s story is by no stretch a thorough or helpful examination of the illness. Nor is its translation as an allegory easily understood, beyond the serious stigma that Rowling mentioned.

That Lupin is a danger to others could not more clearly support an attitude of justifiable fear toward him, one that is an abject disservice to those actually struggling with a disease that does not make them feral with rage.

This definitely ties into homophobia, given how deeply the queer community has been affected by HIV/AIDS. Saying a character with a condition that makes him an active threat to those around him is “a metaphor for AIDS” is deeply, deeply distressing, both for its implications about queer people and their safety for the general population, and for the way it specifically perpetuates the false belief that having HIV/AIDS makes a person dangerous.

Sketch Thing #7: Blood Ties. This isn’t, like, inherently sketch, but (especially for those of us with complicated relationships to our birth families) it can rub a lot of people the wrong way. Rowling talks a big talk about the folly of “blood purism,” but she also upholds the idea that blood and blood relations are magically significant. 

Personally, I’m very uncomfortable with the fact that Harry was left with an abusive family for his entire childhood, and it was justified because they were his “blood relatives.” I’ve had this argument with ultra-conservative family friends who genuinely believe it’s a parent’s right to abuse their child, and while I don’t think that’s what Rowling is saying, I do feel uncomfortable with the degree of importance she places on blood family. I’m uncomfortable with the narrative’s confirmation that it is acceptable (even necessary) to compromise on boundaries and allow the continuation of abuse because “it’s better for a child to be raised by their Real Family” than it is to risk them to the care of an unrelated parent.

Genetic relations aren’t half as important as Rowling tells us. For people with a bad birth family, this can be a damaging message to internalize, so I’ll reiterate: it’s a pretty thought, the love in blood, but it’s ultimately false. The family you build is more real, more powerful and more valid than any family you were assigned to by an accident of genes.

I can think of one or two more things, but they’re all a lot more debatable than what I have here--as it is, you might not agree with everything I’ve said. That’s cool! I’m certainly not trying to start a fight. We all have the right to read and interpret things for ourselves, and to disagree with each other. And again, I’m not trying to ruin Harry Potter. It’s honestly, as a series, not worse in terms of latent bigotry than most other books of its time, and better than many. It’s just more popular, with a much bigger impact and many more people analyzing it. I do think it’s important to critically evaluate the media that shapes one’s culture, and to acknowledge its shortcomings (and the ways it can be genuinely harmful to people, especially when it’s as culturally powerful as Harry Potter). But that doesn’t mean you can’t or shouldn’t enjoy it for what it was meant to be: a fun, creative, engaging story, with amazing characters, complex plots, heroism and inspiration for more than one generation of people. 

Enjoy Harry Potter. It is, in my opinion, a good series, worth reading and re-reading for enjoyment, even for nourishment. It’s also flawed. These things can both be true.

[francoiserenaldt]

the emancipation of dizzy

desirée ashton is tired of being tired and the pills don’t hit like they used to. happy @it-lives-week. 

word count: around 3k warnings: some ableist language, cruelty, destructive coping mechanisms, lots of parentheses in here, negative thoughts, references to depression, strong language, there are sweet moments but a lot happens before then

“No.”

The word leaves her in a shout, crippling her as the nicks and scratches that litter her aching body give way to immeasurable pain.

But it’s not the wounds that hurt her most.

“No, no, no, no, no…”

She vaguely hears it behind her as she holds her brother in her arms for the last time.

Or so she thinks.

None of this makes any sense, she thinks.

Nothing she sees is real. None of this is real.

(Not when she puts Devon’s arm around her neck and drags him out of the cave to a stretcher, not when Noah tells them how unbelievably sorry he is for everything, and especially not when his body is found covered in blood 3 hours later.)

That night was a mistake; a terrible, terrible dream. Devon will be in his room when she inevitably has to go wake him up and Andy’s leg is fine and N–

No.

She refuses to think of him.

He fucked off and gave himself to the Power that night, effectively ending his life. She knows she should be thankful; after all, she knows herself enough to know that he wouldn’t stand a chance if he stayed in town after what he’d done. But the thought that he’d never truly get what had been coming to him, the thought that he’d gotten away with it, infuriated her.

Maybe he wouldn’t get what was coming to him, but it’s not too late to get the revenge she’d been itching for.

Jocelyn had been reduced to a sad sack of bones after she lost vision in her right eye and function in both legs and Cody–

There was no need to rehash that; he wouldn’t be a problem.

