#something about guilt and shame and responsibility and anger and how our actions have consequences and success and failure!

[fulcrum-art-fox]

Thinking about the gnarly pipeline of “if she is guilty, it is my failure” to “you didn’t fail. he did”

[genderkoolaid]

1. The Revolution Is a Relationship

[…] Something that worries me about social justice communities is that we tend to conceptualize “revolution” as a product, as a place and time that we expend all of our energy and anger to create – often without regard to the toll this takes on individuals and our relationships. [...] In our – often justified – anger and disappointment at the failure of ourselves and our communities to uphold the dream of revolution, we lash out. [...] What if revolution isn’t a product, some distant promised land, but the relationships that we have right now? What if revolution is, in addition to – not instead of – direct action and community organizing, the process of rupture and repair that happens when we fuck up and hold each other accountable and forgive?

2. The Oppressor Lives Within

[…] I’ve started to believe that I can’t engage in authentic activism, I can’t create positive change without recognizing and naming my own participation in the oppressive systems that I’m trying to undo. Coming from this position, I’m forced to have compassion for the people around me who I see also participating in oppression, even as I’m also angry at them. With compassion comes understanding, and with understanding comes belief in the possibility of change. When we become capable of holding that contradiction in our hearts – when we can be angry and compassionate at the same time, at ourselves as well as others – entirely new possibilities for healing and transformation emerge.

3. Accountability Starts in the Heart

[…] I often wonder how different things would look if it were more of a cultural norm to understand accountability as a practice that comes from within the individual, instead of a consequence that must be forced onto someone externally. What if we taught each other to honor the responsibility that comes with holding ourselves accountable, rather than seeing self-accountability as a shameful admission of guilt? What if we could have real conversations with each other about harm, in good faith? In a culture of indispensability, I cannot ignore someone when they tell me I have harmed them – they are precious to me, and I have to try to understand and respond accordingly. […]

4. Perpetrator/Survivor is a False Dichotomy

There is an intense moral dynamic in social justice culture that tends to separate people into binaries of “right” and “wrong.” […] “Perpetrators” are considered evil and unforgivable, while “survivors” are good and pure, yet denied agency to define themselves. Among the many problems of this dynamic is the fact that it obscures the complex reality that many people are both survivors and perpetrators of violence (though violence, of course, exists within a wide spectrum of behaviors). Within a culture of disposability – whether it be the criminal justice system of the state or community practices of exiling people – the perpetrator/survivor dichotomy is useful because it appears to make things easier. It helps us make decisions about who to punish and who to pity.

5. Punishment Isn’t Justice

[…] It isn’t inherently wrong to want someone who hurt you to feel the same pain – to want retribution, or even revenge. But as Schulman also writes, punishment is rarely, if ever, actually an instrument of justice – it is most often an expression of power over those with less. How often do we see the vastly wealthy or politically powerful punished for the enormous harms they do to marginalized communities? How often are marginalized individuals put in prison or killed for minor (or non-existent) offenses? As long as our conception of justice is based on the violent use of power, the powerful will remain unaccountable, while the powerless are scapegoated.

6. Nuance Isn’t an Excuse for Harm

[…] [I]ndispensability means that everyone – especially those have experienced harm – are precious and require justice. In other words, we cannot allow the fact that something is complicated or scary prevent us from trying to stop it. Trapped in the perpetrator/survivor dichotomy of understanding harm, it might seem like we have only two options: to ignore harm or to punish perpetrators. But in fact, there are often other strategies available. They involve taking anyone’s – everyone’s – expressions of pain seriously enough to ask hard questions and have tough conversations. They involve dedicating time and resources to ensuring that anyone who has been harmed has the support they need to heal.

7. Healing Is Both Rage and Forgiveness

If the revolution is a relationship, then the revolution must include room for both rage and forgiveness: We have to be able to tolerate the inevitability that we will be angry at one another, will commit harm against one another. When we are harmed, we must be allowed the space to rage. We need to be able to express the depth of our hurt, our hatred of those who hurt us and those who allowed it to happen – especially when those people are the ones we love. It is up to the community to hold and contain this rage – to hear and validate and give it space, while also preventing it from creating further harm. […]

8. Community Is the Answer

[…] Perhaps the reason we tend to recreate disposability culture and trauma responses over and over is because we are all, secretly, that frightened runaway kid, constantly searching for a home, but not really believing we can find one. Maybe we don’t create communities of true interdependence – of indispensability, of forever-family – because we are terrified of what will happen if we try. But I believe, have to believe, that true community is possible for me and for all of us. The truth is, we can’t keep going on the way we have been. We need each other, need to find each other, in order to survive. And I have faith that we can.

[machinegunbun]

Pls pls pls do more of Dirty Little Secret🥺 It was so good I want more

Dirty Laundry +

Tw: WHOLE LOTTA ANGST BABEY Word count?: 1.9k

--

The room was silent.

You couldn’t even describe the air as full of tension, it felt more like all the air in the room had been sucked out entirely. Pete just stared at you, his expression like he had a sour taste in his mouth. The thought of you with his best friend, something you so clearly knew you should tell him, being kept as a secret. There was no way it was anything but intentional, and he had to wonder if Colson and you had planned to never tell him.

You felt like you were being interrogated, not sure where to start, the all too bright lights in contrast to the dark room, all eyes on you, the man in front of you just waiting for you to slip up and confess the murder. He knew.

It didn’t entirely matter that you didn’t know what to say, because Pete didn’t know what to ask. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to know.

It would’ve been different if you had told him before you got together, but now all he could think about was how Colson had seen every part of you before him. His best friend had seen you in the same way he had and still had the guts to look him in the eye and say how happy he was that you two had finally gotten together.

Pete knew you had slept with men before him, obviously, but this felt different. There was a pang of hurt in his chest as he wondered if it was misogynistic of him to care. It was before you had begun dating, he reasoned, it was your body, but it still felt wrong. He hoped he wasn’t wrong for feeling that, never quite confident in his own emotions.

Questions floated around in his head until he finally decided to grab one out of the air.

“You fucked him.” It was more of a statement.

“Yes.” You admit, your voice low and full of guilt

“Were you ever going to tell me?”

“Yes. I told him I felt guilty and I wanted you to know and he told me not to. He said it would only make things worse if I did, that it would ruin our relationship and his. I tried to convince him the whole time he was here, but he convinced me not to.”

“You expect me to believe that?” Pete questioned, his words hitting you right in your stomach.

“It’s the truth.”

“How do I know you aren’t lying? How do I know you didn’t convince him not to tell me?”

“Wait, why do you believe him? I get it, I didn’t tell you and I should’ve, I own that, but that’s not fair. He lied too, why is he innocent in this all of the sudden?” You ask, Colson was the one who initiated the sex in the first place. Pete should’ve known you would’ve never been brave enough to start something like that, especially with a guy like Colson. You weren’t a victim, but you refused to be portrayed as the villain.

“I don’t know. I just- I don’t know anymore.” Pete shrugged, standing up and walking to the kitchen. You hesitated, but followed after him.

“I get it, okay. It’s awkward and you aren’t sure how to feel-”

“Don’t tell me what I feel.” Pete snapped

“I’m not, I’m sorry, I’m not. I’m just trying to let you know that it’s okay if you’re mad at me or hurt. I want to let you know I love you and I’m sorry, I should’ve told you.”

“But you didn’t. Colson did. Over the phone. The only reason I even found out is because I called him because you were crying about how you weren’t good enough for me.” He paused to hastily pour himself a drink “and then you begged me not to call him. You knew what he would say, didn’t you?” 

“No, I-” 

“The fact that both of you hung out with me multiple times, listened to me as I talked about the other- I told him I wanted to marry you the other day. He didn’t even mention it. Do you know how much that sucks?” Pete rants, cutting you off once more.

“You wanted to marry me?” You whisper. He went silent at the confession, the pain and confusion evident in his eyes.

“Listen, like he said, the second I realized there was something between us we stopped. I genuinely thought we would only ever be friends.”

“Maybe we should have.”

“You don’t mean that.” You weren’t sure if you were convincing him or yourself. “I don’t love him, okay? I love you. I never loved him, it was just sex and with you it was never just sex. It was never just kissing. It was never just laughing together. Everything means more to me when it’s with you and I really hope we can get through this.” You plead, only realizing Pete had gone silent when you stopped talking.

Pete reached onto the counter to grab a blunt from the ashtray, taking a long hit from it and letting the smoke pour from his lungs, his eyes going dead as he stared at the wall.

“And I know it’s weird,” You continued, it being evident that Pete didn’t have much to say, your only path being to plead your case or otherwise be convicted “but the point of relationships are to work together through your problems. We’ve both obviously moved on, not that there was anything to move on from, just that-”

“What are you building up to?” He asks impatiently.

“I’m just trying to explain myself.”

“Explain what? You fucked my best friend and never planned on telling me. What if I had fucked (Y/B/F)? It would be completely different right now.”

“Okay, I get that the tensions are high right now but I need you to drop the attitude. I did plan on telling you, your ‘best friend’ told me not to. Why do you keep forgetting that he did this too?”

“He’s not here, this isn’t about him right now it’s about me and you. It’ll be about me and him later. I’m not going to talk about everything he did wrong to you.”

“Oh, really? ‘Cause this just feels like an excuse to slut shame me. What? It’s not a problem with Colson ‘cause he's a guy?”

“I never even fucking said that, you just don’t want to take responsibility.”

“I already fucking did take responsibility, jackass! Maybe I wouldn’t have slept with him if you had the balls to tell me you liked me sooner.” You yell, throwing your arms into the air. 

“Oh, are you sure? Are you sure you wouldn’t just blame your commitment issues so you could keep sleeping with him?”

“Stop blaming your fucking insecurities on me! I was trying to have a simple conversation with you about this and you’re acting like a fucking child!”

“Well I’m sorry if you hurt me and don’t want to see that. I’m fucking sorry if the fact that your actions having consequences hurts your feelings. I’m sorry that the excuse of ‘well, he told me not to.’ isn’t fucking good enough for me. This wasn’t about him, it’s about you. You didn’t fucking tell me. You didn’t respect me. You actively tried to stop me from finding out. I don’t care what he did.” He yells, putting on a high pitched voice to imitate you.

“Why the fuck not?! This is exactly what I mean, you keep acting like he’s innocent!” You shout back.

“I don’t expect Colson to tell me the truth, I’m not fucking in love with him!” Pete yelled, the room went silent for a moment before he continued, calmer this time “I expect this shit from everyone, okay? I watched my back with everyone, and I fought tooth and nail to earn your trust because I know you have trust issues, I know that’s why it took so long for us to get together,” He took in a shaky breath, trying to compose himself. “You’re just the only person I trusted not to hurt me.”

“Well that’s a really unrealistic pedestal to put me on, so.” You say, your own voice lowering.

Amy walked down the stairs, wrapping her robe around herself in an attempt to keep the warmth in. You hadn’t even realized how late it was, or how loud the two of you had been yelling at each other.

“Hey, hey, hey. What’s going on down here?” She asks, her new york accent evident. Pete licked his lips, staring at you. You could see right past the anger in his eyes, all the way to the hurt.

“He keeps blaming everything on me.” You half yell

“Huh? Blaming what?” She asked, her voice low and full of sleep. It was clear you had woken her up.

“She slept with Colson.” Pete’s voice broke as he said it, jaw clenched. You knew his tongue was between his teeth and he was biting down on it to hold back tears, not wanting to give you the satisfaction. Amy’s eyes softened as she heard this, turning to look at you.

“Get out.” She said softly, but still making it clear there was no room for argument.

“What?” You asked, your heart crumbling.

“Get out of my house.” She added, her voice more stern this time. She pointed angrily at the door, and as you walked out you caught a glimpse of her pulling Pete into her arms.  The height difference was awkward, he had to lean down to bury his face in her shoulder and yet it seemed so natural. You knew there were tears in his eyes as he accepted the loving embrace of his mother, his heart shattered once again.

The door shut behind you like so many times before, but this time felt different. Like it was the last. You wished you had known when you were crying in his arms that it would be the last time you’d ever be in his arms at all. You wished a lot of things, but it was late and the sky was pitch black, leaving the stars to wish on few.

The ferry from staten island wouldn’t leave til morning, so there was no making it back to your apartment. You had no choice but to stay at a hotel. You cursed when you realized you had left your phone in the house, nothing on you but the clothes on your back, the cold night air nipping at your cheeks. 

You began walking, hoping to find a place to stay sooner than later. Pete had a few friends that lived nearby, but the option was dropped as quickly as it was picked up. You didn’t think they’d be much for helping you if they heard what happened.

A gag came up your throat as your foot landed in something cold and squishy, you looked down, lifting your foot to look at the bottom of it. It was hard to make out in the dark of night, but you didn’t need to, you knew what it was. You had just stepped in dog shit while barefoot, and you could only wipe your foot on the grass, destined to spend the night on a park bench.

And throughout all of this, you couldn’t help but feel that you deserved it.

[imagining-in-the-margins]

Here to Misbehave (Pt. 18 | S.R.)

Series Masterlist | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21 | Part 22 | Part 23 | Finale |

Summary: Reader finds more productive ways to spend her time, including babysitting Henry and volunteering at the local inpatient hospitals.

A/N: That’s my gif so please give credit if you use it 🤗 Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader 
 Category: Smut (NSFW, 18+) Content Warning: Oral (female receiving), addiction, relapse, discussions of death/murder, unsub talk, hospitals, inpatient ward Word Count: 13K

MASTERLIST

—————————————————

The next morning felt strangely similar to the morning of the day we’d gone to the bank. . Waking up in Spencer’s bed and smelling the unmistakable, comforting scent of old book pages and stale coffee. I’d told him when I first came to his place that it reminded me of a library, but it was more like that quiet local hole-in-the-wall bookshop.

It almost felt like that morning, but there was one glaring difference: Spencer wasn’t in the bed.

When I sat up to try and locate him, I was reminded that there are consequences to my actions. My stomach hurt like shit, and I swore I blacked out for a second from the pain. It would pass, though. Considering I had gotten through the night without waking, it clearly wasn’t that bad.

I thankfully managed to get out of bed myself and take the pain medication I kept in my purse. And armed with the knowledge that the pain would subside within the next half hour, I hobbled toward the distant sounds of… vomiting.

Not even bothering to stop yet, I made my way to the kitchen to grab the poor guy a glass of water. It was the least I could do for his comfort considering that I was about to make his headache much, much worse.

Peeking my head through the open door, I frowned at the sight of my boyfriend half asleep on the toilet.

“Hey old man. I brought you some water.”  

Finally looking up, not having noticed me until I spoke, Spencer groaned as he backed up to lean against the wall instead of the dirty porcelain. “God, when did I get this old?”

“Hmm. I’m guessing sometime in the past 30 years.” I hummed, joining him on the cold tile floor. The two of us just rested there, his hand reaching out to take mine with a solemn smile.

“You’re cute.” He mumbled.

“I know, thanks.” I joked back, knowing that I really looked like a whole mess, with my hair desperately needing to be brushed. He never seemed to mind, though. I was glad for the lighthearted domesticity of the moment, because I knew I was about to shatter it like a brick through glass.

Softening my features as much as possible with the anxiety coursing through my veins, I squeezed his hand before finally whispering, “You know your age isn’t the only reason you’re sick though, right?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” He snapped back with about as much hostility as I was expecting. He ran a frustrated hand over his face, his breathing picking up almost immediately as he tried to calm himself down.

“I know you’re just trying to do what you’re supposed to, but please…” The waver in his voice broke my heart and turned my stomach to knots. With more force, he held his hand in the air and continued to stare straight ahead. “Just... don’t. I’ll call my sponsor.”

I tried to keep my voice quiet and nonthreatening as I pushed, but I knew that it wasn’t going to make much of a difference either way.

“We have to talk about it, too, Spencer.”

“No, we really don’t.”

“You’re going to get your chip taken away,” my voice broke in half as the word fell from my mouth, “I know that that’s important to you. We can’t ignore it.”

Speaking faster, our urgent pleas overlapped to create a small cacophony booming through the acoustics of the bathroom. “(Y/n), seriously, stop. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

A silence fell between us, and I let it sit there for a minute. I wouldn’t get anywhere with him if he was defensive, and that’s exactly what he was at the moment. But I wasn’t trying to chastise him; I’m not his mother, I’m just his worried girlfriend. I loved him and I knew something was wrong, and I just wanted to help.

I didn’t know how. The men I loved never made it far enough for me to be able to help.

“You didn’t even tell me you were coming home. We need to talk about that, at least.” I offered the narrowed scope, hoping that he would take it without any more of a fight.

He didn’t. Instead, he took back his hand and turned it to a fist in his lap. That time it was my breathing that became unsteady, and I tried to touch him, but he recoiled when I came too close.

“You didn’t seem to mind me being drunk last night.”

Although I knew it was coming, the words hurt just the same. I resisted the urge to mirror his actions. I wasn’t angry. I wouldn’t be angry, because that’s what he wanted. If I reacted that way, he could write off my responses.

“I’m not going to agitate you or shame you when the damage is already done, Spencer.” I said as confidently as I could, “I knew you needed affection and you weren’t going to ask for it yourself.”

He finally looked at me again, and in doing so, realized he was making a mistake. The anger melted from his face within seconds, being replaced with overt sadness and guilt. “I could have hurt you.” He whispered through the tears that started to fall.

“But you didn’t.” I said with a gentle smile, reaching over to wipe the saltwater from his cheek. “That’s not a very good excuse anymore.”

“It’s always a good explanation.” He clarified, chewing on his bottom lip. His hands released from their tense state.

My fingers couldn’t move fast enough to clear his tears, but he brought his own hands up to rub the tired eyes. I used the freedom to run my hands through his hair, pulling him closer to me.

Resting his head against my shoulder, he let out a deep, shaky breath. I continued slow, soft strokes along his arm, listening to the rhythm of his breath slowly recalibrate. Once I was satisfied with the pattern, I tried again.

“What happened on the case, Spencer?”

The tension returned, but subsided quicker than it had before. He took a deep breath and spoke through the exhale, trying to rid himself of the thought as he said it.

“We had to kill someone.”

My movements paused for a second before I reminded myself to continue, but my confusion remained. “I understand trauma is complicated but… You guys have to do that pretty often.”

Spencer wasn’t the kind of person who liked to share his thoughts. I knew as much; even his coworkers hadn’t seen the parts of him that I’d seen. There was no way for me to know if I knew them all, but I figured that I didn’t. I was almost certain there was a side of Spencer Reid that even I didn’t know. The only reason I didn’t try to figure it out was because I knew he liked it better that way. He designed his heart that way for a reason, and I wasn’t going to try and pry it out of him.

But he was scaring me. He almost never talked about his job, which didn’t bother me when it was obvious that he didn’t bring it home with him. Him getting drunk and defensive, though, were very different circumstances than the usual.

Understanding that there was no other way out of this, he continued to talk, hushed and slow. “I was alone with the guy, and I had the opportunity to kill him, but I didn’t. I didn’t kill him, even though I really wanted to.”

‘I really wanted to.’ The words stuck out in my head, no matter how quickly he tried to bury them.

“But after Hotch showed up, he had to do it. We didn’t have a choice anymore.” His arms crossed over his chest, but he pressed himself harder against me in a strange, contradictory stance.

