#My disability though mobility based does not put me in a wheelchair

[iamapoopmuffin]

Pokemon Gyms and whether my wheelchair user player character would be able to navigate them

Pewter City: Straight line on some cobblestones. Compared to the rest of this bullshit, this is luxury. Brock needs to come down off his staircase throne at the end of the corridor though.

Cerulean City: Yes. Mans can just scoot scoot around the edge of the pool. Misty has to come down to meet him though, she’s also on a staircase throne.

Vermilion City: Once he gets past the initial ‘what the fuck’ of the thunder barrier, as long as the bins are spaced out enough he’s fine. Doesn’t appreciate rummaging through trash though. At least mans isn’t on a staircase throne this time.

Celadon City: Depends entirely on how much tree is actually left after using cut.

Fuchsia City: He can make it through, but after about the third time of bumping into an invisible wall he’ll be real sick of this shit.

Saffron City: Runs entirely on little teleporters. Gucci.

Cinnabar Island: I never got to Blaine in LeafGreen but it looks like a straight shot.

Seafoam Island: Wouldn’t even be able to enter the gym in the first place. Can’t climb ladders.

Viridian City: Would probably develop motion sickness from all the spinning but I think he can navigate this one.

Violet City: I wouldn’t feel confident navigating the sharp turns 50 feet in the air walking, never mind trying to manoeuvre a chair through them. He can do it, but he won’t be at all comfortable.

Azalea Town: Stairs right at the entrance. Motherfucker.

Goldenrod City: Hard nope. Multiple steep staircases. Fuck you, Whitney

Ecruteak City: Morty, I love you, but the narrow walkway entirely in darkness over the void to hell isn’t exactly able bodied person friendly, never mind this-

Cianwood City: Another hard nope, those stairs look homophobic

Olivine City: Another straight walkway with an elevated leader. She’s definitely nice enough to meet him halfway too.

Mahogany Town: Ice gyms as a whole are bad. Not sure how well the chair will do on the ice (do you want to slip and skate or have traction?) and in Vernon’s case he is paralysed from the waist down so his lower body isn’t great at the whole temperature regulation thing. He’s definitely learning about winter’s harshness, thank you. Compared to the other ice gyms this one is pretty chill though.

Blackthorn City: The warning of unstable footing at the start is worrying, but the puzzle itself can be done.

Rustboro City: It’s all ramps until you get to the almighty stair throne, so okay. Also he’s absolutely stopping to look at the little museum.

Dewford Town: Give him enough room between all the exercise shit and we’re gucci

Mauville City: More of these random electric death walls? Eh whatever, the floor’s level at least. ... NEVER MIND I FOUND MORE STAIRS

Lavaridge Town: What the fuck. Fuck you.

Petalburg City: Doesn’t seem to pose any problem, yay!

Fortree City: I don’t think he’s getting in, dear.

Mossdeep City: Y’know what? All this floating around is pretty cool, actually

Sootopolis City: WALLACE YOU MOTHERFUCKER WHY HAVE YOU DONE THIS

Oreburgh City: Ah yes. Vernon’s actual home region serving him an immediate slap in the face with steep ass stone stairs. Wonderful.

Eterna City: Ahh, so peaceful, so chill, such a vibe. Maybe there is hope after all.

Veilstone City: Goodbye hope, hello whatever the fuck I have to push and a lot of stairs before you even enter the gym itself-

Pastoria City: Besides this being the weirdest fucking swimming pool I’ve ever seen, it’s another fuck you to wheelchair users. Though Vernon can swim, so if there’s a clear path from the entrance to the leader via the water he can make it, he’s just going to have to fight the battle soaking wet, in a swimsuit and on the floor.

Hearthome City: As long as you can do maths, you’re alright.

Canalave City: He can navigate it but those super speed lifts are giving him motion sickness for sure.

Snowpoint City: He’s dead now. He fell down the stairs right into the massive piles of snow and suffocated.

Sunyshore City: It’s another hard nope, and I had high hopes when I saw the catwalks-

Striaton City: No problem no worries, Hakuna Matata.