Unfortunately, Britney is still around; even more so now that Lily gave her another chance. She’s been making her idea of an effort, forcing a Joker-esque smile on her face any time Lily drags her over to the group and gritting out a compliment when she sees Ava’s new piercing or Stacy’s new shoes for the past two weeks.

It’s not enough.

“You know, it wouldn’t hurt my feelings if you just went back to ignoring or insulting us like you usually do,” Desirée smirks, shutting her locker. “It’s obvious you don’t want to be here.”

And we don’t want you here goes unsaid for Lily’s sake.

“Yeah, Britney,” Stacy chimes in. “Don’t hold back on our accounts.”

“Guys, please,” Lily pleads, glancing between the girls. “Can’t we just be civil for once?”

“Sure, I’ll go first.” Ava huffs, pursing her lips. “When’s the last time you put someone in a garbage bin?”

“I’ve never done that, you–” Britney pauses, taking a breath. “Ava.”

“Oh shit, you’re right. You had Jocelyn and Cody do it for you. How is Jocelyn, by the way?”

“You can’t even be nice for two minutes, can you?” Lily scoffs. “Unbelievable.”

Once Lily stomps out of sight, Britney rolls her eyes and whirls on the remaining girls. “The only reason I’m even letting myself be seen with you losers is for Lily’s sake, alright? So you need to get over whatever little beef you have with me.”

“Little beef?” Desirée spits, glaring venomously. “You’ve tormented Lily, Devon, and Ava for years.”

“And you blackmailed Stacy, which is a felony, by the way,” Ava adds, crossing her arms. “You’re lucky the Green’s haven’t sued your bitch ass.”

“You have no idea how extremely lucky you are that I care about Lily–”

“No, you’re lucky we care about Lily. It’s the only thing that’s keeping you from getting jumped.” Stacy snaps.

“Since you care about her so much, you should probably try showing a little restraint.”

“The fact that I’m not wearing you like a shoe right now is me showing restraint.” Desirée retorts before smiling innocently. “But if you really want me to drop the act, that can be arranged.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re excused.” Desirée quips, crossing her arms. “No, seriously. Leave.”

With yet another eye roll, she finally struts away.

“While I don’t disagree with you—like in any shape or form—saying what you said, you kinda threatened her. In public.” 

“Yeah, it would be a really bad look if you hit her, Dizzy.”

“Well, I didn’t, okay?” Desirée snaps, grabbing the last of her things. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

She stomps off without another word, just missing the concerned looks Ava and Stacy send her way as she goes.

“Desirée, wait up!”

Devon jogs up to her. Or tries to, anyway. She never stopped walking.

“Hey, do you mind chilling the fuck out?” Devon admonishes, stepping in front of her. “Lily is really upset.”

“I do, actually.” She sneers. “She’s always around, making these snide fucking remarks, and I wanted her out of my face.”

“And you think being a dick to her is the answer? ‘Cause it’s not.”

“Then what is the answer, Devon? Aren’t you tired of letting yourself get pummeled day in and day out by Britney’s goon squad for all for Lily to go running back to her in the end?” She growls. “Aren’t you tired of being everyone’s little bitch?”

His eyes harden just as hers soften. “Fuck you.”

“I didn’t mean that–”

“Yes, you did. You’re just the only one who’s enough of an asshole to say it to my face.” Devon turns to walk away. “You’re acting just like her, you know.”

“Don’t pull that shit on me, Devon. I’m not doing anything that she doesn’t deserve.”

He bites back a reply before sighing. “Getting revenge isn’t going to make you happy.”

“Our lives are permanently fucked, Devon. Nothing is going to make me happy.” She forces a smile onto her lips. “At least this way I get something out of this nightmare.”

“How long do you think that’s going to last?”

“Until she’s gone.”

Doing away with Britney is the easy part; the bitch is entirely too sloppy with her misdeeds and Stacy knows her pass code like the back of her hand. A mass text from an unknown number full of screenshots does her in and the family moves to the next town over within the month.

(She could always count on Stacy to have her back, especially when it came to Britney.)

Seeing the tears in Lily’s eyes and the disappointment in Lucas and Devon’s faces as Desirée watches Britney walk out of Westchester High for the last time makes it infinitely harder to keep the smirk on her face.

Hard, but not impossible.

(The high inevitably wears off and her friends won’t stop looking at her like she’s some kind of monster, but Britney is gone and that’s all that matters.)