I couldn’t respond to the most important part of his confession just yet; I knew the story wasn’t over. Like I’d told him, trauma and grief are complicated; however, there was something else he needed to admit before I could address the part of his admission he seemed most affected by.. “Spencer, that’s okay. That���s not your fault.” I reassured, trying to coax his arms away from his chest. I’m no profiler, but I felt like if he stopped trying to build walls, things might be easier. I could at least try to break down the ones that were tangible.

“I’m not worried about it being my fault. I’m worried about how… angry I am.” He said in defeat, dropping his arms back to his lap. He still didn’t want to touch me, it seemed. Like the same hands that had wielded a gun against a man were too tainted to share.

“I’m angry because… I wanted to kill him, I wanted him to suffer for hurting innocent people and —“ He covered his mouth, and I think the motion surprised himself.

I couldn’t help but feel partially responsible, no matter how illogical I knew that was. It felt like yet another morning was being taken away from us by what had happened before. I didn’t want to think about it; I didn’t want it to torture Spencer the way it did me. It was wishful thinking, and the stupid kind, at that.

Spencer would always blame himself and care too much. While he was always trying to work on the former, I hoped that the world would let him keep the latter. His compassion was one of the many reasons I fell in love with him. The thought of losing the man who felt the need to confess to me that he’d lied about checking me out in a crowded club invoked a sadness I never wanted to experience.

Although, the prospect of that loss paled in comparison to the acute sorrow I was feeling right then, holding Spencer while he failed to hold back tears, choking on his words. “I didn’t do it, and then he almost hurt someone else.” He said, his voice growing more frantic as he broke from my hold, grabbing his hair and pulling it like it would do something to stop the thoughts.

“And I’m angry that I wasn’t the one who got to do it. I wasn’t the person who got to kill him.” He spat, rocking forward as I tried to wrap my arms around him again. He didn’t let me, putting an arm out to hold me away from him. Still, he looked at me when he forced himself to say the conclusion that I’d reached the second he told me he had wanted to kill someone.

“I’m angry that I didn’t kill someone, (y/n).”

There were so many things I wanted to say to him that my mind literally couldn’t pick any of them. All I could do was stare at the man I loved, stopping me from doing the only thing I wanted to do. I just wanted to hold him; to remind him that I would love him no matter what. Just like we always did, I wanted my body to express the things that my mouth wouldn’t articulate.

But apparently, I was capable of doing that without even touching him. Because the longer we sat in silence, the more his enraged grimace warped to a frown. “Please, don’t look at me like that.” He begged, unable to take his eyes off of mine. I wondered if he could hear my thoughts, because before I even spoke, he pulled his arm back. “Don’t look at me like I deserve sympathy for that.”

Ignoring the pesky numbness forming in my lower half at the awkward position on the unforgiving tile floor, I thanked the lord that I was finally getting some relief from the narcotics, which allowed me to climb on Spencer’s lap. He’d finally ceased his valiant efforts to keep me away from him, accepting me with his hands on my hips.

When I tried to kiss him, however, he turned his face away with a sharp inhale. Careful not to use too much force, I use a tender hand on his cheek to lead him back to me. His eyes bounced between my lips and eyes, almost like he was asking me to try again.

“I’m not going to pretend you’re a monster to make you feel better, Spencer.” I whispered, attempting to infuse the words with everything I felt.

Whether it worked or not, I could never be sure, but Spencer’s small smile sneaking over his cheek was enough for me. “I’m pretty sure it’d make me feel worse.” He croaked, laughing as he bit his tongue to stop any other jokes from slipping out. Like he was betraying the pain by letting it go.

“Well I’m not going to do that, either.” I returned with a laugh. Then, satisfied that he would accept my affections, I closed the gap between us. The kiss was so soft I could almost question whether our lips touched. But his hands slid over my lower back, his arms wrapping around me and pulling me against him.

Eventually, it became obvious just how tired the both of us were. With a quiet thanks, he rested his face on my shoulder, enjoying the calm after the storm of his feelings that he’d finally released.

“Can you come back to bed?” I asked.

“Yeah.” He mumbled, holding tighter for a second before he started to help ease me off his lap. “Let’s go, little girl.”

The return to my nickname made me happier than I’d like to admit. At this point, the use of my real name was like a litmus test for his anxiety. And although I could feel Spencer slowly opening back up to me, he still felt so far away when we crawled under the covers.

Turning on my side to face him, I saw something in his eyes that alerted me to just how deeply rooted this problem was. It wasn’t just the event we’d discussed; it was the knowledge that there would be many more like it in the future.

I wondered what Spencer saw when he looked at me. Did he see me like I was in that moment, or was I always going to look like I had before, choking on blood and a confession I wish I could have made more beautiful? Did he see me at all? Or did he just see all the mistakes he’d made? Would all our moments together be marred by the overwhelming tragedy of a single one? More than anything, I just hoped that he didn’t see the faces of the people who had caused us to be in that horrible tableau. I needed Spencer to see beautiful things when he looked at me, because I needed to see them in his eyes. If something so ugly was the biggest thing between us, our relationship would fray with time, each of us unable to truly see the other.

“You’re the best man I’ve ever known.” I said into the silent early morning air of his apartment.

As expected, Spencer’s precarious smile broke almost immediately, replaced with violent sobs and an attempt to hide his face from me by burying it in my chest. I let him, wrapping my arms around his head in the hope that I could act like a shield for the world that never let him rest.

“I’ll love you forever,” I let my voice break, but I didn’t let that stop me. “And nothing will ever change that.”

—————————————————

One of the things people never warn you about when you’re dating a bona fide genius is that there is no such thing as a surprise. It was like every time I came up with an idea, Spencer could see it on my face within seconds. I was never really sure how he did it, although he usually had the decency to wait until a normal person would have figured it out to say something. For example, when we were about three streets away from his best friend’s house.

“Why are we going to JJ’s house?” He finally asked, turning to me with a confused but excited expression that almost hid the residual negative feelings that insisted on sticking around a week later.

I glanced over at him, laughing at the way his fingers bounced on his lap. He never was subtle with his emotions. “I may or may not have offered us up as babysitters so she and Will could have a much needed date night.”

From the way his shoulders dropped, I could tell it wasn’t the answer he’d been expecting. Still, it didn’t seem like he was disappointed— he was simply trying to read my motivations that were seemingly counter-intuitive.

“Really? Isn’t that gonna be a lot for you?” The concern was evident in his voice, which I found both endearing and a little annoying. It wasn’t this fault, really. I was just so freaking tired of not being able to do basically anything I wanted to. Especially when the thing I wanted to do was watch my boyfriend and his godson.

“Henry may be well behaved, but he’s still a toddler.” Spencer continued, eliciting a deep sigh from me.  

“That’s why you’re here.” I half-joked, pulling into the driveway that was starting to feel familiar. If someone had told me a few months ago that I would become friends with the woman I was angrily binge watching clips of on YouTube, I would have asked them if they had me confused for another girl. But, much to Spencer’s delight, JJ and I never really had that awkward phase. From the second that I met her, I knew that we just wanted the same thing: above all, for the people we loved to be happy. And it seemed we both had a soft spot for the man currently in my passenger seat.

“Oh, running after the kid is my job?” He laughed, already unbuckling his seatbelt and pulling his bag onto his lap in his excitement.

“Yep.” I stuck out my tongue at him, which only made him lean over in an attempt to steal a kiss. I allowed it, if only to bring him within arm’s reach. When he started to pull away, clearly ready to hop out of the car and run to his favorite toddler, I grabbed a fistful of his cardigan in an attempt to keep him closer for a second longer.

“But seriously, Spencer, I…”

He settled into his seat, immediately recognizing the faint tremor in my words. His hand came to rest over mine, and I sighed at the warmth that filled my whole body in seconds.

“I want you to remember that you’re a good person.” I whispered, trying to let him feel how deeply I meant the words, “I know how much you love Henry. I think spending time taking care of someone that’s… not me… will be good for you. And me.”

Those big brown eyes glassed over, glancing down and then away from me as he remembered looking at my stomach didn’t ever do much for his self-hatred. Which, in turn, just made me feel worse. I wondered if there would ever be a day where he could look at me and not feel that way. I desperately hoped that there would be.

Spencer rubbed his eyes to stop any other emotions from spilling out. “Does JJ know we’re using her kid as therapy?” He joked between sniffles.

“She’s a smart lady.” I shrugged, smoothing out the now wrinkled cardigan beneath my fingers. “Besides, Henry said he missed you and it’s hard to say no to him.”

And just like that, Spencer’s bouncing returned, his hand reaching behind him to open the door before he could even open his mouth to speak. “Yeah, we probably shouldn’t keep him waiting, then.”

There was no stopping him at that point, and I trailed along behind him, watching as Henry tumbled out of the front door and straight into my boyfriend’s waiting arms on the porch.

The rest of the night went a lot like that, too. Once the novelty of having me there wore off, and Henry realized that my boo-boo made it hard for me to play the way little boys liked to, Spencer returned to his rightful place as Henry’s favorite babysitter.

I didn’t mind; I was perfectly content watching the two of them. Between the cheesy magic tricks that required a little bit of childlike innocence to be entertained by and Spencer’s attempts to follow along with Henry’s excited rants about cartoons my boyfriend had never even heard of, I somehow fell even more in love with the man.

And even though I had planned this for him, it was restorative for me, too. There was this weird, paradoxical guilt you feel when you’re dating someone like him. Although I know that he wanted to spend every waking second of his free time with me, it made me feel like he was missing out on something else. Something better than me.

It was so easy to forget that we could do those things together. In a way, I could thank my injury for that. When we were limited so much on what we could do together, we had to find creative ways to spend time together that were still stimulating for the both of us.

That being said, in that moment I wished for nothing more than rest. Even just watching the two boys together was exhausting, so when Henry’s first yawn sounded, I jumped at the opportunity. Because, see, Spencer was good at the playing, but I was much better at the cuddling.

It wasn’t like he could argue, either, because while Henry curled up next to me on one side, Spencer was on the other, his arm reaching around to rest on the young boy’s back. Despite picking out the movie, Henry fell asleep against my chest within minutes.

And in the quiet calmness of JJ’s house, I found myself almost falling asleep, too. My head rested against Spencer’s shoulder, moving ever so slightly with each deep breath as my eyes struggled to stay open. That was when Spencer kissed the top of my head so delicately that I almost didn’t feel it.

“I love you, little girl.”

My heart skipped a beat at the sound, and the wave of goosebumps and satisfaction covered me like a blanket. If we’d stayed for even a few minutes longer, I would have fallen asleep right there. However, JJ and Will arrived home just in the nick of time. They tried to convince us to stay, but Spencer seemed uncharacteristically excited to leave, so I didn’t question it even though I wanted to. I took the trip home to catch up on my phone and try to wake myself up enough to spend another hour or so awake with him before I passed out.

“Don’t fall asleep yet.”

I perked up in my seat, not entirely sure if he’d actually said the words, or if I’d just imagined them a little too vividly. But when he glanced over at me, I knew that he was just doing that slightly unsettling thing where he read my thoughts.

“Why? You got plans?” I said through a yawn, trying to stretch within the confines of the car.

“As a matter of fact, I do have plans.”

At first, I thought nothing of the smug way he said it— up until I felt his hand slowly slide up my thigh, the pressure of his fingers increasing when he couldn’t go any further.

“This feels familiar.” I chuckled, my mind transporting me back to our first not-a-date. The sensations caused a desire to burn through me so quickly I became lightheaded, my lungs hungry and desperate as Spencer continued to tease me by avoiding the one place he knew I wanted him to touch.

But, of course, just as I reached down to move his hand, he pulled it away altogether.

“Lucky for you, we’re almost home.”

I audibly groaned, knocking my head back against the seat now that Spencer had succeeded in waking me up. “Sometimes, Spencer…” I mumbled, “I remember why I have to be such a fucking brat.”

“It’s my fault, is it?”

There was a distinct darkness and deviancy in his words, despite the joking cadence they were uttered in. It was a voice I hadn’t heard in some time; a voice that was imprinted so vividly in my memory that even just the thought of it would make me putty in his hands. And I knew that I was reminiscing a lot, trying to relive times that had long since passed, but every time I saw a part of the old Spencer — the Spencer who rambled in museums and demanded I cover up my Lolita costume — the more I felt like my life was finally returning to normal.

“Of course it’s your fault. Have you seen me?” I gestured to myself, swamped in a sweatshirt and shorts like a weather-confused idiot. If the clashing clothing wasn’t enough, my make up had smeared from constantly rubbing my eyes. “I’m an angel.” I concluded, intending it to be sarcastic but knowing that he really saw me that way.

And sure enough, Spencer looked me over for just one second before pulling into the parking lot to his apartment complex. “You’re spoiled.” He decided.

“Doesn’t feel that way right now.” I whined, chewing on my bottom lip as I continued to wait for his attention.

But he just parked my car, leaning over to grab his bag from between my legs. Before it got too far, though, I clamped my legs around the leather. “Stop ignoring me!” I said through a pout, only getting more heated as he chuckled in response, tugging on the satchel until it slid from between my legs.

Finally, after what felt like forever, Spencer’s eyes locked with mine, his other hand grabbing my chin and forcing my bottom lip out from between my teeth. He held my mouth open against my resistance, but as soon as I gave into his hold, he relaxed his grip, leaning forward and pressing a much-too-soft kiss against my lips.

Without even fully breaking away, he turned my head to the side to whisper in my ear, “Get inside and I’ll make it up to you.”

Life was returning to normal. Together we excitedly stumbled through the Langham apartment complex until we got to his door, and he fumbled to unlock it without letting me go.

Everything about the chaos felt comfortable and predictable. I didn’t even notice the dull throbbing in my stomach because Spencer’s hands felt like home. The insistent noise of all my messy insecurities was quieted by his lips trailing down my jaw and neck as we finally crossed the threshold.

“Watching you with Henry, I just...” Spencer began to mumble against my neck, our bodies gravitating toward his room with a complete lack of grace, considering how well I should know the layout by now. We made it to the door, but not his bed, as he pressed me against the wall right on the other side.

His lips were slightly swollen from how feverishly he’d kissed me, his breathing ragged and his hair wild from where my hands had raked through it a few too many times. But his eyes were what really caught my attention, staring into me so deeply that it caused a shiver to roll down my spine. Spencer sensed my hesitance, because he brought a gentle hand to my face before he spoke, quietly but surely.

“I want to marry you one day. You know that, right?”

I thought about before; how those words would have filled me with both a naive joy and overwhelming anxiety. But as I stood there, staring back at him, I felt a genuine smile spreading across my lips.

“We speak in a lot of ‘one days,’ Dr. Reid.”

I couldn’t tell the effect the words had on him, although I had a few guesses. I’d avoided the part of the sentence he’d meant for me to hear the loudest. We both knew I’d heard it. At the same time, I hadn’t denied the idea or given any reason to suggest I wasn’t happy about the statement.  

“I’m serious.” He insisted, not ready to drop the subject just yet.

Unfortunately for him, though, I had other plans. As much as the talk of marriage gave me butterflies, there were more immediate needs I wanted him to fulfill. So, without saying anything, I subtly suggested that he put off the conversation and switch to other activities with a firm hand against the bulge that had already formed in his pants.

“God, I want to fuck you.” He immediately groaned, his head lolling forward and resting against mine. I figured that it would be harder to convince him to fuck me now that he wasn’t drunk, but he seemed even more willing now that we’d already made the leap of faith once. Nothing bad had happened to me then, and the dramatic improvement of my mood was helpful for both of us.

So I began to slide down the wall, my hands raking down his chest as I giggled, “Let me help you.”

Spencer’s hands moved so quickly and with such strength that it surprised the both of us. Luckily, he’d grabbed my hips instead of my stomach, halting me before I could drop to my knees.

“No.” He firmly corrected, lifting me back to my normal height before turning the two of us around so that my back was to the bed. “It’s my turn.”

Much gentler now, he helped lower me onto the bed, but he didn’t follow me yet.

“Take off your clothes.” He instructed me as he removed his own.

I listened, watching him intently to try and determine his plans before he actually got to me. But he kept his expressions to a minimum, only giving away his enthusiasm in watching me sheepishly remove my clothing. My shirt was still on when he climbed onto the bed and over my body.

“I want to see you.” There was something pitiful about the way he uttered the words, and my hands hesitated, holding tightly to the hem of my shirt as I avoided his eyes.

“You have an eidetic memory, Spencer. You know what it looks like.”

“I’ll never stop wanting to see you. You’re so beautiful, (y/n).” He used my name, and my body reacted just as quickly as he realized his mistake. Grabbing my arms before I could close them over me, he brought my wrists against the bed beside my head. “You can leave it on for now.”

What he said provided me all the context I needed to know what he was planning, and I locked my legs around him, hoping that I could stall him for a few moments.

“Please, Spencer. Please fuck me.” I begged, arching my back and baring my neck to him, knowing that he could see my erratic pulse in my neck.

“I can’t. Not yet.” His voice was strained, one hand raised so that his fingers could brush over my neck. “It won’t be much longer.”

Frustrated by his undying desire to take care of me, I used my hand that he’d released to grab a handful of his hair. “I want to feel you inside of me again.” I moaned through the words, my heels digging into his back and bringing his hips down to meet mine. I watched as his eyelids fluttered shut, his breath hitching in his throat.

“I want to see the look on your face when you fill me up.” I continued, bucking up in search of the delicious friction I’d been deprived of for months now. “I know what you’re thinking when you do it.”

“F-fuck.” He struggled to lower his hand to hold my hips down, but I could tell he was scared he would hurt me in the process. It was a dangerous game, to ever put me in this position when neither of us had pants on. Spencer’s confidence wavered as he choked on his words, “This isn’t going to work.”

“You can’t think about that if I’m not touching you.”

“Yes, I can.” He responded with no hesitation, his eyebrows raising in a challenge.

“But isn’t it so much more fun when it’s actually possible?” I cooed.

“It’s always possible, it’s just so unlikel— Fuck!” Spencer cut off by his own gasp when I finally succeeded in pulling him against my heat.

The noise that I gave was something between a sigh and a moan, and I swore I saw Spencer’s pupils dilate in response. There were just some things he couldn’t hide, no matter how hard he tried. But my satisfaction was short lived, and Spencer sat up on his knees to place a manageable distance between us.

“We’re not doing this.” He growled through clenched teeth, his nails raking over my thighs before he removed them entirely. “Stop being a greedy fucking brat and spread your legs.”

I waited a second, hoping that Spencer would get impatient and force my legs open himself. But he flashed me a look, warning me that if I didn’t behave, he could very easily just send me to bed without any satisfaction. And as much as I wanted to call his bluff, the idea of going to bed without getting to touch him was so upsetting.

So, I slowly dropped my legs open, running my hands over the skin still burning from where his hands had touched me. And even slower, Spencer lowered himself until his face rested against my thigh, the scruff of his cheek causing a shiver to run up my body.

“Don’t tell me that a few months of me pampering you has undone all of my hard work.” He murmured so softly I almost didn’t hear it.

But the fact that I did was evidenced by my laugh. “That would imply you’ve actually accomplished something to undo, but I’m just as bratty as the day you met me, Dr. Reid.”

He smiled, his eyes focusing on my face as I continued to giggle, now urged on by the way his breath tickled my inner thigh. “Is that right?” He said in that familiar cocky voice. “Because I happen to recall that the first time that I did this, you tried to stop me.”

The blood rushed to my cheeks as my mind replayed the memory of his smirk from when he had held my legs open for him.

‘You’re not broken, little girl. Promise.’ Just the thought of the words was enough to cloud my mind, but I was dedicated to besting him in this exchange. If he was going to be arrogant, then I would give him the best challenge I could.