Nacrene City: As long as someone can get the books down for him he’s good.

Castelia City: Pushing through the gooey shit will be annoying but it is possible as long as it doesn’t gunk up the wheels too bad.

Nimbasa City: It’s possible, but only if someone brings his wheelchair round to where he’s getting off the rollercoaster, or the chair can go on the coaster.

Driftveil City: Lifts and scaffolding? Okay. Random staircase right at the very bottom? Not okay.

Mistralton City: The cannons themselves are fully disability friendly. The stairs are not. So close.

Icirrus City: I’m giving this one a no. Even without the stairs, that jump, the fuck? We’re not all stunt ready actors, sir.

Opelucid City: The path is narrow and winding, but it has cool trick ramps and that’s a win in Vernon’s book! But also there’s stairs so 0/10

Aspertia City: Straight shot with a stair throne. Cheren you patronising cunt, get your ass down here.

Virbank City: Stairs right at the beginning. They’ll never hear him scream.

Humilau City: Getting on and off the lilypads looks like a pain, it might be easier to swim it again. Also it looks like you need a lot of momentum to move those pads.

Santalune City: He’s fucking dead again.

Cyllage City: Grant what the French fried fuck is this?

Shalour City: Yeah no this is impossible. Sorry, buddy.

Coumarine City: WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS. I can't fucking do this shit with fully functional legs.

Lumiose City: Finally one we can fucking do. Thank you, puntable looking children.

Laverre City: The warp panels are annoying but mountable.

Anistar City: Trippy as fuck and totally doable!

Snowbelle City: Fuck this disco fuckery.

Turffield: Ignoring the stairs in and out (rage), we can handle herding some Wooloo. Git along lil tumbleweeds!

Hulbury: So anyway I don’t like Nessa-

Motostoke: So again ignoring the stairs in it’s totally doable-

Stow-On-Side: Can transfer in and out of the spinny cups, but someone has to bring the chair down while he does it.

Circhester: Fuck you and your pitfalls.

Ballonlea: OLD LADY HAS RAMPS YAY

Spikemuth: What a nice wheelchair friendly street!

Hammerlocke: I forget if you can actually get in the room, but hey it’s just double battles, sweet.

Cortondo: The olive roll is possible.

Artazon: May depend entirely on where the Sunflora choose to hide. The gym itself is elevated up some stairs though so...

Levincia: All you have to do is sit there and look at some cameras and look pretty for the fans.

Cascarrafa: The trek through the desert to get Kofu’s wallet back to him ain’t gonna go well, but this is supposedly not the usual pre battle challenge so ehh.

Medali: The stage at the treasure eatery is a whore but everything else is fine.

Montenevera: Once again, access to the stage and the gym itself are whores. He’s gonna pet all the ghost dogs though.

Alfornada: You just gotta make faces for this one, right? Surely any other exercises Dendra and Tulip give you should be able to be adapted for the disabled anyway.

Glaseado: Uhhh the snow slope run is done on the back of a Pokemon as far as I remember so it should be fine.

[handsomewrites]

Catching Up With The Fastball - Ch.3

broken mornings, broken nights, and broken days in between. open ground, the sky is open, makes an open sea.

There's really nothing to live for, any more. But there is lunch.

“This is the common area,” Dr. Ludwig introduced, pushing a wheelchair full of Jeremy through a pair of swinging doors. The walls and floors were white, just like all the walls and floors, but they’d tried to make it a bit homier with a seafoam area rug. There were some couches, and some tables, and some bookshelves, and a TV. “You can come here whenever you like, once you are more... mobile. Or call a nurse to help you into a chair.”

There it was. Jeremy sighed, leaning back in the chair again. There was no respite from the constant reminders of his new disability.

“I suppose you could grab some books and take them back to your room, as well, if you wanted?” the Doc suggested. He was trying, to his credit.

“Not much of a reader.” Jeremy glanced over to the TV. “Could come in and watch some stuff, though. What day is it?”