(Until it isn’t.)

Two weeks pass before Lily speaks to her again.

“Do you regret it?” She whispers.

“I regret hurting you,” Desirée whispers back. It’s the closest thing to an apology she can muster.

It’s not enough.

“I wish you were sorry.” Lily loses the whisper then and there, glaring.

“I wish you understood where I was coming from.”

“Why aren’t you sorry?”

“Because I hate her, Lily.” Desirée snaps. She’s had to say this too many times. “And she treats you and Devon like complete and utter shit and I’m tired of you sitting back and letting her do it.”

“So you made her leave.”

“So I made her leave.”

Lily scoffs and turns away.

“I did it for you, Lily,” Desirée whispers. “Everything that I’ve done has been for you.”

“You have no idea how much I want to believe that.”

Devon returns and the conversation is over as quickly as it began.

No.

She feels the word creep up her spine and lodge itself into her throat before she hears it fall into a loop in her head, spiraling quickly out of control.

(She’s lost control again. What a surprise.)

She shakes the empty pill bottle until it flies from her shaking hand to her bed.

Her phone is in her hand within seconds and her fingers fly across the screen. Her vision blurs with unshed frustrated tears but she taps away relentlessly—desperately—until the solution she needs pops up and she can finally stop acting like her life is falling apart.

“Hello?”

Shit.

“Hey,” she replies, trying desperately not to sound like she’s on the verge of tears and failing miserably.

(All she seems to do is fail these days.)

“What happened, Desirée? Are you okay?”

The concern in his voice breaks her resolve and she lets a few tears fall, sniffling.

“Okay. Stupid question.” He shuffles around, then curses. Even in her chaos, she finds it in her to wince. “What can I do to help?”

“I don’t know if you can. Help me. I don’t know why I called you.” She murmurs, running a hand over her face. “I don’t know about much of anything anymore.”

“There has to be something I can do,” Andy mutters quietly, probably to himself. “Hey, what if I stayed on the phone with you? Just until you can sleep.”

The painful—and frankly embarrassing—reminder that it is two in the morning is more than enough to calm her hysterics. “Oh, um…that would be great. And extremely nice of you, which I’m not sure I deserve considering–”

“Nope. None of that.”

“Okay,” she sighs, effectively ridding herself of her wobbly voice. “I gratefully and humbly accept your help, your Majesty.”

His laugh is probably—no, definitely—the best sound in the world and for the half hour it takes for her to find peace, she gets to hear it over and over again. The magic of him dissipates the anxiety that had lodged itself into her chest and for a moment—and not a second longer—she seems to float.

Then she wakes up.

Her phone is dead, naturally, so she goes up to the corner store. Common sense tells her that Devon won’t let her walk to the store without insisting on getting Lucas to drive them.

You know he means well. Why aren’t you letting him help you?

“No.” She smiles at the cashier manning the register. “Thank you, though.”

She learns that faking a smile becomes easy once you spend enough time doing it. Enough time has passed that no one questions it and those who can see through it don’t have the heart to draw attention to you.

The silence is almost peaceful.

You’re not letting him help you because you know you don’t deserve it.

(Until it isn’t.)

Her earlier turbulent and destructive thoughts were good for one thing; they distracted from the whispers and stares that followed her every move. She doesn’t bother listening to what they’re saying at this point—it can’t be anything the mayor or her parents or Cid haven’t told her—but they come from everyone; even the teachers mutter when she lingers too long on a test question or takes a little longer to answer a question.

(“It’s not like her to take so long.”)

The comments should make her angry. They should make her want to cover up her abnormal habits or threaten to have their jobs if they don’t mind their own fucking business.

But there’s nothing. Nothing they say matters. Nothing anyone says or does matters.

She eventually stops speaking to people. Anything urgent will be said to her directly and repeatedly, like a newborn puppy that’s just learning commands.

(“Please call Mom and Dad, Dizzy. They’re worried about you.”)

(“Please talk to me, Rée. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.”)

(“Desirée, please pick up the phone.”)

For people who’ve known her all their lives, they’re terrible at taking hints.

Her own brother has given up on getting her to have dinner with him consistently; he just goes to Lucas’s house when he wants company.

Lucas, of all people, has become more approachable than her.

Why would Devon want to spend time with you? Why would anyone after the way you acted?