“Would you rather I fought you?” I asked, beginning to pull my legs shut before he grabbed them and pulled them over his shoulders.

“No. The instructions for tonight should be very easy to follow; even for you.”

I was trying to pay attention, but it was getting harder the closer he came to actually fucking doing something. It was so obvious that he was getting off on the way my eyes were barely able to stay open, my chest moving with each half-sob that came when he would lay a kiss against my hips.

“What are they?” I slurred, grabbing handfuls of the sheets to prevent myself from forcing him against me.

It was clearly the exact question he was waiting for, a devilish smirk stretching over his cheeks as he dragged his lips down to where I wanted them, moving them against my skin to say, “Stay still, and don’t be quiet.”

While I appreciated the instruction, I feared that it was in vain. Because when Spencer finally flattened his tongue against me, I couldn’t have stopped myself from immediately crying out if I tried.

My hands retained their death grip on the sheets, partially making up for the fact that my body immediately disobeyed his command to stay still. But I couldn’t help it; the long strokes of his tongue up and down my sex felt like pure bliss. And honestly, it wasn’t even just the physical sensations. It was just the knowledge that we were back where we should be; shamelessly indulging in our need for each other without inhibitions. Spencer was clearly enjoying himself, his hands struggling to gently hold me down while he devoured me like a man starved.

I couldn’t look at him, my head bent so far back I could see the headboard. His name fell from my mouth like a mantra, my hips rolling against each motion of his tongue.

“I missed you.” I cried, my legs once again locking around him, my heels on his back as I wished I could pull him closer. “I missed this so badly, Spencer.”

He couldn’t really answer, although I think the moan that he gave was meant to be a response. The vibrations almost sent me over the edge, but right before they could, he pulled back ever so slightly.

I glanced down to figure out why, and was met with his eyes watching me intently, analyzing every response I was giving him; memorizing the way my body shook with need after just a few weeks in his absence.

“Please, don’t stop.” I begged, not caring how pathetic the words sounded when they broke in my throat.

“Oh, I’m not.” He mumbled against me, raising his lips to close around the bundle of nerves at my crest.

At first, I just sighed, appreciating the soft flicks and swirls of his tongue that would eventually build up another release. But it was when I closed my eyes that he revealed his plan.

Without any warning, I felt his finger slip between my folds, thrusting into me with one fluid motion as my wanton moans filled the room. He didn’t let them distract him, his mouth intent on the rhythm it had set, and his hand insistently working to match it.

There was nothing comprehensible in the noises I made, and neither of us seemed to mind. Spencer was only urged on, quickly adding a second finger in his ruthless pace that finally forced me to release the wrinkled sheets in my hands. Instead, they wound through his hair, pulling me against him as I chased my release.

“Please.” I whined, hoping that he would know what I was asking for. Because I didn’t even know what I was asking for— just that he could give it to me.

And sure enough, he did, his fingers beginning to curl inside of me with each motion. I used all of the energy I could muster had to keep my hips relatively still, although they were still trembling with the tension spreading through my muscles that tightened around him.

I wanted to call out his name, to give him the praise and recognition he deserved, but my tongue was tied in the haze of pleasure that overtook me. I could barely breathe, my mind transported to some alternate universe where there was only Spencer and myself. There was no point in identifying where we diverged, because he felt so much like a part of me in that moment, I could never separate from him again.

My walls fluttered around his fingers that still pumped into me with the same vigor. His tongue continued to circle my clit while he gently sucked, clearly lost in his own form of pleasure from the activity.

I wished I could touch him more. I wanted to drag him up to my lips, turn him onto his back and ride him until my legs gave out. But I couldn’t; my body tired and no longer used to the energy we once made a habit of spending on each other on any given day. It had used that energy to dull the pain so I could enjoy the relatively tame experience we had just shared.

As I came down from my orgasm, I was filled with guilt over the fact that I hadn’t so much as touched him once in this entire encounter, and now my hands weren’t even able to keep my grip on his hair as he lifted his head.

Spencer seemed none the wiser about the shame brewing in my head, and he wiped his mouth to reveal a lovesick smile beneath his hand.

“Good girl.” He rasped, crawling up to my side rather than on top of me. With a tender hand, he brushed aside the strands of my hair that stuck to the sweat on my face. “I knew you could behave.”

He sounded so proud of me, which only served to intensify the guilt now pouring from my heart and tainting the rest of what should have been a beautiful memory. I clung to the little bit of light I saw in those toffee eyes.

“How dare you imply I’m ever capable of such a thing.” I chuckled, reaching out to hold him somehow.

He took my hand in his, raising it to his lips for a brief kiss before resting them both against his heart.

“Can I help you?” I sounded drunk from my exhaustion, but hopefully determined enough to convince him I was willing. He didn’t buy it.

“No, go to sleep.”

He leaned forward like he was going to kiss me, but then brought his fingers down over my eyes, brushing over my lids in an attempt to get me to close them. To his credit, it worked, but only for a second before they snapped back open.

“That’s not fair!” I murmured, pulling the sheet over me while I tried to sneak closer to him. I noticed the way he scrutinized my free hand’s movements, ready to stop it from doing too much.

‘It’s gonna be like that, huh?’ I didn’t let it stop me from trying. I didn’t even get to his bellybutton before he snatched my wrist.

“I said no.”

“You know... I could help you without touching you.” I offered instead, pressing my hand against his chest since he wouldn’t let it move any lower. “It’s not the first time we’ve touched ourselves for each other.”

Spencer snorted at the reference, bringing my hands up to his neck, where they happily ran through his now tangled hair.

“That didn’t end well for me last time.”

“I bet you still finished without me.” I teased, my tongue slipping out from my mouth.  “Did my pictures come in handy?”

“Like you said— I have an eidetic memory. I don’t need pictures.”

The most noticeable part of his response wasn’t the way his cheeks turned pink, but rather that he didn’t deny that he’d used the pictures. Knowing they were long gone now, considering Penelope’s tendency to snoop too much for her own good, I wondered if that memory was filed away somewhere special in his mind.

“You especially don’t need them when I’m right here.” I purred, tugging him closer by his hair until the gap between us was gone, our lips pressed feverishly against the other.

It was always like that. Like the second we touched, the proverbial dam between us turned to dust. Within a matter of seconds, we’d be so wrapped up in each other that we didn’t care about the wreckage left in our wake.

Spencer didn’t let it get that far, though. He hadn’t in some time.

“You have had enough excitement for one day. I don’t need anything.” He clarified, clearing his throat and acting like I couldn’t feel his erection pressed against my thigh. Still, his next statement was so genuine I couldn’t have argued with it if I tried. “I just wanted to take care of you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

But on the topic of wanting, I knew I felt it more. “I want things to be normal again.” I answered quickly, an urgency blooming in my throat that died when I tried to finish the thought. “I feel so... useless.”

His hand has grabbed my chin before I even noticed its absence on my hip. He held my face towards him, a dark and pained timbre in his voice.

“Don’t ever think that.”

It was a plea. I wanted to give him the relief and assurance he sought, but my gut told me to be honest with him, even if it hurt us.

“It’s just that before, we... did so much more and I’m scared that I won’t...”

Why was it so hard? He was looking at me like he would do anything to stop me from feeling even the slightest discomfort, but I felt like I was suffocating. I didn’t want to disappoint him. I didn’t want him to worry. I wanted to make him as happy as he made me, but...

“I’m scared that I won’t ever be able to do it again.”

He couldn’t tell me that I was wrong. If he tried to make it only about my physical condition, he risked the chance of me telling him I don’t want to do it ever again. Did I feel that way? It was hard to tell; it was too early to tell. But the crushing despair that I felt at the thought of losing that part of our relationship suggested I did not feel that way.

“Hey. Look at me.” Spencer’s voice tore me away from the intrusive thoughts about our inevitable fallout, his hand still holding me in place in front of him, and his eyes still promising me the world.

“Just because we’ve done something before doesn’t mean we ever have to do it again.”

The words felt like the first breath after struggling for air underwater and finally breaking the surface just in the nick of time. Why were they such a relief? I couldn’t figure it out, but was too afraid to ask, fearing how Spencer might take it. Although, the tears pooling at my lashes gave him more than enough to read.

“Tell me you understand.” His request was as gentle as always. After a moment of trying, and failing, to collect myself, I nodded.

He sighed, cautiously moving his palm to cup my cheek. It was his voice that broke then. “I know this is hard, but I need you to use your big girl words for this. I need to make sure you hear me.”

“I understand.” My throat ached as I forced the words out. I could tell he wasn’t convinced but knew any argument would be meaningless while we were both so tired.

“Thank you.” He said, anyway. And like the prettiest sounding broken record, he let his fingertips trail over any exposed area he could find as he spoke the same words I’d heard before, even more insistent. “Even if you never touched me again, just knowing that you’re alive and happy... That alone makes the happiest man in the world.”

Spencer’s lips pressed against my forehead, resting there for a little too long. From the uneven shake of his breath, I knew he was hiding something, but didn’t want to ask what. I suspected they were tears.

I had disappointed him again. I had hurt him, yet again. I hadn’t meant to.

“It’s all that I need. To know that you’re happy.” There was an implicit message hiding in those words.

He was saying he wanted me to be happy, consciously neglecting to voice the resigned addition, ‘even if it’s not with me.’

“I know.” I whispered, half asleep as he continued drawing patterns on my skin. I meant to tell him that he was the only man who’d ever made me feel truly happy, safe, and loved— the only one I trusted with my heart. But all that came out was a simple, “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” He said back, leaving me to wonder if he’d heard what I meant.

—————————————————

After everything I’d been through, I’d sworn that I would never want to be in a hospital ever again. But, unfortunately for me, it seemed my stubbornness extended even to my own limits, which explained why I was currently walking through the doors of the residential inpatient ward. It was a good idea in theory, to volunteer in the last place I wanted to be so that I could grow used to being there again.

It didn’t have to be a scary place.

Especially since the people around me weren’t the typical hospital patients. In fact, the people there weren’t even the usual patients of the hospital. Apparently, the ward was hosting a group of traveling patients that had been deemed fit for a vacation to the nation’s capital.

My assignment was simple enough - simply meet with a person and discuss the book they were currently reading. There was no requirement that we had to have read the book before, considering that would leave most people without a partner at all.

I was expecting to meet someone to discuss some niche romance novel or whatever had recently come out in theaters, but as I scanned the list of books, one stuck out to me more than the others.

The Book of Margery Kempe (1501).

It wasn’t the book itself that piqued my interest— I’d never read it. I had, however, listened to Spencer explain the entire premise to me on several occasions. Unsurprisingly, no one else volunteered for the book from the fifteenth century that referred to the main character as “this creature.” No one until me, that is.

There was no questioning who my partner was when I entered the room, spotting her quickly on the outskirts of the room with the book in her hand, but her eyes fixed on the raindrops slowly dripping down the window.

“Hi, are you Diana?”

She jumped a little at the sound of my voice, and I tried not to be consumed by guilt for surprising her despite my best efforts not to.

“Who are you?”

“I’m (y/n). I’m sorry if I scared you. I was assigned to be your book buddy today.” I explained, gesturing to the book on her lap with a smile that wasn’t big enough to be fake. From what the nurses had told me about her, I figured it was best to just be as genuine as possible… which made my answer to her next question a little more difficult.

“You’ve read this book?”

“Actually, I haven’t. No one had.” I laughed, pulling another chair over to her before taking a seat. “But I have heard someone go through basically the entire story in their own words, so...” I never finished the thought, cut off by a slight scoff from the woman.

“I figured. You’re very young.”

“Hey! Young people can read the classics.” I defended, crossing the lower half of my legs and tucking my hands between my knees. It probably gave away some of my nerves, but I figured it was alright considering she wasn’t a profiler and Spencer wasn’t here.

“But you don’t.” She wryly noted.

“Guilty. My boyfriend does, though.” I acquiesced, albeit a bit distracted as my mind decided to focus on those memories rather than the current reality.

“At least you’ve got that exposure. It’s important to learn these things.”

For a second, it felt like I was being lectured by my boyfriend, making it hard not to laugh, which I was pretty sure she didn’t appreciate.

“Can you tell me about it? I want to know if my boyfriend was just making stuff up.” I shrugged, laughing while I found myself avoiding her eyes. She noticed that behavior; most people would.

But to my surprise, she started to explain the book, anyway. Less surprising was the realization that Spencer hadn’t made up any of it. It was clear as day from their similar words that they had definitely read the same book. And if I didn’t know any better, I’d have thought they’d discussed it together, too.

She was more talented than he was at explaining, though. Maybe it was a little bit my fault, considering I always got distracted by his voice. But with her, it really did feel like someone sharing a part of themselves. I could tell how deeply she cared for literature, and it made me more excited to hear about the chaste holy woman that found herself tempted by jealousy and sex.

When her story was winding to an end, I was almost sad that it was over. “You must have been a professor.” I mumbled, having already forgotten the information I was given by the nurses.

She was quick to correct me, her mouth curling into a frown as she said, “I still am. I’m just not on the campus anymore.”

“Of course. Gotta stay sharp, right?” I half-heartedly joked, sitting up from my slouched position. A brief stint of silence stretched between us and glancing at the clock I realized that it would still be a little while until Spencer could come get me. So, I turned back to the woman in front of me, noticing the way she stared out the window as she chewed on her nails.

“Is that why you wanted to visit D.C.?” I wondered aloud, and her response didn’t help assuage that curiosity at all.

“I... have another reason.”

“That sounds very mysterious, Diana.” I giggled, leaning forward and whispering, “Are you secretly a rebel?”

She scoffed, but I detected amusement behind the apparent derision. “Nothing like that.”

As sneaky and vague as she was being, and the fact that I had been warned of her paranoia, I still found myself wanting to ask her what could possibly make her as happy as her current thought.

“So what is it?” I said, leaning back in an effort to seem less insistent, explaining my intentions in a rant reminiscent of my boyfriend. “I don’t mean to pry, I just... you got really happy and I’d love to share in that excitement.”

“That’s just selfish.”

She really was so much like him.

“That’s how you know I won’t judge you.” I pointed out, raising one hand in the air and placing the other on my heart.

“I’m not worried about that.” She just waved her hand at me, ignoring my dramatic gesticulations and sighing as she glanced down at the book once more. After another moment of contemplation, her eyes flicked up to me so quickly I almost missed them, analyzing my features one more time before she carefully said, “I’m here to visit my son.”

“That sounds wonderful.”

Although her expression was anxious, she still seemed at least a little relieved to have shared her plans with someone.

“He is.” She returned, lightly brushing the back of the book, almost like she was trying to remember something etched on the beveled hardcover. “He’s a good boy. Very bright. He has wonderful adventures. He goes all over the country. He used to tell me everything but... he’s gotten too busy for his mother these past few years.”

As I took in the words, I felt the pain in her voice. My heart wrenched in my chest, imagining how awful it must be to not have a chance to talk to your family. “I’m sure he doesn’t mean to ignore you.” At least, I hoped not. She had so many stories to tell, even in just this short window, I couldn’t imagine anyone would want to avoid her. Then again… I knew it could be hard.

“I know he’s busy. That’s why I wanted to come here. It makes it easier for him.” She was confident in her explanation, and I nodded back with similar gusto.

“Have you talked to him yet?”

“No. I’m going to have them call him today.”

We were both happy then, and I clapped my hands together in front of me to suppress the urge to touch her as I excitedly replied, “I hope you get to see him.”

“Me too,” she agreed, simultaneously hopeful and defeated, before turning back to the window with the same wistfulness as before. “If not, the museums will be nice, too.”

“Hey, if you need a docent, I could always call my boyfriend. He would be so excited to talk to a fellow scholar who could actually follow along.” I excitedly replied, rocking forward in my chair with a goofy grin at the thought. She reminded me enough of him that I figured the two would get along. He’d at least understand what she talked about, unlike me.

“There’s no one that can compare to my son.” She warned, narrowing her eyes and pouting in a way I swore I’d seen before on another face.

“I bet. He does sound a lot like him, though. I bet they’d be friends.” The gears in my brain, rusted and slightly worn, started to turn. “They actually might be... my boyfriend lives near here.”

And that was when it hit me, the obvious conclusion I’d been avoiding for some reason. That creeping, unsettling familiarity wasn’t from coincidence; it was my brain recognizing her as an extension of the man I loved.

“...What’s your son’s name?”

She never got to answer, because no sooner had I finished saying the words thanwe both heard Spencer’s voice from the door behind us.

“Mom?”

The realization crashed into all three of us like a goddamn freight train. And even with my flair for the dramatic, I found my head spinning as I tried to will time to rewind itself.

“Spencer? How did you know I was here?” Diana said through a confused gasp, turning to me to see the equally stunned look on my face.

“I didn’t… I—“

They both turned to me, but I was too busy staring halfway between them, my jaw dropped open and my brain suddenly devoid of any helpful thought.

When it decided to finally be helpful, it was only marginally better. “Well… that makes a lot of sense.” I said with a cringeworthy laugh. When neither of them laughed, and continued to stare at me, I quickly shot up from my chair and waved a shaking hand. “You should talk to your mom. I’ll give you guys a minute.”

I didn’t get very far before Spencer’s hand caught my wrist, his wild eyes wide and insistent as he crackled, “Actually, I need a minute alone with you. If that’s okay.”

I turned to Diana for her permission but found nothing useful. She was also still caught up in the disaster that had just occurred, and turned back to her son who seemed genuinely apologetic.

“Sorry mom, I’ll… I’ll be right back.”

Spencer nearly dragged me out of the room, shutting the door and hiding out of sight of any windows. If he was ready to unleash his pent up anxiety, though, he wasn’t quick enough.

“Spencer, what the shit?!” I whisper-yelled, the sound echoing through the sterile hallway.

My boyfriend didn’t have any answers, his hands raking through his hair as he clearly tried to calm his heart and rapid breath. “I’m sorry I— I didn’t know that she was here! What is she doing here?!”

“Oh my god. Shut up. I’m freaking out. What if she thinks I’m weird?” I rambled back, grabbing my chest once I realized that I was freaking out just was badly as the idiot in front of me. Because seriously, he couldn’t tell me his mom’s name so I wouldn’t be blindsided like this?

Then again, I guess I couldn’t talk.

“What did you say to her?” He whispered back, dragging his hands over his face. He seemed eerily calm while asking, considering just how much we could have gotten into during our conversation. Although, I guess it would have been weird to share the more intimate, embarrassing details with a stranger at a hospital.

“I don’t know! We just talked about you!”

“You talked about me?!”

“Well we didn’t know we were both talking about you!” I said was quietly as possible, which was not quiet at all. Waving my arms between us, I tried to explain the jumbled mess in my head. “She was talking about her son and I was talking about my boyfriend and— Actually, that reminds me.”

“What?”

His answer came in the form of a soft thwack on the back of his head. He jumped, raising his hands to his head in both shock and embarrassment at the public chastisement, despite there being no one around to witness it.

“Call your mother, asshole!”

“Ow?! Don’t hit me!” He whined, and I could tell from the tone that the only damage done was to his ego.

“Stop ignoring your mother! You shouldn’t even be out here!” I reminded him, laying my hands against his chest and beginning to push him back towards the door. “Get back in there!”

Spencer’s hands held onto mine, and for the first time in a while I noticed that they were shaking. The lighthearted panic I’d felt seconds before vanished, replaced with a painful sadness that seemed to bleed from him into my hands.

“I’m not trying to ignore her, I just…” His eyes were struggling to focus, and the crackle in his voice warned me that there was something he was trying to avoid saying. “I can explain… This.”

I didn’t need to hear it.

“Explain what?” I meant the question to be an expression of my feelings, but it seemed to freak him out more. Like I actually expected an answer for why his mother was in a program like this. Like the reason he had kept that from me mattered. I already knew the reason he didn’t tell me— It was pretty obvious.

“Spencer, I don’t care that she’s here. That doesn’t bother me.”

From the faraway look in his eyes, I knew he didn’t really believe me. I couldn’t blame him entirely. The shame was clear on his features. But I also knew that nothing I could say in that moment would make him believe me; it would probably take a long time. That was okay. We had time.

“I’m serious. She’s your mother and you love her, so of course I’m going to like her.” I tried to reassure him anyway, and I noticed the small twitch of his pout that slowly turned into a pitiful smile.

Trying to keep that upward trend, I motioned to my absolutely ridiculous outfit and bedhead before I laughed, “I’m mostly just mortified about the fact that I just met your mother looking like this and acting like a fucking moron.”

Thankfully, Spencer laughed back. His hands gripped mine tighter, and through the tears that stayed perched on his eyes without falling, he croaked, “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Just… go see your mom. I’ll go hang out in the cafeteria for a minute.” I jumped up on my toes, yanking my hands back only to them around his neck.

His arms caught me like they always did, holding me so tightly against him that I could feel his heartbeat against my chest. I kissed him just as hard, trying to remind him that there was nothing in the world that could ruin the happiness I felt when he held me.

I held his face as the kiss ended, squishing his cheeks together and warping his smile in the process. I was just grateful that it was still there.

“And take your time talking to her, because I am fucking starving.” I instructed. The crisp hospital air on my skin was cold as he left, but inside my chest, butterflies erupted that kept me warm. He gave me one final goofy wave before we went our separate ways again.

As I wandered through the hospital halls, I wondered if he knew how nervous I actually was. I couldn’t tell him yet; he would misinterpret it, regardless of his profiling skills. He would see the anxiety in my interactions with her as my fear over his future mental state instead of what it really was— fear that the other woman he loved wouldn’t approve of me.

There was no sense in worrying about it yet. Diana and I had shared a great time together as far as I could tell, and I would definitely make sure that Spencer spent more time talking to her in the future. So as depressing as the hospital cafeteria could be, it wasn’t so bad that day.

—————————————————

Being alone with Diana was so much different after I’d learned that she was Spencer’s mother. Then again, we weren’t really alone - Spencer was there, he’d just passed out and somehow ended up with his head against the pillow on my lap. I was a little surprised by how comfortable he was being so touchy feely in front of his mother, but I’d also recognized the exhaustion the second he walked into the hospital. He’d been out cold for at least 10 minutes, and I was barely able to stay awake, myself.

Diana seemed wide awake, though, watching the minute rise and fall of Spencer’s shoulder as he slept. At least, I thought that was what she was watching, but it could have also been my hand stroking his arm.

“My son seems very happy.”

I looked up, shaken by the sudden sound after nearly falling asleep to the rhythm of Spencer’s breath against my knee. “I think that has more to do with you being here.” I said through a yawn.

“I’m not so sure.” That was all she said, quiet and skeptical. Her eyes were scrutinizing everything she could see, and I thanked the stars that I didn’t have to go through this without him here, at least. At least we’d had one nice memory together first.

“Are you the reason he’s been so busy?”

I was dreading the question but had already planned my response. “I hope not. His job is so stressful, and he spends so much of his free time taking care of me.” I looked down at the mop of brown hair that hadn’t been brushed.

When I ran my hand through the ends of his curls, he shifted on my lap, his hand coming up to grab my thigh as he buried his face into the pillow. I chuckled at the clingy movements, which poorly contrasted my words.

“It makes me feel awful.”

I expected her to look disappointed or disturbed by the action, but she mostly just looked… sad.

“He’s good at taking care of people.” She explained, her head jerking away to stare at the lamp beside her. “I made him do it too often.”

Her answer hurt me in more ways than one. It hurt me because I felt the guilt and shame in her voice over something that she had no control over, which was obviously something that should never happen. But it also hurt because I heard myself in it, and I had to ask myself if, just like I had found traits of my father in Spencer, he’d found his mother in me.

Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t be ashamed of being like her - she was brilliant and obviously cared for him deeply. It was the source of the shame that frightened me.

Was he just with me to take care of me? How soon would he grow tired of that? What would happen when I got better? Would I ever? Did I even want to, if that meant he would leave?

They were terrible, awful thoughts to have. So, I did what I was best at, and shoved them back into the corner of my mind to revisit when I was desperate and alone.

“I think he would disagree. He obviously loves you very much.” Was what I said, instead.

“I could say the same for you.” There was a slight bitterness in her words that forced a frown out of me. The words were forceful, almost like a compulsion that she wanted to fight but was too tired to win. She seemed to regret that, too.

“I know my son... and I’ve never seen him like this before.” She pointed to him on my lap, still sound asleep despite the conversation happening above him. “I don’t think he’s ever slept that well with me. And…”

Part of me wanted to tell her that it wasn’t always like this. I wanted her to know that it had nothing to do with any failing of her own, but a failing on the part of the rest of the world for hurting him when neither of us had been there. But she probably felt the same guilt I did that we couldn’t fix those broken parts. Her eyes met mine, and in the reflection, I saw both of our apprehension.

“I’ve never felt like a girl was taking my son away from me before.”

The breath wasn’t knocked from me, but it did fall out of me in a slow, shaky exhale. I didn’t know what to say back, terrified by the implication behind the words just as much as the fact she felt them.

“He’ll always be yours first.” I promised her, refusing to look away from her eyes even as she refused to meet them. I needed her to know that I would never be a threat to them. That all I wanted or cared about was that he was happy and safe, and that I knew she felt the same.

“Then he should call me more.” Diana said, wry humor bleeding back into the conversation despite how heavy it had become.

“I’ll make sure he does.” I answered, my hands resuming their gentle soothing motions. I saw her hand mimicking the actions against her blanket and found myself wondering about things I’d never ask her. I knew virtually nothing about his childhood aside from the prodigy thing, but it was clear that his father was not in the picture, and that he was very close with his mother.

I couldn’t blame her for wanting to protect him. Just as I had thought it, she’d said it herself.

“When you’re kind like my son, the world will eat you alive if no one is protecting you.”

Maybe Spencer had gotten that mind reading trait from his mother, rather than his profiler training, I thought.

“Are you going to protect him?”

I wasn’t ready for that question. Honestly, I hadn’t even considered it. In all the time we’d been together, I’d selfishly worried about how any harm to him would affect me. In my defense, it had always seemed the more likely scenario.

I was so worried about being the source of his hurt or not being able to fix it that I never thought about how I could prevent it. It almost felt… inevitable. Everyone who loved me got hurt, and he’d already made up his mind on that topic.

“I’m going to try.” The hesitance in my voice gave away my anxieties, and Diana spoke quicker and bolder. 


“You said he takes care of you, but what do you do for him?”

The walls were closing in on me, and I couldn’t fucking breathe. My hand on Spencer’s arm grabbed his shirt before I noticed. I wanted him to be awake, to hold me and tell me that it would be okay. I wanted to be far away from that conversation— that question.

“I-I…” I mumbled, trying to flatten my hand as his mother saw it, trying to act like I wasn’t a fucking child clinging to her boyfriend to save her from a question she didn’t have a satisfying answer to.

It was too late, and Diana covered her mouth as she looked away. “I see.” She said before we both went silent.

The silence didn’t help either, though. If anything, it felt worse. Like my chest had been torn open and she could see all the contents, and the longer I gave her to draw her own conclusions about what she saw, the worst they would become.

That was stupid, right? I couldn’t tell. She liked me, right? Did it matter?

“He told me he wants to get married and have kids and I’m just...” I started to ramble, my hands now hovering above Spencer as I stared down at him, still sleeping soundly like the world wasn’t crushing me above him. In a panic, I looked up to Diana with what I can only assume was a terrified, frantic look. “I’m worried. I’m scared that he won’t be as happy as he could be if he stays with me instead of... someone else. And that question scares me because I still don’t know why he cares about me so much when I can’t give him half of what he gives me.”

My chest heaved from a combination of the lack of breath and skyrocketing pulse. Diana peered at me through her peripherals, a battle visible behind her gaze.

“Most people would be scared to admit that. Especially to his mother.” She thought out loud, and I knew she was weighing my open admission to determine how likely it was that I was lying.

“I figured lying would be worse. I know honesty is important to your family.” I confessed, hoping that my openness wouldn’t come back to bite me in the ass. “I don’t ever want to lie to either of you.”

I left off the ‘again.’

“You know what I think?” Diana said, tapping her chin and readjusting the blanket over her legs as she found a way to be more comfortable with the tension floating in the air.

I took it as a good sign. I hoped it was a good sign. I looked at her in anticipation.

“I think... you two will be happier than you think.” Diana’s lips curled ever so slightly as she held her own hand, rubbing the back of her hand the same way Spencer often rubbed mine. “Love is more than similar beliefs. It’s wanting to share your life with someone. Wanting to see them happy.”

Despite the content of her words, it didn’t feel like a lecture. It was… warm, and comforting. Her voice sounded familiar and loving and safe. She was the one who had taught Spencer to talk.

“I love my son more than anything else in the world. I won’t let anyone take him away unless I’m positive that he will be happy.” Diana finished; the warning grave but her voice quiet.

“I understand.” I replied just as softly, finally looking back down to Spencer. My heart felt like it would burst from the image. As much as I wanted him to see me and his mother having a heart to heart, it was best not to worry him with our battling affections, no matter how minimal the risk.

“Do you love him?”

The question hung in the air because I was still so caught up in his face that I almost forgot she couldn’t read my mind.

“Yes.” I felt the tears forming in my eyes as I breathlessly repeated, “Yes, I do. I love him.”

Diana must have heard the strain in my voice and seen the tiredness in my eyes, because the threatening tone faded. “Then take care of him.” She said, more like a plea than a demand. “Take care of him like I never could, because you know how much he deserves it.”

I nodded, excitedly and happily, my voice breaking and interrupted by a hard swallow to rid myself of the lump in my throat when I said, “I will.”

With perfect timing, Spencer’s body jerked under my hand as it found its way back to his shoulder. “What are you guys talking about?” He slurred before even opening his eyes, clearly bothered by the lost time wherein his mother and I could have spoken about any number of horrifying things.

“We were just saying it’s time for me to head out.” I lied, and Diana’s sly smirk was enough of an indication for me to feel alright about it. It was funny—I’d just told her I never wanted to lie to him, but this one seemed pretty harmless. She deserved alone time with her son, after all.

“Do you want me to drive you?” He finally sat up, rubbing his face to try and get rid of the creases that had formed from the pillow’s texture.

I laughed at the question because he was so obviously not in a position to drive. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d gotten an Uber after leaving his place, and I was sure it wouldn’t be the last. At least this time wasn’t a walk of shame.

“No, I’m fine. You stay here and spend time with your mom. Awake, this time.” I warned, poking him on the nose and earning a playful giggle from the grown man at my side. “She came a long way. She deserves it.”

He quickly got me back, grabbing my face and pulling me forward to plant a kiss on my forehead. And as much as I would have preferred one on the lips, I was grateful for his sudden modesty in front of his mother. It still felt strange.

“Okay. I love you. Drive safe please. And tell me when you get home.” He instructed as I nodded along, already having memorized the speech from every time I’d ever left him.

“Of course.” I murmured through a somewhat embarrassed pout before I got up and grabbed my things.

Before I made my way to the door, I stopped, turning to see Spencer take the seat beside his mother. She took his hand, but she looked at me. I thought about hugging her but knew that Spencer’s company was far superior to mine, and that every second I distracted her was one less she got with him. So, I settled for a wave and a smile.

“Goodnight Diana. Thanks for the talk.”

“Goodnight.” She returned, with a contented smile washing over her as her son rested his head on her shoulder. The final image of the two of them happy in each other’s company was enough to satisfy me until the next time I saw him. Because, like we’d just discussed, he was happy, and that was all that mattered.

As I opened the door to leave, she spoke again. “Thank you.” She said, and I knew she was talking about more than the conversation.

“Anytime.”

—————————————————

| Part 19 |

[aion-rsa]

Promising Young Woman and the Limits of Female Rage

https://ift.tt/3uVvRVp

This article contains Promising Young Woman spoilers.

Cinema is full of stories of righteously angry women who have suffered at the hands of wicked men. Invariably, these stories also see those women reclaim power over their own narratives by brutally punishing the men responsible. In Quentin Tarantino’s Kill Bill, The Bride stands triumphant, holding a katana over the mangled bodies of those who have tried to do her harm. Jennifer Cheek makes the boys of Jennifer’s Body pay for their misogynist behavior with their own blood, literally feasting on their souls. Revenge socialite Jen reinvents herself as a gory action hero as she literally hunts down the men who violated her.

There are power poses and triumphant musical chords, all acknowledging that justice has, in fact, been served, and that bad men have been disciplined—that a heroine has claimed her power and set the world to rights again. Usually, there’s also no small amount of death and blood along the way. (See also: All three movies mentioned above.)

Initially, it seems as though this is precisely the sort of film that Emerald Fennell’s Promising Young Woman intends to be. Its marketing strategy leans into the idea that Cassie Thomas is a sort of avenging angel in provocative dress, a candy-colored vision who tempts terrible men to their own well-deserved destruction, all set to the sound of a banging orchestral cover of Britney Spears’ “Toxic” in the trailer. But then, too often, that’s what audiences want: an easy solution to a complicated problem, wrapped in some brightly packaged Hollywoodized reassurance that there are, in fact, some sort of consequences for those who do harm to women.

But this isn’t that film, and Promising Young Woman doesn’t particularly care if that fact makes viewers uncomfortable. Instead this is a movie that pushes us to directly confront the harsh, deeply uncomfortable reality of such a situation rather than revel in the entertaining but empty catharsis of a blood-soaked fantasy romp. And that’s precisely what makes Promising Young Woman so incredible—and so difficult—to watch.

This is a feminist revenge movie that lives in the world as we know it today. Here, there is no final reckoning, no bloody triumph, no movie poster-ready stance from a woman who can, finally, put down the emotional burden she’s been carrying, and find the justice she’s been seeking. There’s no real sense that anything that Cassie’s done has made much of a difference at all, and though she does eventually manage to punish her best friend’s rapist, this one single clear victory comes at the cost of her own life.

Throughout its runtime, Promising Young Woman revels in bringing a particularly harsh and ugly truth to light: There’s only so much female rage can do in a world that’s not only set-up to constantly make women fail, but which fails them so utterly in turn.

Read more

Movies

Promising Young Woman: Director Emerald Fennell Breaks Down the Ending

By Rosie Fletcher

Movies

How Legally Blonde Created a Feminist Hero Ahead of Her Time

By Delia Harrington

The basics of Cassie’s story should feel pretty familiar to fans of similar female revenge thrillers. A former medical student who dropped out when her best friend killed herself after being raped, Cassie spends her nights wearing an assortment of colorful disguises to local bars and pretending to be falling down drunk. When she lures a seemingly nice guy to her rescue, only to learn that he’s exactly the sort of creep willing to take advantage of a girl who isn’t aware enough to say no, her sly, fourth-wall-breaking smirk clues the audience in on what’s next.

But what actually comes next is likely not what any viewer expected. One of the first surprises of this film—which has many—is that Cassie’s modus operandi isn’t what you’ve been led to believe, and no men are actually harmed on her nightly sojourns. Instead she confronts them directly, using the shock of her sudden sobriety to shame and humiliate these supposedly good guys who think terms like rape, assault, or sexual coercion couldn’t possibly apply to their activities. There’s no explicit punishment, just a few vague threats and the momentarily mortifying exposure of their own hypocrisy.

Yet in truth, that’s all Cassie can do: force these men to experience a tiny piece of the shock and trauma that she, her best friend, and women everywhere have all been through, and hope it’s somehow enough to guilt them into maybe changing their ways next time. Maybe. Or not. There’s every chance these men, convinced of their own nice guy status, will simply write her off as crazy or delusional, an unfortunate mistake that happened while they were really just trying to do the right thing. Promising Young Woman is nothing if not honest about the ways that rape culture works overtime to validate men like this and to reassure them that their actions are always justifiable.

On some level, the truth behind the list of names in Cassie’s little black book feels disappointing. Though, really, it shouldn’t. Far too often in movies like this, female protagonists are asked, even expected, to react to trauma in the same way male ones would: With violence. (Think John Wick, Memento, or even Gladiator.) But in the real world, women rarely resort to such actions, largely because they’re too difficult, and would probably result in injury, death, or imprisonment. (See also: The end of Promising Young Woman.) 

Even the idea that Cassie gets to sail through these shamings unscathed, that none of the men she fools get angry enough for things to turn physical requires more than a little suspension of disbelief. It’s why the achingly long scene of her death feels so realistic and so tragic. Because as much as we don’t want to believe it, female rage can only do so much, and revenge fantasies can only get you so far.

Even as Promising Young Woman allows Cassie to “win” in the end, it’s a pyrrhic victory that comes at the cost of her own life. (And after a lot of preplanning that indicated Cassie herself didn’t expect to survive her visit to see Nina’s rapist.) But the bitter truth is that this film’s ending is much closer to reality than something like Kill Bill or Revenge could ever be. And, as a result, Promising Young Woman is a movie about female rage that acknowledges how inadequate our ways of both discussing and responding to the anger that women feel actually are.

After all, revenge movies, at their core, are really stories about pain. It’s just pain that’s been wrapped up in blood and fury, packaged as something ferocious and terrifying so that no one looks too closely at the broken pieces underneath. But Promising Young Woman isn’t afraid to look at the truth that films like this normally paper over, no matter how brutal and depressing it may be.

It asks us to not only reckon with what we want out of revenge movies, specifically, but the differences in what men can get away with and what women must be willing to die to achieve. Technically, Cassie triumphed in the end here, didn’t she?  So why doesn’t it feel like a victory?

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

The post Promising Young Woman and the Limits of Female Rage appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/32lp9f7

[amwritingmeta]

15x04: Lucky Them

Wow. Davy Perez has this knack of bringing it, and this time was no exception. Icing on the cake was the delight at having Jensen directing again! 

We got a glimpse of Benny (happy not to have more) (however much I love his character, he’s fulfilled his purpose in the narrative in beautiful ways that I don’t really need extrapolated on) (anyway) and we got Becky back, with some real character progression to juxtapose Chuck’s alpha and omega of douchebaginess. 

The more of a douche connected to dark and horrible endings Chuck is, the more hopeful I become of the opposite heading our way. *fingers crossed* :)

The best line that Becky delivered was about how she’s carved out a good life for herself and she actually likes herself now. That’s character growth right there. She found what would truly make her happy and she built on it. Bless you, Becky, you’re one of the lucky ones! Sorry you got smoked. :/

But let’s move into the meat of the story (pardon the pun) and talk about Sam and Dean and how they are simply not dealing at the moment. Either of them. 

*e p i c*

Sam 

Oh Sam. Sam is having nightmares and they’re of the callback kind, because here we get a glimpse of how he’s still not processed his choice to drink that demon blood, how he still carries the self-blame and the guilt and the fear of losing his tightly held control of himself around with him, even to this day. Because, as he will state in that gorgeous (and seriously tear-jerking) end-of-the-ep exchange with Dean: he can’t let it go.