Her mind—for its many, many faults—is the only thing that hasn’t left her. It buzzes about incessantly, asking questions it has no answers to. This time, she doesn’t wait to answer them.

You told him that he was the world’s punching bag, that he was weak. At least he didn’t turn out anything like you. You have enough weaknesses to fill an encyclopedia.

Devon may be a little bitch, but he’s a little bitch with a boyfriend who hasn’t given up on him. Can you say the same?

No, the voice prattles on gleefully. Of course not. Andy’s already got pain in his legs; he doesn’t need a pain in the ass on top of that.

What’s the point?

Why bother picking up the phone? It’s not like anyone is calling her, or anyone would pick up the phone.

Why bother going downstairs for dinner? She’s just going to be eating it alone.

Why even bother leaving her room? No one wants to see her and, for once in her life, she doesn’t want to be seen.

So she’s content to stay right where she is. She can’t hurt anyone but herself here.

The universe, naturally, has other plans.

One day, Devon throws open her bedroom door. “Get dressed.”

“What the hell are you doing in my room? Get out!”

“Yeah, not happening. If you’re not done in 20 minutes, I’m dragging your ass out of bed myself.”

“As if you could pick me in the first place. Please fuck off.”

“Maybe not by myself. I’m sure Lucas and Dan would be happy to help, though.” He smirks as he turns away. As he goes, he sings, “20 minutes.”

Ughhhhhhh.

In her annoyance, she had failed to realize that all of her friends had been invited to the house.

He said that Lucas and Dan were here earlier, idiot.

“Hey, stranger,” Ava drawled when Desirée appeared at the banister. She was sprawled across a sofa by the coffee table, which she was promptly shoved off of once the words passed her lips.

“Seriously, Ava?” Stacy hisses before turning to face Desirée. “It’s good to see you again.”

It’s at this moment that she realizes that she dropped off the face of the Earth and stopped talking to her friends without an explanation.

You’re actually the worst friend ever. Why do they even bother with you?

“Hey, guys,” she says, looking at everyone. They all seem to be happy—relieved, probably—to see her, but something about the situation feels…off. “What’re you all doing here?”

“I thought we could have a game night,” Devon smiles (carefully? hesitantly?) at her as he gestures to the setup. He’s got just about every board game they’ve ever had on the table, from Candyland to Cards Against Humanity. “It’s been a long time since we’ve all done something together.”

All because you decided to be antisocial and moody.

“Right.” She swallows. “So what’s first?”

The afternoon passes easily. She’s far too wrapped up in the ecstasy of being around her best friends to think about anything other than kicking their asses in board games, let alone–

No. We’re having fun.

At least they were until Lily walked over to her after a particularly successful round of Cards Against Humanity.

(She doesn’t need to ask if they can talk in the kitchen, which just so happens to be tucked away from the living room where everyone sits.)

(Desirée doesn’t need to ask her if they’re speaking again now or if Lily plans on this being the last time they speak.)

Lily taps Desirée on the shoulder and they find the corner of the kitchen furthest from the living room.

“I forgive you,” Lily says once they’re alone.

“I’m not sorry,” Desirée warns. Lily can’t hate her any more than she already does; there’s no use being backward about how she feels.

“I don’t care.” Lily steps forward and before Desirée knows it, they’re hugging. “I’m not losing you over a girl.”

“Wait, wait…you’re not mad anymore?”

“I was being unfair,” Lily says, letting a hand come up to rub her bicep. “On a lot of fronts.”

In the spirit of not ruining her good mood by unpacking her behavior, Desirée opts for humor: “I was being a total bitch myself, so I’ll forgive you. Just this once.”

“Do I get another pass if you get first dibs on the unicorn plushie?”

“Maybe,” she smiles genuinely for once and tugs Lily back into a hug. “Now come back. I missed you.”

“Not as much as I missed you.” Lily replies, hugging her even tighter. “Now let’s go before someone tells Andy that he’s out a girlfriend.”

It’s easy to forget how good of a friend Lily is when she’s not simping over Britney.

Desirée slings an arm around Lily’s shoulders as they leave the kitchen. “You’re ridiculous, Lil.”

Devon raises an eyebrow when they walk back to the group. “Are we all good?”

“Yeah, we’re good,” Lily grins.

Yeah, we are good. Until you fuck it up again.

Eventually they leave (everyone leaves) and Devon sits next to her once they finish cleaning up the games.