But letting go doesn’t mean forgetting. Letting go means understanding that you can’t change the past, that you can’t live in a blame bubble and that carrying that guilt for choices that you wouldn’t repeat now, if put in the same situation, is toxic for the mind because it hollows out your sense of self. 

Moving on means gaining perspective enough to forgive yourself your past mistakes, trust yourself not to repeat them and gain actual control of yourself through understanding where your boundaries need to be drawn and drawing them for yourself. 

It sounds easy (it’s not), but if Sam can just see how strong he truly is in himself, how strong he always has been - he held Lucifer and went into the cage with him and was tortured by the Devil himself and he’s still standing - then he can begin to trust himself not to ever let the past repeat itself.

I loved that the images of Sam with black eyes was a nightmare. Does this mean it’s not foreshadowing? I don’t know! Maybe Sam needs to face his demons through a visual manifestation, but I think an internal gradual moving away from this fear of losing control could be just as effective. We shall see!

Sam daring to take the leader position is one of the ways him dealing with this fear can be, and has already been, explored, because he’s been happy for Dean to take the lead for so long because of his fear of losing control of himself, of hurting people, of hurting the ones he loves and, of course, hurting Dean, that he’s been okay with second chair, but Sam is the born leader and that second chair has never really fit him all that well. 

He just has to accept that happiness, while in the life, is always going to be shadowed by the fact that people will die, that they can’t save everyone, that monsters will continue to roam the Earth, but that they’re doing what they can to make the world just a little bit better each day, and that’s all that we can ever hope to do. Like Cas once said to Dean: “You can’t save everyone, my friend. Though you try.”

Dean

Dean eats his emotions. This is what is known as an unhealthy coping mechanism, meaning that instead of actually acknowledging and dealing with whatever emotion he’s feeling that’s causing him distress, he pushes that emotion down and because of him suppressing it, the emotion finds an unhealthy behavioural outlet.

This is also a form of self-punishment. 

Guilt, shame and regret are all powerful emotions that cause a person to have an unconscious need to self-punish. And what emotions are Dean feeling at this very moment, ever since he pushed so hard at the love of his life that the love of his life finally decided to put his foot down and leave?

Yeah. I’d venture there’s a fair amount of all of those emotions battling it out inside Dean. What I love most about it, though, is that yes, he’s eating the entire episode, but he only takes a sip out of that flask. Meaning? That this is unhealthy coping, but at least it is just that: coping. 

He’s not being self-destructive in a putting himself in harms way, let the chips fall where they may sort of self-destructive. He’s not taking care of himself, obviously, because he doesn’t feel he deserves it, because of the aforementioned guilt, shame and regret, but he’s also not taking unnecessary risks. His sense of hopelessness, of his chance for happiness being gone, is subtle and is only highlighted in that end-of-the-ep exchange with Sam.

Oh, it’s enough to send shivers down your spine. And jerk them tears, too. *iCry*

Through that exchange we also get a Dean who is determined to keep going, to find a reason to keep going, which, to me, means there’s still slight hope that Cas will find his way back to him again. That this isn’t the end at all. Dean just doesn’t know exactly what he can do to ensure it isn’t. 

I would think it would be absolutely beautiful if what Dean needs to do is drop the fast food and eat some fruit, you know? If he actually starts to do little things of self-care that show he’s actually beginning to open up to forgiving himself his past mistakes and loving himself as he is. The moment Dean can believe he deserves Cas’ love is when he’ll be able to actually see Cas and see that he might mean as much to Cas as Cas does to him. And once that door begins to open… 

Yah. Fireworks. 

Anyway, that’s just what I’d love to see happen. 

Cas’ self-worth has clearly sky-rocketed, demonstrated to us when he decided to leave that Bunker and Dean’s emotional abuse behind, effectively telling Dean that he deserves better treatment than that. Like hell yes. 

This action was so necessary, not only for Cas’ sense of self-worth, but to bring Dean into a position where he honestly has no choice but open himself up to some much needed self-reflection.

Dean needs to reflect on his own behaviour, and he should feel guilt and shame and regret, but without getting defensive about it, without pushing it down and pretending he’s fine with it. He has to actually face the consequences of his actions and step up and take responsibility for how his usual behaviour of taking his emotions (his anger) out on those closest to him is harmful, and he needs to become self-aware enough to not engage in it anymore.

Time to grow up, Dean Winchester, you beautiful man!

Let’s take a look at the end-of-the-ep exchange, shall we? 

End-of-the-Ep Exchange

So we get the brothers, in the Impala, having one of those heart-to-hearts that Baby seems made for half the time. In this place of safety there’s room for honesty, always. And they usually find their way to it around her. 

*still worried something will happen to Baby by the end of the season as a visual manifestation of them letting go of needing her to have this type of communication as well as moving on from the past and into the future but omg I hope nothing does and still I kinda hope something does gah*

Anyway.

I’m skipping into the meaty part of this exchange (okay stop with that pun already it’s already old) Fine. 

Dean talks about how he felt like cashing out in the crypt after Chuck went all Apocalypse World 55.1 on their asses, but Sam brought him out of that line of thinking by reminding him that what they do matter. And Dean is all about picking Sam up, has been trying to for the whole episode, wanting to do the same for Sam that Sam did for him, of course, and remind him that what they do matter, because they save lives.

And a little more than that. 

They keep the blinds down for the rest of the world, right? They allow for people to live their white-picket-fence lives and never worry about what goes bump in the night, which is what Sam has been so fed up with for the entire episode: the hopelessness of their situation; because there will always be more monsters, no matter what they do, and people will die, no matter how many they save.

To the exchange, then –>

Dean: ‘Cause it is, you know, It’s a crap job. We do the ugly thing so that people can live happy. Sam: Yeah. Lucky them. Dean: Yeah, lucky them.

So Sam’s reaction here can be read whichever way you like it, really, but looking at the subtext of the exchange - which, for Dean, is un-subtly all to do with Cas - Sam’s reaction tied to Dean agreeing that the people who get to live happy are lucky can very well be seen as Sam reacting to Dean letting his guard down and  admitting that, yes, happy sounds good, happy sounds nice, and he wouldn’t mind a bit of happy for himself.

What’s more mind-blowing about this admittance, to me, has to do with the Cas-subtext of the exchange, though, because that’s for us, the viewers, who understand that when Dean talks about moving on, that’s a signal for us - who witnessed that very private moment between Dean and Cas in the previous episode - to get where Dean’s head is at. 

So when Dean very subtly agrees with Sam about how living a long and happy life (and I’m paraphrasing Mildred because relevant) would be good, we can detect that there’s a deeper reason for why it’s not only monsters and death keeping Dean from living it. 

And, what’s more, the fact that he puts into words that he wants to live a long and happy life is a huge, huge marker, at least to this meta writer, of how far he’s come in his progression, because he wants it and he’s not about to lie to himself that he doesn’t, but, by that same token, he still does not believe he deserves it and he can’t see himself ever having happiness, which is part of why he’s been self-punishing himself the entire episode, because it’s this incapability of accepting happiness when it’s right there that made him push Cas away and it’s a vicious, vicious cycle of lack of self-love and self-worth.

(jaysusssss very beautifully done)

And look at Dean’s FAAAACE ^^^

And Sam is still reacting to all this because what? – did Dean just admit that he doesn’t want the Blaze of Glory ending for himself? (and yeah with Cas having left I’m pretty sure Sam is hyper aware of the possibility that Dean is actually, in his own way, admitting that a future without Cas looks pretty bleak to him) 

Back to the exchange where Dean says all these amazing, amazing things –>

Dean: But it doesn’t change a thing. You know what I mean? We still do the job, but we don’t do it for us. We do it for Jack, for mom, for Rowena. We owe it to anyone who’s ever given a damn about us to put one foot in front of the other. No matter what. 

And let me pause for a moment there and just have us all look at what exactly he is saying here, because, oh boy, is it telling of how he just has not reached a healthy place in any shape or form. Now, in a way, this is healthier than digging himself a hole and lying in it, yeah? Absolutely. 

It’s that “fake it” mentality of S7 all over again and I’d rather he be here, with a glimmer of hope (I always thought you’d come back type of hope with that trench coat in the trunk of every car they drove that season), and finding a reason to keep going, than be in that dark place he was in during his grief!arc at the start of S13, when he couldn’t believe in a damn thing and he didn’t care, at all, what happened to him, BUT there is still that echo here, which is why it’s such an unhealthy frame of mind for him to cling to.

They don’t have a purpose in life for themselves, they find it through others.

No. 

It brings us right back to what he said to Sam at the end of 13x20: I don’t really care what happens to me, I never have. 

And what he told Death in 14x05: I don’t matter. 

This attitude is the reason why he can’t move out of this perpetual state of not believing he deserves more. That he deserves everything. 

And this is what’s keeping him from daring to want more for himself, daring to feel how much more he does want for himself, because every time he’s dared to want more, it’s come crashing down around him. His fear of happiness runs extremely deep. 

It’s time to face it and let go of it and embrace the fact of how his life and how he chooses to live it benefiting others is a great gift, but him giving that gift also means he has every right to balance the giving out with a bit of receiving.

*please and thank you*

Of course, all of this is underlined in what he says next –>

Dean: And hey, man, like you said, now that Chuck’s gone, we’re finally on our own. We are finally free to move on, you know?

And the way this is phrased, so brilliantly, of course makes it impossible not to see it as a subtle reveal of what Dean is thinking about Cas leaving: without Chuck pulling Cas’ strings, Cas was finally free to make the choice to leave.

But this is also tied to what Dean needs to stop getting hung up on, because he’s purposefully blocking out what Cas said, which is that for all his string-pulling, Chuck still had to pivot with their choices. He didn’t control those. He manipulated them, sure, but he didn’t force them into making them. And each choice they’ve made has added to their understanding of themselves and of the world and their place in it. They are real. 

Cas didn’t choose to leave because now he’s free of Chuck’s influence - he chose to leave because Dean was breaking his heart, because Dean refused to hear him, because Dean was shutting him out and pushing him away, because Dean’s inability to stop using the blame game as an excuse not to connect or open up wasn’t gonna fly anymore. 

And this is what Dean needs to face, so Dean talking about finally being “on our own” and free is the last vestige of his performance remaining, the final lie he has to tell himself until he can face his fears and take responsibility for his actions, because the alternative is to live without Cas, aka without happiness.

I mean, the absolute defeat on Dean’s face in the screen grab above reminds me of his face watching Cas’ body burn at the end of 13x01. And then that expression switches into this –>

–> grim determination.

The top one is all: I’ve lost him, I’ve lost him. 

The bottom one is all: It’s for the best anyway, what did you think was gonna happen, he’s better off without you, let him go live his life. 

(headcanon but yeah like fuuuuck feelings)

And, of course, Sam is there to voice exactly how Dean is really feeling. 

Sam: I don’t know if I can move on. You know, I can’t forget any of them. Dean, I still think about Jessica. I can’t just let that go. Dean: No, no, man, that’s not what I’m talking about.

(because Dean is talking about the healthy way to let go, which is to not let the past rule your present, to be aware and appreciate and remember, but not cling onto old ideals and ideas, or past mistakes that you can’t change, no matter how much you wish you could)

Sam: I know, I know, I know, I’m sorry, I know, but what I’m talking about is that I don’t feel free. What we’ve done, what we’ve lost, right now that is what I’m feeling and sometimes it’s… Sometimes it’s like I can’t even breathe.

And all I could think when Sam said that was Dean talking about feeling as though he was drowning while being possessed by Michael. The suffocating feeling of the weight of all those old ideals and ideas and having no other choice but to succumb, because he wasn’t strong enough to fight them at the time. 

Sam is dealing with his own set of old ideals and ideas now, because while we see Dean actively suppress his thoughts and feelings and finding unhealthy, though at least stabile, outlets through coping mechanisms like overeating and drinking and working this episode, Sam is not about to suppress anything.

He feels his irritation, his impatience, his hopelessness and it comes out in how he interacts with others, with his surroundings, with Dean, with the case. Sam doesn’t have outlets. He bottles everything up. He thinks he’s fine and he’s handling it, but he’s not. And he hasn’t been fine for a very long time. That hopelessness always niggling. That question of what is the point if there’s no end to the suffering? 

I honestly believe he needs to accept that not everyone can be saved. I’m hopeful that he will, but I’ll admit I’m a little worried about what’s in store for our Sam. I hope he’ll have to get dragged through the darkest place before he can come out victorious on the other side, the same way Cas and Dean have been over the past four seasons.

Sam: …Maybe tomorrow. You know, maybe I’ll feel better in the morning. Dean: And what if you don’t? Sam: I don’t know.

It’s interesting looking at how this conversation is structured: Dean reminding Sam that Sam saved him from himself and succeeded, and Dean, this episode, trying to save Sam from himself without success.

The thing is, I can see Sam needing to save himself, needing to get to a place where he’s ready to fully let go of Dean, because he realises that Dean doesn’t need him the way he used to, and them holding onto each other and their old ideals and ideas of how to relate themselves to each other is no good, for either of them, and, once this shift in Sam happens, for him to, without hesitation, step into a leader position and accept that this is his place and where he belongs and there is great purpose to be found there, and through that purpose, there’s great happiness to be had too. Aw Sam! *hopes and wishes*

I really loved this episode so much. I’m still not over this scene, haven’t quite digested how Jensen delivered that slight speech and all the very subtle truths baked into this exchange that were so extremely revealing of what’s really going on inside of him, as well as Sam stating what’s going on inside of him, following that harrowing dream sequence that opened the ep.

Gorgeous stuff. Gorgeous, gorgeous stuff. 

[dario-the-deer]

The Ghosts of Right Now

A break. Just one night. They’ll all be there tomorrow, just as you left them.

The stag wandered aimlessly through the cold evening with no intention of finding an end goal. It was a walk to clear his conscious, as fruitless as he knew it would prove to be. The incident in the garden was overwhelming, even a day later, and he couldn’t bring himself to return to it quite yet.

The frigid air entering his lungs was exhaled in bursts of warm breath that filled the motionless air in front of him. Something about this weather reminded him of his childhood; most things did lately. He took a knee where he stood, letting his head fall and eyes shut for just a moment. He let images of his parents flood his mind in a blur of what he was barely able to remember... he did what he hadn’t been able to do since returning to the realm of the living.

He spoke softly to them, not to be deterred by anything around him. The timing felt... right.

“I’m sorry... I am so sorry.” He sighed deeply in an attempt to fight off the tears that would likely follow. “I knew what I did. I knew it -- in that moment, I did what you made me promise to never do. I am... I’m...-”

His voice cracked unexpectedly. His previously composed demeanor shifted to a shaky anger.

“Why can’t I know? I have to spend my years not knowing where you went; what happened after I made the most grave mistake of my life. I would give anything. Gods, damn it. I would give anyth-”

“For what it’s worth, bud, I don’t think it was a mistake.”

Dario’s words were cut off at the sudden emergence of a familiar tone. Soft footsteps behind him neared closer, and the deer could see the silhouette of his friend kneel down at his side in his peripheral vision.

“I heard that last bit, I’m sorry for intruding.” Vox rest his hand on Dario’s knee, also looking to the ground beneath them. “I know we haven’t talked in a minute, and the last time we spoke wasn’t the most cordial I’ve ever been. I have to apologize for that.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Vox. We’ve been through it lately. I was just... you know, when we made it to the outskirts of my old home... nobody could tell us where my parents went, or if they were even still alive.” Dario didn’t take the time to look up at his friend. There was a washing sensation of shame that overtook him. “I just need to process some things.”

Vox removed his hand and pushed his own hair back. This was still a heavy topic for Dario, and approaching it required caution.

“I remember... too well. That was before we finally made our way back here.” He shifted his head just slightly to have a better view of Dario, and could immediately see the light tear formations. “I promised you we would go back one day. I can assure you, someone has to know.”

Dario winced at the offer being brought up again -- the guilt that filled his heart couldn’t handle the kindness he was being shown.

“Vox, I need to tell you something. It’s... this is hard for me to say, and no matter what you feel, I’ll understand.” He had to remind himself to breathe at this point, as his nerves nearly put his respiratory system in arrest. “When Sylar took me and... everything happened, I had... a memory.”

He took to his feet, walking towards a stone fence nearby. He motioned for Vox to join him.

“I was barely able to comprehend what was going on, and I had the day I died on repeat. I could see every detail as if I were out of my own body. It looped over, and over, and over... and I remembered something.” He still couldn’t look at Vox. Please understand.

“I tried to do the reanimation incantation before I got hit, and I think the stress of the situation caused it to overwhelm my entire body. I tried to save myself with you, and I failed.”

Vox continued to look ahead, careful to take in this information with a neutral appearance.

“Who could blame you for that, Dario? There’s nothing wrong with wanting to save us both. I could never be upset with you for that.” He motioned to placed his hand on the stag’s back, before it was swiftly pushed away.

“No, no, Vox. That’s not... that’s not the issue. I did try to save myself, yes... but how I went about it is...” He swallowed and took a deep breath. “...my father taught me that incantation. I knew what would happen if I tried to do it, and I went for it anyway with no regard for what it could mean for me. I think he called it magick debt, and it’s essentially repercussions for using magick in a manner that isn’t for the benefit of others. ”

He felts his hands trembling. This was his worst fear.

“Either I was going to die, or it would have worked, and I would have dealt with the consequences later. Unfortunately, it didn’t work, and we know what happened that day.” Dario’s fingers began racing in their tapping pattern. “What I didn’t consider, and what came to me when I was being tortured, was the fact that the magick debt doesn’t just... go away, if you manage to come back. I knew why we had left, and I knew that I didn’t know why I hadn’t aged at first, but in those memories...”

His antlers weighed his head further down, and he could see Vox’s expression turn to a disappointed understanding.

“So... you know? Or you knew?” Vox could feel his chest tighten, creating a twinge of pain in his heart. He was slowly coming to a full comprehension. “You knew far before we returned home, Dario. You never told me any of this. Why would you keep that from me? When I spent all those years away from-”

Vox had to stop speaking. Rage was building in his entire being, and there was no telling what this new information would cause him to do.

“Vox, I swear, I didn’t do it out of malice. I promise you this with my entire heart. I thought of my parents, and I wanted to find them. I thought of my shame and... and I see now that I made a horrible, terrible mistake that I could never possibly make up to you.”

The scout quickly rose and moved away from the deer.

“Yeah, no shit, Dario! Gods, this... have you not seen what my family had to go through? I take so much responsibility for what I did, but... we could have gone back so much sooner. I could have seen them grow up. I could have been there to keep them safe. Dario, I-” He pushed his hands against his face, stifling a loud yell. “This isn’t you, Dario. You don’t do that to people. What happened? Why would you knowingly keep that from me?”

He clenched his fist tightly. For the first time in his entire life, he wanted to hit Dario with everything he had.

“You know, Stonegit wanted to shift a lot of the blame on you for us being gone. I fought him for even suggesting it... and I’m the fool. I was the fool this whole time.” He was pacing back and forth feet away from the deer, who still had not managed to break his eye contact with the ground below. “I heard the words of those I’ve known for so long, telling me that I made a mistake going with you. I could never imagine regretting it, but even now...”

Dario rushed to Vox and pushed him back, without any control of his actions.