“This is the first time you’ve come out of your room in–”

“Three weeks, Devon. I know.” She sighs and walks over to the staircase. “I’m going to bed.”

“No, wait,” Devon rushes, grabbing her hand. “Just be still and shut up for a second. I need to say this.”

“Fine.” She walks back over to him, albeit a bit petulantly.

“Remember how I was when Noah,” he pauses carefully and continues when he doesn’t see her flinch, “first came back to school and he said all that stuff about how Jane was gone because I didn’t blow the whistle? And how I completely shut down? You told me that you’d never thought you’d see the day where I’d stop talking to you completely and I couldn’t make sense of it. I guess this is what it must’ve felt like.”

“You’ve been angry, you’ve been really fucking jumpy, and now you’ve completely shut me out for three weeks, Desiree. I haven’t been away from you for that long since, like, the womb. So I guess what I’m saying is,” he pauses again and sighs. “You’ve never given up on me, even when I was being a self-pitying asshole who would have deserved it. So you take all the time you need because I’m never, ever giving up on you.”

“Does this mean that you’re gonna drag me out of bed every day?”

“No, it means that I’m gonna to let you stay in this slump you’re in. That being said, I’m probably going to drag you to the dinner table. Eating alone sucks.”

“Eating alone has been rough,” she agrees.

“So you understand?”

“Yeah…yeah, I understand. I’ll try to be better.”

“That’s all I can ask from you.”

He steps closer and she puts a hand up. “Oh my God, do not hug me, you dork. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. And Devon,” Desiree frowns. “You wouldn’t have deserved to be given up on. No one does.”

He nods once and they head up the stairs together.

She finds herself back in her therapist’s office a month later, fielding the usual questions.

“Have you spent an entire day in your room this week?”

“No. I haven’t been back there in about a month now.”

Okay, it’s really been more like three and a half weeks, but semantics. It’s not like she’s the only one who lies to her therapist.

Dr. Chamberlain smiles gently. “That’s good.”

“It was hard, but I’ve learned not to hate him.” She clears her throat. “Noah, that is.”

“Could you forgive him one day?”

“Every day I look at the people I care about and I see how they’re still affected by the things he’s done. I don’t–” She pauses. “I don’t know if I could ever forgive him.”

“Every step in the right direction is a good step, Desirée.”

It’s far from the first time that her therapist has said those words and she knows it most certainly won’t be the last.

“Desirée?”

“Oh, sorry.” Desirée sits up. “What were you saying?”

“I was saying that it’s been a crazy few months for you, but you’ve come such a long way.”

“What if it’s not enough? I did a lot of things I can’t come back from, Dr.”

“I don’t think that’s true.” Dr. Chamberlain glances at her watch and sighs. “We’re just about out of time.”

“Thank you so much. I’ll see you next week.”

“One more thing, Desirée?”

“Yes?”

“Give your friends more credit.”

Desirée nods as she closes the door.

Her phone rings.

“Desirée, thank God! Can you please tell this man that studying is a portmanteau of “student dying” for a reason?”

“I’m probably the worst person you could’ve called for this.”

Devon groans. “Ugh, I forgot how much of a nerd you were.”

She hears a throat clear itself on the other end.

“Right. Lucas wanted to know if you were down to form a study group for finals. I completely understand if you’d rather swallow nails one by one or whatever weirdly specific torture you’re into–”

“If I say yes, does that mean you’ll stop talking?”

“…for now.”

“Deal. I’ll be there in 20.”

She ends the call and sends him a text.

desirée: you don’t have to tell me that I’m the best, or that you’ll actually buy me food the next time you go out. I just know you’ll do it bc you love me so much.

devon: …i really don’t like you, you know that?

desirée: sure, and I know you’re lying your ass off <3 see you at home.

[hippityhoppityyourenowmyproperty]

Reset!Rant (part 5)

Gemini Ascendant

Chapter: 1

Max: "Are they always like this?" Helen nodded and turned the page of her bodice-buster romance novel. "This is the status quo for them. Bart gets bored. Bart annoys Thad. Thad overreacts. Chaos, followed by a scuffle in the back yard. Boys come in dirty and exhausted. Repeat."

She forgot to mention the part about Thad abusing Bart and being the one who insults him. And getting murderous thoughts and viciously beating Bart up is something a little more inexcusable than just overreacting, as Helen puts it.

Thad stared at his costume that he still held in his hands. "I don't think this is going to fit, either." At least Bart was good for making the embarrassing mistakes first, so he didn't have to.