“Do you hear yourself, Vox? I admit it -- I fucked up! I cannot tell you the guilt and pain I feel for it, but you talk about what it did to your family. At least you had a family to come home to.” Dario’s voice was surprisingly loud for how it waivered as he spoke. “I had nothing. I had the pity of my friend and his family that would forever treat me as a charity case. I needed closure, and I’m sorry for what happened with Treepelt, and with Liam, and with Kendra... but don’t think that I didn’t have my reasons for not telling you soone-”

Vox had swung before the deer had any time to register it. The blow landed directly below his left eye, causing him to stumble a few feet to his side. Even with his shorter stature than Dario, Vox had put his all in that punch.

“I gave up a decade for you, Dario! I missed watching my children grow up! I missed being there for my wife when she needed me the most, and I missed keeping my family safe from danger. Nala had to step in and do what I couldn’t, all because I thought you were worth it.”

Vox turned to face away from Dario. As far as he could tell, the conflict was over with.

“You have to tell them. I won’t do it for you.”

Dario fell back onto one knee and he saw the feet of his old friend wander away from where they fought. The tears streaming from his eyes fell to the ground in rapid succession; his words caught themselves in his throat so tightly that he couldn’t say anything more to the departing scout.

I wasn’t worth it. 

[fierceawakening]

Against empathy 17

“Finally, empathy is related to compassion and concern, and sometimes the terms are used synonymously. But compassion and concern are more diffuse than empathy. It is weird to talk about having empathy for the millions of victims of malaria, say, but perfectly normal to say that you are concerned about them or feel compassion for them. Also, compassion and concern don’t require mirroring of others’ feelings. If someone works to help the victims of torture and does so with energy and good cheer, it doesn’t seem right to say that as they do this, they are empathizing with the individuals they are helping. Better to say that they feel compassion for them.”

But what’s compassion? In the neuroscience it seems to be “empathy + motivation to help” or sometimes, if the study is noting thei differences, something like “awareness + motivation to help.” Which would make compassion something more than a feeling?

I’m not as wedded to this, most common usage suggests compassion is a feeling. But If it is... if it’s com with + passion suffering/intense feeelong, that sounds a lot like affective empathy. So ???? What is

“But this claim about the relationship between empathy and certain good traits is an empirical one, something that can be tested using standard psychological methods. For instance, you can measure someone’s empathy and then look at whether high empathy predicts good behaviors such as helping others. Now this is easier said than done. It’s hard to accurately measure how empathic a person is. But there have been various efforts, and it turns out that the relationship between empathy and goodness is weak. In fact, we’ll see that there is some evidence that high empathy for the suffering of others can paralyze people, lead them to skewed decisions, and often spark irrational cruelty.”

Oo! Data! Forthcoming data, at least.

“If it turned out that the first fact follows from the second—that the nastiness associated with psychopathy is due to an empathy deficit—that would be an excellent case for the importance of empathy. But this is also the sort of thing that you can test in the lab, and it turns out to be unsupported. As we’ll see, the problems with psychopaths may have more to do with lack of self-control and a malicious nature than with empathy, and there is little evidence for a relationship between low empathy and being aggressive or cruel to others.”

Oo! Data! x2!

Very interested in what a malicious nature is, and whether it includes responses to others emotions. Nonconsensual sadism, for example, seems malicious and also seems like a response grounded in emotion. “I feel happy re your pain” vs “I feel sad re your pain”

“Think about your judgments about throwing garbage out of your car window, cheating on your taxes, spraying racist graffiti on a building, and similar acts with diffuse consequences. You can appreciate that these are wrong without having to engage in empathic engagement with any specific individuals, real or imagined.”

But those are bad because they upset or harm other people. Being aware that they do is part of why I don’t do them. Have we established that not wanting to upset or harm others is distinct from empathy? You assert that it is but I’m still not sure what you’re saying the mechanisms are. To the data!

“But, again, it’s easy to see that this is a mistake from everyday examples. I see a child crying because she’s afraid of a barking dog. I might rush over to pick her up and calm her, and I might really care for her, but there’s no empathy there. I don’t feel her fear, not in the slightest.”

Do you have to literally feel her fear to empathize with her? Or is it enough to, say, wince when she cries?

“Then there is all the laboratory evidence. We’ll see research from the lab of Tania Singer and her colleagues showing that feeling empathy for another person is very different from feeling compassion for that person—distinct in its brain basis and, more important, in its effects.”

That will help.

“We’ll learn about research into the effects of mindfulness meditation suggesting that the boost in kindness that this practice results in part because meditation allows one to stanch one’s empathy, not expand it.”

So will that. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen studies claiming the opposite. Huh.

““Reason,” David Hume famously said, is the “slave of the passions.” Good moral deliberation requires valuing some things over others, and good moral action requires some sort of motivational kick in the pants. Even if one knows the best thing to do, one must be motivated to do it. I believe this—I’ve never heard a good argument against it.”

Dances in the end zone.

“But it’s a mistake to see this as an argument for empathy. The “passions” that Hume talks about can be many things. They can be anger, shame, guilt, or, more positively, a more diffuse compassion, kindness, and love. You can be motivated to help others without empathy.”

Once again, I’m wondering how you define more diffuse here, but if you dohave data, I concede you may be right.

“He considers empathy but then rejects it as too weak: “it is not that feeble spark of benevolence which Nature has lifted up in the human heart.” Instead he pushes for some combination of careful deliberation and a desire to do the right thing.”

Where does the desire to do the right thing come from? That’s the dispute we’re having, or part of it anyway.

“I agree with this as well. Empathy can be used to support judgments and actions that, when we reason about them coolly, are morally virtuous. If the right thing to do is to give food to a homeless child, then empathy for the suffering of the child can motivate this giving. If the right thing to do is to expand our moral compass to include members of a once-despised group, empathy for members of that group can bring us there.”

Are you me? Because this is what im saying, that we have feelings and we check them against our reason and then act.

Sometimes we don’t have to check them against our reason, though, and that’s where we disagree. If my friend is sad, I can generally assume I don’t have to doubLe check whether I should comfort them (though I might ask if they’re a hugger) because daily life involves lots of shortcuts and they’re not alwTz bad.

“I have a personal example of this. When I was a graduate student, I read an article by Peter Singer arguing that citizens of prosperous countries should direct most of their money toward helping the truly needy. Singer argued that choosing to spend our money on luxuries like fancy clothing and expensive meals is really no different from seeing a girl drowning in a shallow lake and doing nothing because you don’t want to ruin your expensive shoes by wading in to save her. I was moved by this argument and would repeat the analogy to my friends, often when we were in bars and restaurants, and it suddenly occurred to me that we were engaged in the moral equivalent of killing children.”

I’m... I’m glad you don’t do something you believe is evil but that doesn’t hold at all.

“In Larissa MacFarquhar’s recent book, Strangers Drowning, she talks about the lives of do-gooders or “moral saints.” These are people who devote their lives to others. They know that there is immense suffering in the world, and unlike almost everyone else, they can’t direct their attention elsewhere; they are driven to help. Some of the individuals she profiles are deliberative and rational, similar to Zell Kravinsky.... But others who are profiled by MacFarquhar are individuals of feeling; they are emotionally moved by the suffering of others. This sensitivity often makes them miserable, but it can also push them to make a difference in ways that most of us would never even contemplate.”

Thanks for poin ting this out. It’s fascinating for one, but for two...

I do not at all consider myself a moral saint, but I do think I attempt to do good for the second reason. I suffered a great deal as a child and I feel strongly that the buck stops with me. I can’t save everyone, but the thought of anyone going through what I did if I can stop it revolts me, so I act.

When you tell me this revulsion SHOULD NOT motivate me, I don’t know what to do with that, sir.

Because I suspect you would approve of the actions I take or try to, but I don’t know that I can promise you I will keep doing them if I try to somehow force myself not to imagine the suffering of disabled kids like me.

THAt is why I disagree with you. Because I literally can’t promise I’ll keep going if I ignore the way I feel. And I know you’d rather I be mr. Kravinsky because you’re a singer fanboy

But I’m not.

“Or consider a recent study by Abigail Marsh and her colleagues, of people who choose to donate their kidneys to strangers. Consistent with my argument, these exceptionally altruistic individuals do not score higher on standard empathy tests than normal people. But they are different in another way. The researchers were interested in the amygdala—a part of the brain that is involved in, among other things, emotional responses. Their previous research had discovered that psychopaths had smaller than normal amygdalae and lessened response when exposed to pictures of people who looked frightened, so they predicted that these do-gooders would have larger than normal amygdalae and greater than normal response to fear faces. This was exactly what they found.”

I’ve heard that too but I heard that having the big amygdala IS associated with high empathy. Which I figured stood to reason because higher abilitgy to pick up fear from faces is reading emotions and parsing people’s emotions is necessary to vicariously feel them.

Interested to look that one up.

“Our bias shows up when we think about the power of fiction to stir up our empathy. Many, including myself, have argued that novels like Uncle Tom’s Cabin and Bleak House prompted significant social change by guiding readers to feel the suffering of fictional characters. But we tend to forget that other novels push us in different ways. Joshua Landy provides some examples: For every Uncle Tom’s Cabin there is a Birth of a Nation. For every Bleak House there is an Atlas Shrugged. For every Color Purple there is a Turner Diaries, that white supremacist novel Timothy McVeigh left in his truck on the way to bombing the Oklahoma building.”

This I agree with. I just think it’s important to use both empathy and reason because of this thing.

“The good news is that there are other ways to change people’s minds. We can, for example, use the truth. I know, that’s very old-fashioned. But consider An Inconvenient Truth, Al Gore’s documentary about climate change. That film did a huge amount for the environmental movement, all without making up a single lovable character or a single line of witty repartee.”

Okay but are you sure no one is empathizing with victims of climate disaster when watching it?

“But there is a continuum here. On the one extreme is empathy. This is the worst. Then somewhere in the middle is compassion—simply caring for people, wanting them to thrive. This has problems as well but fewer of them, and we’ll see that there is experimental evidence—including both neuroimaging studies and research on the effects of meditative practice—suggesting that compassion has some advantages over empathic engagement.”

A definition! Stop hiding those in walls of text, bruh.

Still interested in how caring doesn’t ultimately come from emotions about others also. To the data!

“Reason is subject to bias—we are imperfect beings—but at its best it can lead to moral insight. It is reason that leads us to recognize, despite what our feelings tell us, that a child in a faraway land matters as much as our neighbor’s child, that it’s a tragedy if an immunization leads to a child getting sick or if a furlough program leads to rape and assault—but if these programs nonetheless lead to an overall improvement in human welfare, we should keep them until something better comes along.”

Agree.

“I don’t mean to rag on my colleagues, but there is a certain lack of self-awareness about this point. It is one of the ironies of modern intellectual life that many scholars insist that rationality is impotent, that our efforts at reasoning are at best a smoke screen to justify selfish motivations and irrational feelings. And to make this point, these scholars write books and articles complete with complex chains of logic, citations of data, and carefully reasoned argument. It’s like someone insisting that there is no such thing as poetry—and making this case in the form of a poem.”

I’ve noticed that too. But I’m not sure this is totally fair. What I see (that I think makes sense) is the argument that we are more emotion driven creatures than we admit, and that often we hold to the idea that something is rational if we THINK we haven’t emoted about it.

I think this is often untrue, and that were actually less likely to err if we are reflective enough to admit “my emotions and my reason seem to concur on this point.”

“To take a specific case, I will argue that our empathy causes us to overrate present costs and underrate future costs. This skews our decisions so that if, say, we are faced with a choice where one specific child will die now or twenty children whose names we don’t know will die a year from now, empathy might guide us to choose to save the one. To me, this is a problem with empathy.”

Not a utilitarian, so unsurprisingly I don’t automatically agree. If I kill someone and explain I meant to save others in the next generation, cool motive. Still murder.

[thepilgrimofwar]

The Battle of Dawnspire Citadel

The empty halls of the Dawnspire Citadel were an eerie thing. The echoes just seemed to repeat forever. Steps came and went. Voices whispered in the dark, sourceless, like ghosts of a hollow. Zarannis and the rest of her battalion added to them, spreading out and ensuring that no stragglers of the Alliance remained.

Two clicks of the tongue.

She looked over to her right flank as her squad disarmed a cowering Gilnean. It was a strange thing, seeing something that had moments ago seemed so ferocious, now huddle into a ball. Zarannis had her rounded up and sent towards the prisons where they now held the majority of the Alliance forces on Quel’thalas.

A Resounding Victory.

She penned the report in her head as she cleared the Citadel, wing by wing, room by room. Empty chairs and empty tables in each, signs of battle from when the Alliance first took the Dawnspire. It had been a slaughter, for sure. Almost as big as the one that just took place at the gates. Slaughter or no, it was at least a mercy that no one innocent was harmed in either battle. All that were involved were soldiers, who had signed up to fight and die for their respective countries. ‘Then why is it that I feel as if I have blood on my lands?’ She whispered, but her men ignored it. They knew something lay heavy on their commander’s mind and knew better than to ask about it.

Diplomatically, a disaster.

Zarannis finished her sweep, then returned by herself to the courtyard where the rest of the Sunguard were beginning to set up their defences for the probable counter-siege. She looked for Caeliri or any of her troops that bore her banners but were unable to find a single one.

“Where’s Commander Dawnsworn? I need to make a report,” She asked one of the Oathsworn present.

The Oathsworn looked at her, exhaustion clear in his eyes. “Dawnsworn left the field.”

“She what?”

“After the rest of the troops went back on her word, she fled the field of battle in disgust,” the tired Oathsworn mumbled, gesturing at the gates. “Her troops followed her without hesitation.”

Zarannis stared at the open gates that led into the hinterlands of the Goldsea, Duskstar and other lands far beyond. “So who’s in charge now?”

The Oathsworn looked confused. “Aren’t you?”

Colour drained from her face. Then came the flashes, both hold and cold. “Excuse me?”

“You’re Dawnward Wintergale, no?” Said the Oathsworn. “You, Dawnward Bael’nar, Silverbrooke & Remar are the remaining battalion commanders of rank.”

Anger welled in her chest, followed by sharp pangs of shame, and finally the sudden all-too-familiar weight of command settled on her shoulders. “You’re right,” she said, her tone now cold and assertive. “Carry on Oathsworn.”

Damn her. Light damn her!

Zarannis stormed back into the Dawnspire, marching down the wings of the Citadel until she was out of earshot of both her troops and the Oathsworn outside. Tears began streaming down her cheeks. The flashes got worse.

It was a simple battle. Kill them or they kill us. Plain and simple. And she had to go complicate things.

Guilt began to eat away at her as her composure disappeared completely. The betrayal in the eyes of Lorena Crowley and her men as she broke Caeliri’s promise to them. There was no way any of the commanders would have let them leave.

Why wouldn’t she listen to us? Why would she make a promise that we could not keep!?

The eyes of the men and women of her Farstriders fell upon her once more, like they did on the ramparts. Each of them clouded by vindication. ‘When a killer has broken into our home, come to kill our family, we do not usher him from the house like a guest,’ she justified to herself. Over and over.

And now she’s fled. From us, from her responsibilities, the consequences. Now both fall upon our shoulders. My shoulders.

At the corner of the what used to be the infirmary of the Dawnspire, Zarannis wept alone.

“The men are settling in, ready for a seige,” Vicren, her second in command said as he approached the corner of the infirmary, drawn to the sobbing. “You alright?”

Zarannis glared at him. “Is that how you address a superior officer?” She hissed, ceasing her crying and wiping the tears on her sleeve.

“You alright, ma’am?” Vicren repeated not caring for her tone. He was the only one of her officer corps both brave and stupid enough to ignore her attempts to pull rank.

She held her composure for a moment longer before sinking back down to the floor and burying her face in her hands. “What a fucking mess.”

Vicren joined her on the floor, leaning back against a ruined bunk bed. “What’s a mess?”

“All of this,” Zarannis gestured around her. Not just the room but the Dawnspire, Quel’thalas and the war that it was engulfed in. “Against the Amani, things were simple. We kill they kill, and the survivors go home. Plain. Simple. This is anything but.”

Vicren stared at the ceiling. “You sound guilty.”

“Guilty? For what?” She snapped back.

“Those Gilneans we killed,” he paused for a moment, letting her silence confirm his suspicions. “You know we had to, let them go and we’d have no chance in the coming siege.”

“I know.”

Vicren paused again. “And we broke no promises because we didn’t make any.”

“They believed we did. On Dawnsworn’s word, they believed we did. Whether we made them or not has nothing to do with it. The consequences will be the same. Dishonorable oathbreakers, that’s what we’ll be to the world,” Zarannis sneered. “The tides had turned. The battle was won. All she had to do is keep her mouth shut, and it’d have been a victory to be celebrated. The Retaking of the Dawnspire. Light knows we could’ve used some good news in this awful war. She ruined it by making promises she could not keep.”

“Sounds like your blaming her for everything.”

“I am.”

“Well don’t,” said Vicren. “It wasn’t her fault.”

“Like hell it wasn’t!” She snapped, turning towards him with disdain in her eyes.

Vicren remained calm, leaning further back against the wall. “And what were you doing when the duel was about to begin?”

“Staying my blade, following orders,” she sneered through gritted teeth.

Vicren looked straight into her eyes. “Dawnsworn’s orders? You’re a Dawnward too are you not? Acting commanders be damned. You stood by and let everything you’ve said happen, all because you thought that you wouldn’t be held responsible.” Though he did not raise his voice, his words cut her all the same, clean and clear. “Dawnsworn stepped up to the task to lead the army while you were too comfortable following orders.”

The flashes returned as Zarannis glared at her subordinate. She was tempted to threaten him, but stayed her tongue because he was right, and she knew it. “So you’re siding with her then?”

“If you think so,” her second in command shrugged. “If you ask me, no one’s at fault. You told me once, war is war. This is what you meant wasn’t it? She did what she thought was right. We did what we thought was right. We both live with the consequences.”

Zarannis scoffed. “But she’s run from hers, and I guarantee you, she believes she has done nothing wrong. Not for a minute.”

“Is it wrong trying to save lives?” He replied.

“It is when it costs ours,” Zarannis sighed heavily.

Vicren nodded. “Which is why we did what we did. We all tried to save lives. Just different lives, different ways.”

Sitting in the ruined halls of the Dawnspire Citadel, Zarannis buried her head in her hands, attempting to compose a letter to the Archon. It was a difficult report, but one that needed to be written. Her talk with Vicren had tempered it.

Archon,

What follows is my report of The Battle of the Dawnspire. I’ve done my best to keep my observations of the battle as impartial as possible. Given the consequences.

The battle itself was a resounding victory. Tactically we had secured our victory within the first minutes of the battle. However as you are well aware, or are soon to be well aware, we have lost our allies in the process. So, diplomatically, it was an utter disaster.

I attribute this disaster to a complete failure in command. Dawnward Caeliri Dawnsworn, self-appointed commander of the battle, sanctioned a duel between Sir Reginald Royce and and Monax of the Dying Suns. She accepted conditions that should he win, the survivors of the battle could leave unharmed. The promise was made on behalf of the army without the consultation of the other Dawnwards and ultimately, it was an offer that we could not keep. What followed was a slaughter that resulted in unnecessary losses on both sides along with the dishonorable breaking of oaths. Commander Dawnsworn then left the field, refusing fight and see the battle through and Duskward Vaelen Cindercloak also aided the Alliance during the closing moments of the battle.

No disciplinary actions should be required for any of them. Dawnsworn and Cindercloak acted honorably as according to their own personal codes. Monax simply accepted a duel. Wars are a messy affair and not having a chain of command has proven to be a massive liability.