Sums up pretty well all that Thad sees in him. Because despite proving his worth and helping out numerous times in this story, Thad still refuses to acknowledge how essential Bart was to the mission and how helpful he can be.

Thad was not letting go of the subject. "You used to just cook out of box or can, too," He accused Bart. "Well yeah, but I leveled up." He stuck his tongue out at his brother. Thad's arm shot out and he grabbed Bart's tongue, eliciting a yelp of surprise.

This is another one of those scenes that is creepy and makes me feel very uncomfortable. This is a physical threat and it's aking towards physical abuse. Bart is playfully teasing him, and Thad sees that as such a big threat to his position of power that he feels the need to physically intimidate him and maybe even elicit pain. His actions aren't justified. They're not okay.

Thad complied and Max sighed. "Can't you two keep your hands to yourself for one day?"

Can't any of you see that Thad is always the one who starts fights and gets physical first? If you want to stop their fights, then maybe start by punishing the one who starts them.

Chapter: 2

"It's your own fault that they don't like you." Thad ducked a flying shirt and smirked at Bart's angry glower. "You let your nature get the better of you." Without lowering his chin, he sneered down at his twin. "You always do."

Weird, I could've sworn that you were the one who wasn't able to control his angry outbursts one chapter ago and tried to hurt Bart because he was teasing you. You're the one who resorts to abusing Bart because you can't control your anger, so get off his back for being impulsive. He's better at not letting his impulses control himself than you are, you're just too deluded to understand that. Impulsive anger is still impulsive.

Helen leaned against the counter and looked Thad in the eye. "He's a little excited right now, and we all know what happens when he's wound up like that. None of his friends can keep up with him if he gets too enthusiastic." Thad knelt down to rub Dox between his ears. "Fine, I'll babysit him."

Yeah, great idea Helen, give the person who's ripping on Bart and abusing him even more power over him, what could possibly go wrong? Isn't Bart the one who constantly had to stop Thad from doing stupid, reckless stuff because he was mad?

Max: "Do you see what I'm aiming for? Helen has done wonders in turning a potential Cain and Abel into Castor and Pollux. Now, we have to make sure that it sticks.

Sure, except for that Pollux actually loved his brother and gave up his immortality so that he could be with Castor, and that he wasn't an abusive jerk. Thad is the opposite of Pollux. He would never sacrifice something for Bart, he would let him die if it wasn't for Max. He's callous and toxic to Bart. Helen didn't make Thad less hostile towards Bart, if anything she encouraged his vile behavior. She doesn't deserve credit for this. Making sure that it sticks means that you are keeping up an abusive relationship. Max should work with Thad on his behavior if he really cared about Bart and their whole team dynamic.

Chapter: 3

Anita: "I remember us joking around that you couldn't be normal if you tried."

"Hey! I can too!" Bart glared at Thad, who was snickering at his expense. "Like you're any better." "I am", Thad replied with a grin. " I can fake being normal just as easily as I can fake being you. How else do you think I get through the day?" Bart ticked off the items on his fingers. "Picking on me, chatting with your internet girlfriend, playing with Dox..."

Thad really has a problem with self reflection in this. Then there's the immediately trying to embarrass Bart for his short comings, and saying that he's so much better than Bart. He's condescending as ever.

And not being able to fake being normal a.k.a. neurotypical is funny because..?

Thad braced against the wall and raised a golden eyebrow. "It doesn't look so much like he's joining it, as it seems more like he's owning it."

Kon's sudden frown and the telekinetic ejection of Bart was just the payoff he was looking for.

Because when Thad is in company of Bart's friends and therefore can't hurt Bart, he will try everything in his power to get them to hurt or humiliate Bart for him.

Bart: I don't get these guys. They don't act like zombies are supposed to. They're tearin' stuff up, yeah, but the're not biting people or eating brains." Thad leaned over Greta's sketchbook with his hands folded behind his back. "Then maybe they're not zombies, moron."

While casually calling him a moron (for the fifth time, by the way) Bart's friends are standing right next to him. They say nothing in response to Thad being an absolute dick to him.

Thad decided that he had enough of Greta play fashion designer and je hovered over Bart's shoulder to supervise the monitor. "Use the traffic cameras, idiot. You can follow the pseudo-zombies and extrapolate their path. Then you can tell your team where to head them up."

"I am using the traffic cameras!" Bart snapped back.

"You're not doing a very good job of it."