This concludes my report.

Dawnward, Zarannis Wintergale

Art by Lin Wen Jun

@retributionpriest @stormandozone @thanidiel @thenaaru @jonathan-nevermore-smith @edaigoa @caeliri @felthier

[quarterlifecenter]

Learning from Our Anger

In both my practice as a therapist and in my relationships with friends and family, I’ve noticed that women are increasingly sharing their feelings of anger. Perhaps we sense that we’re giving more than we’re getting in our partnerships, or maybe we’re paid less than our male counterparts at work, or we disagree with decisions made by those in positions of authority. Regardless of the cause of our rage, anger signals to us that something feels unfair, such as an imbalance in a relationship, a crossing of our boundaries, or an injustice built into our laws. Conventional wisdom holds that men tend to be angrier than women, but in fact studies have shown that women experience as much anger as men.  The difference is in how we express it.

Women are taught to fear and deny their anger from birth. Gender norms, conveyed through both overt and subtle messages from our families, schools, and society, dictate that women and girls are expected to be loving caretakers and peacemakers. “Good girls” are kind, self-sacrificing, and agreeable, and they assume responsibility for others’ feelings. Women are aware that when we express our anger outwardly, we are often dismissed as “irrational,” “hysterical,” or “bitter.” On the other hand, an angry man is typically considered strong, honorable, righteous, and passionate. Anger is closely aligned with cultural notions of masculinity, and when women express rage, we fear our femininity itself could be called into question.

So many women turn inward. We often repress our anger, pushing it down and avoiding it, and this can result in anxiety, depression, resentment, people-pleasing, and passive-aggressive behaviors. And if we do express rage in the moment, afterwards we may struggle with guilt, shame, and even negative consequences in our relationships. When we don’t allow ourselves to acknowledge and then effectively channel our anger, our relationships, mental health, and sense of self all suffer.

All of our feelings hold important clues about our values, and anger is no exception. When we take a closer look at our anger, we may discover other, accompanying feelings. In Rage Becomes Her: The Power of Women’s Anger, Soraya Chemaly outlines steps for cultivating what she calls “anger competence,” or developing a relationship with your anger wherein you own it, learn from it, and enact positive changes. One such step is developing self-awareness by talking about your anger with trusted others, or by writing about it. Upon deeper reflection, a person experiencing anger may discover they’re frustrated, fearful, hurt, or insecure. Identifying these other feelings can help clarify our values and guide our decisions about actions to take in response.

In order to fully cultivate self-awareness, we must identify the ways we “unwittingly perpetuate the old patterns from which our anger springs,” writes Harriet Lerner, PhD in The Dance of Anger: A Woman’s Guide to Changing the Patterns of Intimate Relationships. “The important issue is whether, over time, you can use your anger as an incentive to achieve greater self-clarity and discover new ways to navigate old relationships.”

So, get curious about your anger and consider what it’s trying to tell you — it presents an opportunity for us to learn more about ourselves and make more informed decisions.

Stay tuned for more steps to take once you’ve begun the process of anger competence. In the meantime, therapists at QLC are here to support you. If you’d like to learn more about QLC, click here.

[a-day-in-the-life-2022]

Last we left off in the story, I shared about my experiences with my partner’s addiction, domestic violence, and my realizations of the need to set boundaries. That first DV incident occurred 6 months before the next one. In the interim, my partner worked through intensive outpatient therapy and counseling to target his/her addiction and how it was connected to his/her underlying mental health issues. He/she started a new job and the stressors piled up. Again, hindsight is 20/20; knowing what I know now about addiction and relapse, I would have seen the signs (I hope). I would have realized he/she couldn’t work through those issues yet. There was insufficient time in his/her recovery.

To save time, it was a very similar incident to the first: spiraling emotions, me trying to manage the situation and keep my emotions regulated, my partner showing all the signs of drunkenness, the phone call to the police, etc. My partner was taken to jail for a few hours this time. I called on someone else to pick him up. One part being I had two kids to care for as well as my responsibilities at work and the other part being, I couldn’t handle facing him/her so soon after the relapse.

If it hadn’t become clear, I had become a pro at “trudging on.” I focused on the rational actions and roles I had to play: professional at work, confident to other staff, problem-solver, mother, house lady, chef, etc. There was not time for feelings. Any feelings coming through were anger at my spouse for putting all this responsibility on my shoulders. For being weak and letting the addiction take over. For lying and hiding the relapse from me. I reminded myself constantly I did not have it so bad; there were others far worse off than I. Stupid self-deprecating thoughts. The only other feelings I experienced were shame and guilt. For continuing to put myself in the role of the domestic violence victim. The “ifs” and “should’ves” were constant- if only I was strong enough to leave, if only I could gather the strength to uproot our family, I should have watched him more closely… I worked in a field with direct knowledge on mental health; I should know better. I made lists and plans for what separation would look like. Where our pets would go, how to manage bills, steps to sell the house, etc. But I simply kept focusing on the daily actions and responsibilities. The change was too scary.

When my spouse returned, we spent a day talking through how to get him back on a path to recovery. How to deal with the fallout and consequences. My partner ended up taking a leave of absence from his/her job. I thank the universe often he/she did as it gave him/her time to focus solely on recovery and addressing his/her mental health needs. However, there was a part of me that was angry and resentful. Why did he/she get to “tap out” of the responsibilities and have a breakdown?? I could never take advantage of an option like this; how would all the task get done?, who would pick up the slack?, how would bills get paid?, who would keep the kids safe/cared for?? Again, I pushed the feelings down and put the walls up to keep boundaries between my spouse and I. It was all on my shoulders to keep our life spinning. There was no one else who could. This created an extreme amount of pressure and stress on my shoulders.

To this day, I am still working on the blocked emotions I had to push down to make it through the next few months into the next year. I’d be lying if I said I don’t still get triggered by tiny details (a passing smell, a look from my partner, the slow slur or cadence of his/her voice, a glazed look in the eyes). I still question things my spouse says and simple things like him/her walking to the garage unexpectedly or using money to buy something. I’ve learned I had been conditioned to doubt my self and my intuition when my partner was in the throes of his/her addiction. Now I second guess myself often across multiple aspects in my life. I continue to work through these consequences of my experiences. More on that in future posts.

What I leave you with today is this point: recovery from addiction issues is a process. It will not just happen. It will take time (years not just days or weeks or months). And it has lasting impacts on not just the addict but those closest to the addict. If you are in the “victim” role as I was, don’t invalidate your feelings. Take the steps needed to keep your mental health safe. Work through the consequences and trauma. Learn and grow from it. Don’t hide from the feelings even though they are intense and scary. And above all rely on your support systems. No one can (should) do this type of work alone.

With loving kindness.

[queeranarchism]

8 Steps Toward Building Indispensability (Instead of Disposability) Culture

(Reposting this article by Kai Cheng Thom because Tumblr ate it. Sorry long post, page break hates me)

give an mc without integrity a mic

and s/he will rhyme the death of the people

—d’bi young anitafrika

When I first came into activist culture, I was a runaway queer kid searching for a home: a terrified, angry, suspicious, cynical-yet-naïve teenager whose greatest secret desire was for a family that would last forever and love me no matter what.

Yet I also knew that such a family could never exist – at least not for me.

You see, I had another secret: Underneath all of my radical queer social justice punk bravado, I knew that I was trash. I was dirty and unlovable. I had done bad things to survive, and I had hurt people. Sometimes I didn’t know why.

So when I found activist culture, with its powerful ideas about privilege and oppression and its simmering, explosive rage, I was intoxicated. I thought that I could purge my self-hatred with that fiery rhetoric and create the family I wanted so much with the bond that comes from shared trauma.

Social justice was a set of rules that could finally put the world into an order that made sense to me. If I could only use all the right language, do enough direct action, be critical enough of the systems around me, then I could finally be a good person.

All around me, it felt like my activist community was doing the same thing – throwing ourselves into “the revolution,” exhausting ourselves and burning out, watching each other for oppressive thoughts and behavior and calling each other on it vociferously.

Occasionally – rarely – folks were driven out of community for being “fucked up.” More often, though, attempts to hold people accountable through call-outs and exclusion just exploded into huge online flame wars and IRL drama that left deep rifts in community for years. Only the most vulnerable – folks without large friend groups and social stability – were excluded permanently.

Like my blood family, my activist family was re-enacting the trauma that we had experienced at the hands of an oppressive society.

Just as my father once held open the door to our house and demanded that I leave because he didn’t know how to reconcile his love for me with my gender identity, we denounced each other and burned bridges because we didn’t know how reconcile our social ideals with the fact that our loved ones don’t always live up to them.

I believe that sometimes we did this hypocritically – that we created the so-called call-out culture (a culture of toxic confrontation and shaming people for oppressive behavior that is more about the performance of righteousness than the actual pursuit of justice) in part so that we could focus on the failings of others and avoid examining the complicity with oppression, the capacity to abuse, that exists within us all.

And I believe we did it in part because sometimes it’s impossible to imagine any other way: We live in a disposability culture – a society based on consumption, fear, and destruction – where we’re taught that the only way to respond when people hurt us is to hurt them back or get rid of them.

This article comes out of that queer kid’s longing for forever-family, and from countless conversations with other members of social justice communities longing for the same. It comes out of my own fuck-ups having been generously forgiven by others, and from my effort to forgive those who have harmed me.

It comes from a desire I feel all around me for an alternative to the politics of disposability, for a politics of indispensability instead.

“Indispensability politics” isn’t a term I’ve coined personally. It has existed various communities for some time, and I learned it orally, though I cannot find a written source. But the following principles are ideas – suggestions for a foundation on which indispensability culture in leftist activism might be built. They are a work permanently in progress.

They’re not meant to be a new set of rules for activism. Nor are they a step-by-step guide for holding accountability processes or a complete answer to the questions that I’m raising around.

Still, I hope that they are helpful to you.

1. The Revolution Is a Relationship

sometimes

we want to close our eyes

jack off to pictures of radical disneyland

not watch as we gnaw our own

flesh into meat

—Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha, “so what the fuck does conscious mean anyway”

Something that worries me about social justice communities is that we tend to conceptualize “revolution” as a product, as a place and time that we expend all of our energy and anger to create – often without regard to the toll this takes on individuals and our relationships.

In this way, “The Revolution” occupies a position in activist culture that actually reminds me of the role that Heaven played in the Chinese Christian community I grew up in: It is a fantasy of ideological purity against which our actions are judged, a place that we long to live in, but seems impossible to reach.

In our – often justified – anger and disappointment at the failure of ourselves and our communities to uphold the dream of revolution, we lash out.

We try to cleanse ourselves of the pain of betrayal by cutting off and driving out the betrayers – our abusive families, our conservative friends. We try not to look at the betrayer in the mirror.

What if revolution isn’t a product, some distant promised land, but the relationships that we have right now?

What if revolution is, in addition to – not instead of – direct action and community organizing, the process of rupture and repair that happens when we fuck up and hold each other accountable and forgive?

2. The Oppressor Lives Within

The most important political struggle I will ever have is against the oppressor – the racist, transmisogynist, ableist, abusive person – in myself.

I don’t mean to say this in a self-flagellating, self-blaming way. I’ve experienced oppression, violence, rape, and abuse from others, and this is not my fault.

I mean that I’ve started to believe that I can’t engage in authentic activism, I can’t create positive change without recognizing and naming my own participation in the oppressive systems that I’m trying to undo.

Coming from this position, I’m forced to have compassion for the people around me who I see also participating in oppression, even as I’m also angry at them. With compassion comes understanding, and with understanding comes belief in the possibility of change.

When we become capable of holding that contradiction in our hearts – when we can be angry and compassionate at the same time, at ourselves as well as others – entirely new possibilities for healing and transformation emerge.

3. Accountability Starts in the Heart

Too often, I’ve seen accountability processes in social justice communities devolve into vicious “your word against mine” situations and social power plays in which people accuse each other of harm and abuse.

As witnesses to these situations, we become trapped, caught in the double bind of either having to pick a side or doing nothing. Both options carry the risk of becoming complicit in the harm being done, and the “truth” becomes impossibly blurred.

I often wonder how different things would look if it were more of a cultural norm to understand accountability as a practice that comes from within the individual, instead of a consequence that must be forced onto someone externally.

What if we taught each other to honor the responsibility that comes with holding ourselves accountable, rather than seeing self-accountability as a shameful admission of guilt? What if we could have real conversations with each other about harm, in good faith?

In a culture of indispensability, I cannot ignore someone when they tell me I have harmed them – they are precious to me, and I have to try to understand and respond accordingly.

To become indispensable to one another, we must also be willing to be responsible for and accountable to one another.

4. Perpetrator/Survivor is a False Dichotomy

There is an intense moral dynamic in social justice culture that tends to separate people into binaries of “right” and “wrong.”

To be a perpetrator of oppression or violence is highly stigmatized, while survivorhood may be oddly fetishized in ways that objectify and intensify stories of trauma.

“Perpetrators” are considered evil and unforgivable, while “survivors” are good and pure, yet denied agency to define themselves.

Among the many problems of this dynamic is the fact that it obscures the complex reality that many people are both survivors and perpetrators of violence (though violence, of course, exists within a wide spectrum of behaviors).

Within a culture of disposability – whether it be the criminal justice system of the state or community practices of exiling people – the perpetrator/survivor dichotomy is useful because it appears to make things easier. It helps us make decisions about who to punish and who to pity.

But punishment and pity have very little to do with revolutionary change or relationship-building.

What punishment and pity have in common is that they’re both dehumanizing.

5. Punishment Isn’t Justice

Punishment is the foundation of the legal criminal justice system and of disposability culture. It’s the idea that wrongs can be made right by inflicting further harm against those who are deemed harmful.

Punishment is also, I believe, a traumatized response to being attacked, the intense expression of the “fight” reflex. Activist writer Sarah Schulman discusses this idea in detail in her book, Conflict Is Not Abuse.

It isn’t inherently wrong to want someone who hurt you to feel the same pain – to want retribution, or even revenge. But as Schulman also writes, punishment is rarely, if ever, actually an instrument of justice – it is most often an expression of power over those with less.

How often do we see the vastly wealthy or politically powerful punished for the enormous harms they do to marginalized communities? How often are marginalized individuals put in prison or killed for minor (or non-existent) offences?

As long as our conception of justice is based on the violent use of power, the powerful will remain unaccountable, while the powerless are scapegoated.

But even beyond this, a culture of disposability and punishment breeds fear and dishonesty.

How likely are we to hold ourselves accountable when we’re afraid that we’ll be exiled, imprisoned, or killed if we do? And how can we trust each other when we live in fear of one another?

We have to find another way to bring about justice.

6. Nuance Isn’t an Excuse for Harm

One of the most common responses I see to critiques of call-out culture and disposability is that perpetrators of violence and predators use these critiques to obscure their own wrongdoing and avoid accountability.

Furthermore, we, as communities, use the “complexity” and “nuance” of such critiques as excuses for not intervening when harm is being done.

But indispensability means that everyone – especially those have experienced harm – are precious and require justice. In other words, we cannot allow the fact that something is complicated or scary prevent us from trying to stop it.

Trapped in the perpetrator/survivor dichotomy of understanding harm, it might seem like we have only two options: to ignore harm or to punish perpetrators.

But in fact, there are often other strategies available.

They involve taking anyone’s – everyone’s – expressions of pain seriously enough to ask hard questions and have tough conversations. They involve dedicating time and resources to ensuring that anyone who has been harmed has the support they need to heal.

7. Healing Is Both Rage and Forgiveness

If the revolution is a relationship, then the revolution must include room for both rage and forgiveness: We have to be able to tolerate the inevitability that we will be angry at one another, will commit harm against one another.

When we are harmed, we must be allowed the space to rage. We need to be able to express the depth of our hurt, our hatred of those who hurt us and those who allowed it to happen – especially when those people are the ones we love.

It is up to the community to hold and contain this rage – to hear and validate and give it space, while also preventing it from creating further harm.

The expression of anger and pain is key to the transformation of violence into healing, because it allows us to understand what has happened and motivates us to change.

And it’s up to the community as well to then provide a framework for forgiveness, to help envision a future where forgiveness is possible, and how it might be achieved.

8. Community Is the Answer

There are no activist communities, only the desire for communities, or the convenient fiction of communities. A community is a material web that binds people together, for better and for worse, in interdependence…

If it is easier to kick someone out than to go through a difficult series of conversations with them, it is not a community. Among the societies that had real communities, exile was the most extreme sanction possible, tantamount to killing them. On many levels, losing the community and all the relationships it involved was the same as dying.

Let’s not kid ourselves: We don’t have communities.

—Anonymous, Broken Teapot Zine

The above quote is a revealing glance into the inner dynamics of social justice and activist culture.

It reveals the source of our incapacity to create accountability and the deep emotional and material insecurities that lie beneath it.

Perhaps the reason we tend to recreate disposability culture and trauma responses over and over is because we are all, secretly, that frightened runaway kid, constantly searching for a home, but not really believing we can find one.

Maybe we don’t create communities of true interdependence – of indispensability, of forever-family – because we are terrified of what will happen if we try.

But I believe, have to believe, that true community is possible for me and for all of us. The truth is, we can’t keep going on the way we have been. We need each other, need to find each other, in order to survive.

And I have faith that we can.

[manic-m]

Dear Dad

Dear Dad,

I wonder where things went wrong. We had a great relationship, one of the best, before things went south---you were my rock, my best buddy, my protector. Or were you? Sometimes, I wonder if you've only shown me the best sides of you. As a child, you were the only source of fun and excitement in my life. You gave me all that I wanted, indulged my whims and fancies, spoiled me; you were the one who introduced me to my favourite songs and old British comedies. You were the one who made my childhood a little normal.

So then, why did this rift appear between us? When did it grow into this chasm of misunderstandings?

Maybe all children, especially girls, when they grow up, start forming a sort of merit-demerit list of their parents in their minds, and unfortunately, the demerits overpower the merits no matter how good they are. The truth is, you scare me more than I would ever acknowledge. I've seen your temper tantrums, your violent outbursts always directed outwards and never towards us, but which still affects us as if we were the ones taking the hits. I still remember how you'd flip tables, smash keyboards, and say the cruellest things only to double down under the regret of your words and actions. Why do I remember those scenes so vividly but easily forget all the love and affection you showered over me? When did you become the villain of this story in my mind?

We don't know what to say to each other anymore. We're so alike in many ways. Personality traits, little quirks, anger issues---all the same, it's like looking into a mirror. And this mirror reflects all the bad qualities in me that I try hard to suppress. This inner rage, this constant feeling of being a victim. We feel the same emotions, think the same thoughts, emote the same way; it's like looking into the past and the future at the same time, it's unsettling. When I talk to you, I feel like I'm talking to myself. I know when you're not listening, when you're not accepting, when you're angry, because, after all, we are the same.

I am and always was scared to tell you how much I love my mother. And the times I've tried, you'd somehow, most of the time, unconsciously, twist my words and my thoughts so that I would feel that I did not love my mother but instead was bound by a sense of guilt-induced obligation to her. So often, I have internalised that, doubting whether what should've been a normal, natural love a daughter feels for her mother was something weak, toxic, and one-sided. If only I could've told you then, 'Words matter. Actions matter. Never plants seeds of doubts into your child's mind. You may never be able to unroot it.' I started seeing my mother as something shameful, something embarrassing, and this combined with the natural love I felt for her made me feel confused and agitated every time I see her. Instead of making me feel like I have two supportive parents, no matter how cruel they've been to each other, you made me feel like I'm selling my soul, sympathising with the devil. I felt guilty loving my own mother.

She may have made big mistakes, may have acted a certain way that you thought put us in danger, but you should have taken this up with her, civilly and discreetly, without painting a bad and not a completely honest picture of her in our minds---that's for us to decide to do or not to do when we grow up. But many a time, you made that choice for us. I'm not saying that you're the only one to blame, but you are responsible; you never took accountability for some of your past actions and their present consequences and that fills me with resentment.

You're a great father and a terrible husband. You may want to run away from the truth. You may want to hide from the past, but the past always catches up. The way you treated my mother, the way you abused her---this matters. Its consequences matter. Only until you face up to it, will you stop feeling the way you do all the time. What you and I work on are guilt and regret. We've somehow made these two emotions the source of all our thoughts and feelings. Anger, sadness, apathy---all out of guilt over choices we made and could've chosen not to make. Without getting over this guilt, we will always be a slave to our emotions. We'll never feel content with our life. And the only way to stop feeling guilty is to own up to your mistakes and make amends. Do your part to correct your wrongs regardless of whether the other person accepts it or not. I wish you had done that a long time ago. I fear it's too late now. But that's up to you to decide.

You make me feel like I'm in danger, all the time. I don't know how to prove to you that I'm stronger than you think, especially when I cry at the drop of a hat. Tears don't mean that I'm weak; it means that I feel deeply, that I love deeply, and like all humans, I hurt deeply. I don't want you to feel like you are saving me---don't delude yourself into thinking that way. Sadly, you're doing the opposite. By putting my mother in danger, by hurting her, you are hurting me. But you see and believe what you want to. You don't want to accept the depth of my love for her, and you won't let me explain. I don't know how to explain. No child is asked to defend what they feel for their mother. But the fact that I feel that way with you means that there was something you could've done differently. Your child has to hold herself back while talking to you. What will trigger him? What should I omit from this conversation? How do I make him happy?

Your validation means a lot to me. And to gain your approval, I'd make my mother look like a terrible mother when she was not; I'd disclose information about her private life when I had no reason to. I did what I had to survive and earn the love of both my parents because I thought this was the only way. You made me feel that way.

It feels like there will be no conclusion to this story, not soon anyway. I just wish things were different, and I could end all our hurting, but it's beyond me and I've stopped trying. For once, I want you to take the effort to understand me.

[thursdaycodagroup]

Meeting Reading: January 2nd, 2020

“Out of these feelings come all of our many addictions, which create more painful feelings, locking us into a vicious circle of pain that results from our addictions, and then leads us to seek further addictions to relieve the pain. The ego convinces us that the drug, the food, the alcohol, the approval, the relationship, the TV, the work, sleep, sex, or even anger or depression will relieve the pain, so we become addicted to them, not realizing that they are actually perpetuating the pain. The ego is based on the false belief that the Inner Child is bad, wrong, unlovable, basically defective, insignificant, unimportant, and/ or inadequate. From this core shame-based false belief come all of the other false beliefs of the ego. Below are listed some of the common false beliefs of the ego as manifested through the unloving Adult and the unloved Child:

1. I cannot make myself happy from within myself. Other people, activities, and substances are responsible for making me happy or unhappy. I am powerless over how I feel and what happens to me. I am a victim.

2. Others’ feelings are more important than mine, and I’m responsible for others’ feelings. When others feel hurt, disappointed, or upset because of something I’ve done (with no intent to hurt), I’m wrong and it’s my fault. I deserve the guilt I feel. I am selfish if I’m not self-sacrificing.

3. I can’t handle pain. The pain will be unending. I will die or go crazy if I’m in pain. To feel pain is to be weak.

4. I can control what others think of me, feel about me, and how they treat me. I can “make” them like me or love me or accept me by being good or nice, and I can “make” them treat me how I want to be treated by getting angry, righteous, and critical when they don’t.

5. Resisting others’ control is more important than anything. I can preserve my freedom, integrity, and self-esteem by resisting others’ control.

6. Taking care of myself and making myself happy is selfish and self-centered, and therefore wrong. A loving person takes care of others’ needs and puts one’s own aside.

7. Approval = love.

The Higher Self, as manifested through the connection between the loving Adult and the loved Child, knows and tells the truth. Thus the loving Adult tells the Inner Child that it is good, loving, valuable, important, and trustworthy. The loving Adult tells the truth to the Child about the above false beliefs:

1. I have choice over my responses to any situation, and my own choices and responses create my happiness or unhappiness, not other people, activities, or substances.

2. Other people’s feelings are the consequences of their own choices regarding their intent, beliefs, and behavior. Therefore, I am not responsible for their feelings, other than if my intent is to hurt. Selfishness is expecting others to be responsible for my feelings. Taking responsibility for my own feelings is loving, not selfish.

3. Pain is a teacher from which I may learn. Pain does not destroy, it only hurts, and I can handle it. Handling pain so that I learn from it is how I get stronger.

4. I have control only over my own beliefs, feelings, and actions, not over anyone else’s. I have control only over my own intent, not over anyone else’s. 

5. Resisting others’ control keeps me controlled by my own resistance. It is only when I make my own choices rather than resisting others’ choices that I am free. 

6. I am being self-responsible when I take care of getting my own needs met and making myself happy. I am being selfish, self-centered, and needy only when I expect others to put themselves aside to meet my needs.

7. Truth = love. When we just offer approval to others, we foster their addiction to our approval. When we tell the truth about ourselves, nonjudgmentally and with compassion, to ourselves and others, we offer them and ourselves a chance to grow.

It is the job of the loving Adult to tell the truth to your ego, as well as to learn why you believe and feel as you do. This is how we are healed from our false beliefs and from the pain of our past. When the loving Adult demonstrates his/her love by telling the truth, then the ego, as manifested by the unloving Adult and the unloved Child, is gradually transformed into the Higher Self.”

Paul, Margaret. Healing Your Aloneness (pp. 37-39). HarperOne. Kindle Edition.

[detrevniwrit]

re: kacchako is bad (responses)

oh my god I'm going to answer all of these in one post because it’s been a freaking long day and i have no desire to answer each individual permutation of the same sentiments over and over again

read more this time bc it didn’t seem clear enough last time by the bolded ‘kacchako is bad title’ that you can scroll past if you’re sensitive to criticism because this is a criticism of kacchako.

Concern:

Don’t tag it in the ship tag if it’s hate! Just blacklist it if it bothers you so much. People can ship it if they want, don’t be mean/an asshole! :(

Answer:

I can't believe I'm getting "let people ship what they want don't spread hate it's never worth it" msgs in this year of our lord 2017. Don't moralize down to me about spreading hate and quit acting as if I went into people’s inboxes to harass and specifically be mean to them. I used the tag, yes, but I did it to bring kacchako fans’ attention to legitimate concerns I have about the ship’s consequences, and I made my opinion very explicit in the bolded title of the post so people can scroll past if they’re sensitive. I thought it was worth the risk to my sanity to make sure that people who aren't as sensitive to criticism won’t just ignore that there are important issues with kacchako because it’s easier, or because they just don’t know/never thought about it. (I’m now partially feeling it wasn’t worth it, but determined to stand by my points)

Concern:

I think kacchako is fine and I don’t defend abuse! I just imagine them in a place where Bakugou is grown up and not abusive anymore and Ochako doesn’t take that shit!

Answer: 

It has occurred to me that it’s rarely anyone’s intention to support abuse, which is why I bothered to write the original post at all. To reiterate my argument so I don’t get confused ‘kacchako is not abusive’s in my inbox, I’m not saying that kacchako is inherently abusive. I’m saying that as Izuku’s friend, Ochako wouldn’t be motivated to date Bakugou specifically because he bullies Izuku and has abusive tendencies towards her friend, and because she’s someone who cares about Izuku’s wellbeing she wouldn’t be interested in someone who continues to unapologetically treat Izuku like that. 

There is no ‘she secretly likes Bakugou’ right now, or vice versa. She just wants to catch up to Izuku. And Bakugou does not respect her more than he sees her as a threat.

To the reimagining future Bakugou part: again, I doubt anyone has the intention to erase Izuku’s experience as a victim of Bakugou’s bullying. I’m saying that no one writes Bakugou changing from a bully into a better person respectfully or realistically. Most interpret Bakugou’s one interaction with Ochako (in which he considers her a legitimate threat to beat) as an indicator of Bakugou beginning to change because of Ochako, even if after this interaction he’s still only interested in winning and dominating over others and if people are potentially in his way. 

Let me give you a definition of domestic abuse (my bolding):

"domestic abuse occurs whenever one person in an intimate relationship or marriage tries to dominate and control the other person. Domestic violence and abuse are used for one purpose and one purpose only: to gain and maintain total control over you. An abuser doesn’t ‘play fair.’ Abusers use fear, guilt, shame, and intimidation to wear you down and keep you under his or her thumb. Your abuser may also threaten you, hurt you, or hurt those around you.”

All kacchako shippers imagine a future Bakugou as someone who automatically deserves forgiveness for not being an asshole anymore, most likely due to Ochako keeping him in line, and not a single one has been able to describe, in informed detail, about how hard it is to change abusive behavior. 

“In discussing why abusers abuse, it’s clear that a lot of the causal factors behind these behaviors are learned attitudes and feelings of entitlement and privilege — which can be extremely difficult to truly change. [...] While we hope abusive partners will change, it’s not always realistic to expect that they can and will. Focus on changes you can control to improve your own life, because you deserved to feel loved, happy and safe.”

Signs of progress of changing abusive behavior include (some bolded for what I think kacchako shippers particularly don’t take into account often when characterizing future Bakugou):

Admitting fully to what they have done

Stopping excuses and blaming

Making amends

Accepting responsibility and recognizing that abuse is a choice

Identifying patterns of controlling behavior they use

Identifying the attitudes that drive their abuse

Accepting that overcoming abusiveness is a decades-long process — not declaring themselves “cured”

Not demanding credit for improvements they’ve made

Not treating improvements as vouchers to be spent on occasional acts of abuse (ex. “I haven’t done anything like this in a long time, so it’s not a big deal)

Developing respectful, kind, supportive behaviors

Carrying their weight and sharing power

Changing how they respond to their partner’s (or former partner’s) anger and grievances

Changing how they act in heated conflicts

Accepting the consequences of their actions (including not feeling sorry for themselves about the consequences, and not blaming their partner or children for them)

Making Bakugou an adult does not change that you need to write him checking his abusive behavior.

Concern:

But Bakugou has changed at this point in the manga---he and Izuku now have an understanding of trust and respect.

Answer:

Bakugou has only demonstrated one instance that he could be changing. Though change for Bakugou is a good and decidedly difficult feat, one instance does not an abusive pattern break.

Let me direct you to the classic cycle of abuse by psychologist Lenore Walker, with helpful manga caps from Ch. 117-121:

1) Tension building phase 

2) Acute battering phase (in which Izuku absolutely does not want to fight at first until he feels obligated to)

3) Honeymoon phase

“The abuse may be terrible, but the promises and generosity of the honeymoon phase give the victim the false belief that everything will be all right.”

Secondly, to the aforementioned abuse-changing bullets Bakugou has not achieved up to after he’s fought with Izuku Ch. 117-121:

Admitting fully to what they have done

Accepting responsibility and recognizing that abuse is a choice

Accepting that overcoming abusiveness is a decades-long process — not declaring themselves “cured”

Thirdly, to what he is beginning to do

Stopping excuses and blaming

Carrying their weight and sharing power

I concede that Bakugou is making steps towards change because he is a hardheaded egoistic teenager who up to this point hadn’t offered help out of his own volition. But if you’re taking this as a sign that he’s anywhere near lasting and permanent change, even years from now---I almost literally just wrote a foot of text and references as to why that isn’t realistic or respectful towards the realities of abusive behavior. Please realize you are likely oversimplifying his path towards change.

Concern:

Not all kacchako shippers are like that! I know (insert fanworks here) that are respectful, good, etc,

Answer:

Show me. I’m more than willing to take a look and then give you my detailed opinion afterwards, if you’d like.

Concern:

I’m not trying to force a het agenda, I just like the dynamic.

Answer:

I mentioned before that people may not realize their intentions don’t match up with consequences. I just wrote more than 2 hours worth explaining why kacchako doesn’t have a sensical basis for a good relationship and am considering just passing out on the spot right at this moment in sheer exhaustion. I’m just going to post screenshots that actually do have the aforementioned good qualities and ask politely that you consider these respective Ochako and Katsuki ships, instead of kacchako het, which endorses a contrived relationship over not straight ones that actually have a basis of mutual affection in canon:

Fuck, if you really really want to ship Uraraka with a guy Iida and/or Midoriya have plenty of shared affection and solid relationships with her, I trust you don’t need me to screen cap to know that. 

Concern:

If Bakugou is so problematic, wouldn’t any ship with him be problematic (including kiribaku)?

Answer:

Finally a good question. I would say yes and no. Yes, because if you’re a survivor of abuse it’s perfectly valid and understandable not to want to think about Bakugou and his potential romantic partners at all. No, for a variety of reasons, using kiribaku as an example: 

a) Bakugou and Kirishima are established friends with a relatively healthy, mutual relationship. Bakugou has a foul temper but he’s not abusive towards Kirishima, even going out of his way to---admittedly badly---help him study (above caps from the manga and light novel); Kirishima admires Bakugou, finds positive qualities in their friendship, and isn’t cowed, wary, or disgusted by him, like Ochako or Izuku and many others are. tl;dr, there is plenty of solid evidence to back up the mutual affection, respect, and trust between them, something that kacchako and---god forbid---bakudeku lack.

It’s actually good for Bakugou to learn how to develop uncontrolling behaviors through healthy relationships where he doesn't feel the need to dominate over his partner.  He can’t do this with Ochako, with whom he regards as nonexistent at best, and a threat to him as Izuku’s lackey at worst (I discussed this in detail further up). Referring back to the changing abusive behavior list, Bakugou’s relationship with Kirishima demonstrates that Bakugou can learn a) respectful, kind, supportive behaviors and b) carrying weight and sharing power. This doesn’t justify how Bakugou treats others, but it does facilitate a view of how Bakugou would be able to treat others better, which I think is worth exploring.

Concern:

Why do you care so much? People ship bad/problematic stuff all the time lol there’s nothing you can do to stop it. Just let it be or blacklist it or something??

Answer:

I’m maybe foolishly invested in the idea that some people don’t have to be like that when they’re informed and engaged in critical discourse, and well fuck I have time and resources and have already started two godamned things this weekend with fandom out of probably masochistic impulses, so why the fuck not. 

Just because I don’t like something doesn’t mean I’m here to attack people or be unwilling to talk to them about it---rather, I’m more concerned that people are so unwillingly to talk about why the things they like isn’t good?? 

Kacchako is just one instance. I can provide a lot more examples of this kind of behavior in different areas of interest, in detail, with plenty of support and reasons, over private message. Otherwise, I’m not interested in making a detailed -post- of examples of bad kacchakos because honestly, I’ve already spent a lot of my time writing this when I could be discussing more pressing issues. The downsides of hyper focus.

On that note, forgive me if I don’t immediately respond to further replies any time soon after this post. After more than 10 messages that entirely missed the point I’ve exhausted myself thinking people could put aside their first impulses and self-indulgences to maybe formulate better opinions on tumblr.com, rather than sending me vague, misinformed, and/or childishly defensive insults that don’t actually tell me I’m wrong.

[dreamersintherain]

that awkward moment when someone accuses you of rape but doesn’t tell you just everyone else...

So I was in college, and let’s clear this up real quick it was late and I was drunk... a buddy of mine is texting me... telling me he has been drinking and is about to drive. I tell him this is a bad idea and he should come crash on my couch instead, he shows up a few minutes later. We hug in greeting and start kissing (clarity-- he kissed me first... we’ve kissed before) we go and watch a movie on the couch nothing too snuggly. After I go and grab a blanket and pillow, and I walk back out to give it to him and he asks if we can cuddle in my bed together. Cool, sounds good I love snuggles! cue being grinded on, more kisses and boom we had sex. here are some things I found out in the morning 1 he was a virgin --- 2 he was much drunker than I realized, blackout in fact (it is difficult to tell a persons intoxication levels btw control yourself it isn’t on others to control you) regardless we woke up he kissed me, told me those two things and said he’d see me later. well, I didn’t think much about it until a few weeks later when talking with a mutual friend of ours. That apparently I had raped this man now the feelings to come forward confusion, shame, guilt, anger .... he did not talk to me about it, and he has still never spoken of it to my face and we have had sex after this event many many a time. yet it ruined my character in the eyes of those he told. Now I’ve been in many (good and bad) sexual scenarios at that time and even more now, so after several years I’ve had some time to reflect on sex and consent. So here is what I’ve come up with allegations of sexual misconduct can ruin a person character regardless if they are true or false. Large percentages of rape are caused by miscommunication, and the way we talk about sex and what we are comfortable with is important. Also as someone who has been so inebriated that I passed out in a bed at a party and then as I came in and out of consciousness as four different men came in and out of the room to fuck me (half told half remember.. it isn’t great) Don’t get so intoxicated you’re not in control (unless you’re alone/trusted friend) Obviously people should respect you and not take advantage... but I didn’t respect myself enough to maintain control and so how could I ask respect from anyone else? actions have consequences and no this doesn't excuse anyone else's actions but it is not the actions of others we control only our own. Don’t want terrible things to happen don’t do stupid shit. Now consent is often blurred with the lines of alcohol so this is how I do it if you haven't had sex sober don’t have sex drunk with them.... If you agreed to have sex with someone and then changed your mind after that isn’t rape you just regret something and that is on you (been there, always think twice about sex) but if you’re having sex and want to stop and they do not.... that is rape a vaguer version but still. Ultimately sex is a very complicated intimate act (because you release some of the control that you have over your life) and while it should totally be fun!! remember always listen, know limits and likes beforehand and if you haven't had sex before with whoever and alcohol is involved best to not because you might turn around and find someone is accusing you of rape. In this instance, as you can tell by the long rambling post I resent being his first... to know that he felt like I took away his power, the loss of control... to be called a monster fills me with shame even though (and you can disagree) I DID NOT RAPE HIM. We had drunken sex and he regretted the blank space that should have been a wonderful memory of his first time... it was stolen from him. I understand the feeling of loss and betrayal of self yet I can not hold this on myself these are the decisions he made. I will hold this in my mind for eternity however as I should have been more aware... I shouldn't have been drunk that night...  what's a girl going to do? not worry about it I suppose. Humans make mistakes and we all have shame... sadly I have rape stories for days accused of rape, been raped, accused someone of rape (when I probably shouldn't have) I’ve had friends who have been raped, friends who falsely accuse others of rape, men who have been raped and women who are rapists (separate story feel free to ask)   .... rape comes in all kinds of variety... perhaps it is time to take away the stigma and just talk about our lack of communication that we have with our partners. But if we could also TALK ABOUT THE CREEPY GUY who got my number from my friend... who then harassed me for weeks with disturbing calls and texts before I blocked him ( I was ok though because I maintained control {sober-ish} and avoided him.... so many stories so little time.... feel free to chime in or ask questions I’m not exactly proud of this moment in my life but I am also not ashamed because at the end of the day he got on top of me and fucked me I did not force him... he made a decision he regretted later and that is not my responsibility. I can only be responsible for myself. all right outrage culture what do you have to say?