"Yeah? I don't see you doing this job!" Bart challenged.

Thad sneered down at him and countered, "I'm not part of your little team, and I wasn't asked to sit here."

This is the very definition of senseless criticizing and abuse that's disguised as advice. He's chewing Bart out for supposedly not doing a good job, but offers no help whatsoever. He's criticizing just because he can. He reigns Bart in for mistakes that don't even exist. Despite saying "You suck at this" He gives him no advice how to do it better. Imagine having to live with someone like that. Imagine having to listen to someone ripping on you for everything you did, even when there was nothing that you did wrong. There will always be something the abuser will be upset about, whether that thing exists or is just made up in order to be a reason to judge and criticizise the victim. Everything the victim does is somehow false.

As always, there's the put down directed at Bart's intelligence.

"He did," Thad grumbled. "I wish I could say that I had no obligation to save him, but I made a promise to Max that I would look after my idiot brother."

This confirms that Thad really would let Bart die and/or suffer right in front of him if Max wouldn't have told him to do otherwise. Also another put down.

Greta: "You're not moving very fast for a speedster saving his brother." Thad shrugged and kept his eyes on the monitot. "I'll let him dangle a bit just so he appreaciates my timely intervention more. Bart's a little dense." The last word came out with a derisive grimace.

He's risking Bart getting hurt or killed in a fight just so that Bart will learn to appreactiate his time more. Thad is the one who needs to learn to not take Bart's support for granted. He's the extremely demanding one who wants more than he deserves. In his eyes, Bart is a worthless idiot who needs to show more respect to him. And don't forget the insult. Thad wants everyone to understand how shitty Bart is because he has ADHD.

Conclusion

From the very start of their relationship Thad is a manipulative abuser who uses every opportunity he gets to ridicule and belittle Bart and continually wears his self esteem down. The lack of punishment Thad receives from his parental figuers for his damaging behavior not only turn Helen, Wally, Max and Jay into neglectful and borderline abusive guardians, but also lead to his toxic demeanor intensifying. The lack of indignance the characters show when faced with Thad very obviously and aggressively abusing Bart right in front of them makes it seem like abuse is something normal and acceptable, and not something that is contemptible and needs to have consequences. Moreover, the fanfiction is ableist in that it paints insults that are directly meant to degrade ND people for being mentally disabled (such as r*tard and shortbus) as harmless and appropriate swear words for that group of people. It is infuriating that so many people praise it as 'the best fanfic about Bart and Thad out there with the most accurate characterisations of them' when the mental torture he inflicts on Bart is objectively so plain obvious. I think I know why the readers of this work failed to recognize the maltreatment. Sibling abuse isn't as known as parental abuse is, and even more people deny that it exists. Many people excuse abusive behaviors in sibling relationships because they're under the false assumption that siblings can't be abusive. They're even harder to convince that it is abuse when the siblings are twins and don't have a significant difference in age and physical appearance. Abuse always includes a power imbalance, and you can definetly see that in Bart's and Thad's relationship. It starts in that Thad is chronologically and mentally way older than Bart. He is also more knowledgable and well versed in combat situations and fighting. Through the use of intimidation, put downs and threats Thad enhances that already existing imbalance and makes it easier for himself to abuse Bart.

This version of Thad is one of the most evil, reprehensible and crude monsters I had the misfortune of meeting in fiction. Living with someone like him is a nightmare and through the entire work I felt bad for Bart. Despite what this work is trying to make you belive, abuse is never justified, no matter who is the victim and who is the perpetrator.

[kootenaygoon]

So,

I found myself exhausting to be around.

Not only was I endlessly grieving the death of my relationship with Paisley, replaying scenes in my head or conjuring her in my daydreams, underneath there was a low-boiling depression that was always on the verge of bubbling over. The electrified half of my personality kept me chugging along in the belief that I would become a giant success eventually while the depressed half wondered why I was being such a pain in the ass in the meantime. If I wasn’t crying then I was fighting, or at least complaining. And the chronic pot-smoking wasn’t helping, either — my solution had become the problem.

One Saturday morning mid-summer I stood at the kitchen window watching Brendan jump on the trampoline with Tasha, blowing on my coffee, and felt myself overwhelmed with envy. They looked so joyful in the moment, so casually happy, their father-daughter relationship on proud display. He had this house, these kids, this life. And he made it seem so easy. I wondered if Brendan ever struggled to get out of bed, if he ever felt like circumstances were overwhelming him, if he’d ever been tempted to take matters into his own hands, like Andrew Stevenson.

I took a sip of coffee and let the Saturday scene wash over me. The backyard was strewn with random family detritus. There was a small tricyle with a wagon toppled over amidst spilled toys and multi-coloured balls, and an uncoiled garden hose laying on the concrete path. The grass was lush, freshly watered, and the kind of green doctors should prescribe for people with mental illness. Tasha lost her balance and began bouncing on her back, screaming with laughter, repeating over and over: “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!”

When I first moved in with Brendan, one of the traits that impressed me was how he lavished positive attention on his daughter. He was always advocating for her at school, making sure she wasn’t being left out, and he scolded people for using ableist language. A week earlier he brought her along to Starbelly Jam in Crawford Bay, and I got an awesome photo of her smiling safe from Brendan’s shoulders. When I became a father, that was the type of father I wanted to be. 

I turned and padded back through the kitchen and into the living room. Dylan had one of his friends over, and they were belly-down on cushions in the half-darkness playing Minecraft. Lately I’d been reading him Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, a privilege I took very seriously. He liked the voices I did for the different characters, and when his Dad approached from down the hallway he would yell “five more minutes! Five more minutes!” The plan was to read one book a year, so that his trajectory through school mirrored Harry’s. 

“I’ve never understood this stupid game. How come you guys are always playing it?” I asked, deliberately blocking the screen. “Oh, am I in the way?”

“Hey! It’s awesome! Get out of the way!” Dylan yelled. “It’s like the best game ever.”

“Don’t you have Mario?”

“Mario sucks! We don’t want to play Mario!”

I continued past him and pushed out to the front porch, where there was a white leather couch. Our dog Roxy was resting next to my open laptop, which was partway through an episode of Stranger Things. I set my coffee on the windowsill, kicked off my slippers, and went searching for the next joint. I was smoking two each morning now, just to get in the proper headspace for work, and the financial aspect of that equation was getting harder to ignore. It felt silly, having a debilitating dependence on pot of all things. There were people out here on real drugs, people dying of fentanyl, so who cared that I was hooked on something as innocuous as weed? That being said, I’d tried and failed to quit enough times that I understood it would take something extreme to make me stop. I wondered when that was going to happen. 

Why was it that my brain couldn’t function without it? I thought maybe it was just the hurdle of withdrawal I couldn’t overcome, but it wasn’t just that. I liked my thoughts better when I was high, and they floated into my brainspace without effort, which left me to wonder if these were my real thoughts at all. Was I the depressed Will Johnson, or the crazy one? 

Would the real Will Johnson please stand up?

As I lit my next joint, I pressed play on Eminem’s music video “The Monster”. It was another collaboration with Rihanna following “Love the Way You Lie”. I took a long toke as he struggled in a strait jacket, as he sat across from her like Tony sitting down with Dr. Melfi. He was taking in his own work via TV screens, replaying scenes from his life.

“I'm friends with the monster that's under my bed. Get along with the voices inside of my head,” Rihanna sang. “Keep trying to save me, stop holding your breath. And you think I’m crazy, you think I’m crazy ... well, that’s not fair!”

Eventually I clicked away, and went back to scrolling through Facebook mindlessly. I checked how my Star stories were doing Facebook like-wise, then headed over to my two Twitter accounts to see if anything was going down. Roxy was warm against my legs as she turned and yawned. I gave her a scratch between the eyes as Eminem continued to rap at my stomach.

When I returned to Facebook, I saw that I had a few new likes on one of my pictures from Starbelly Jam. A french face-painter had volunteered over half an hour of her time to paint a grinning blue dragon on my torso, and then I posed roaring against a mystical forest backdrop infused with purple magic. It was taken right before I got the cover photo, of a EDM-backed violinist named Kytami flying across the stage. Sometimes I felt like photos were the only things keeping my memories from smudging into nothingness from all the pot. They were my back-up drive. 

“I’m friends with the monster that’s under my bed,” Rihanna sang. “Get along with the voices inside of my head.”

Right at that moment the front door opened, and Brendan appeared shaking a box of cigarettes into his palm. I half-sat, rearranging myself. For almost my entire stay he’d been a non-smoker, but his new girlfriend Cindy had gotten him going again recently. As he lit up he shook his head at the stupidity of it all. 

“I’m making more coffee, you want some?”

The Kootenay Goon