“Hmm? It’s Friday. Why?” The Doc wheeled his chair over by the couches and handed him the remote.

“The Sox play the Jays tonight and tomorrow. I guess I could watch that.”

“You like baseball?”

Jeremy shrugged. “Yeah. I tried to get the rec center to start a baseball team, but not enough people were interested.” He flipped the game on. The Red Sox were up by six. There was a familiar spark of excitement in his chest, but smaller than before, and as he watched the men run the bases, it faded back to the inky black suction that he’d been feeling there lately.

“I have never understood sports,” Dr. Ludwig admitted, taking a seat on the couch. “Perhaps you could teach me.”

“...Yeah. I could’ve, maybe.” He watched the players--his heroes, the men he’d aspired to be as a child--for a few moments more. He felt the Doctor’s eyes boring into the side of his face, so he tried his best not to betray any emotion as he turned the set off and tossed the remote to him. “Well. We should finish the tour, right?”

“Hm. Yes, I suppose.” Doc stood, brushed some imaginary dust off his pants, and moved behind Jeremy’s chair to roll him away. “This is a good place to socialize, as well. It may help you feel better.”

“How many times do I gotta say I feel fine? As soon as my legs heal up I can roll on home, Doc.”

“What about prosthetics?”

Jeremy shook his head. “Can’t afford ‘em. I’m sure there’s someplace that’ll hire me in this chair, yeah?”

The doctor was quiet for a moment, chewing the inside of his lip. “...Well. Perhaps put a bit more thought into the possibility. We work with insurance plans and have some affordable payment options. But you have time to discuss these things with your mother.”

“I don’t gotta discuss it with Ma, neither. I’m an adult, you know. You been treatin’ me like a baby all this time, but it ain’t ‘cause I can’t take care of myself--”

“I know, Jeremy, I know.” He patted the boy on his shoulder, and Jeremy deflated a bit. “It’s just my job, is all.”

Jeremy turned his head to watch the rooms go by. They were in a different wing of the hospital, headed towards some other room--so far, they’d seen the waiting room, the ER (well, the doors to the ER, anyway, since they weren’t allowed inside), the morgue (doors again), and the common room. He wasn’t sure how much more there could be to see. It had been more fun than sitting in his room all day, at least.

“These rooms are really nice,” he pointed out.

The Doctor hummed. “Yes. This is the cancer wing. Sort of our ‘pride and joy,’ they say.”

“You don’t sound so proud and joyful, Doc.”

The older man rolled his eyes. “Yes, well, this isn’t my area. I think there’s too much money here and not enough everywhere else, but, eh, hospital politics.” They slowed to a stop in front of an elevator, and the Doctor pushed a button.

“Wait, these rooms all got TV’s in ‘em!”

“Hospital politics,” the Doctor repeated, exasperation in his voice.

“Well fuck dat,” Jeremy huffed, and the Doctor laughed.

The elevator dinged, and the two men boarded it and rode skyward.

---

Turns out, the doctor was leading him to an unused operating theatre. He stopped Jeremy’s wheelchair by the door and allowed him to steer it himself, walking across the wide open room to look over the instruments. There was a little sparkle in his eye that his patient hadn’t seen before.

Jeremy followed behind him, albeit slower since he was still getting used to wheeling himself, and peeked up to see what he was looking at.

“What’re those?”

The Doc shrugged. “Medical tools. I doubt you’d want to hear me explain all of them.”

“Well you can explain some,” Jeremy prodded. “I’ll stop you when I get bored.”

Doc hesitated, but acquiesed after a few moments under Jeremy’s gaze. “Well, I’m sure you’re familiar with a scalpel,” he started, holding the tool in question up for a moment. “Then there’s the clamps, which are, you know... Clamps. They hold things.”

“What sort’a things gotta be clamped in an operating room?”

“Well, skin. You need something to hold it back and away. Sometimes you use them to hold wounds closed.”

“Ew.”

Doc giggled, which wasn’t a word Jeremy expected to apply to a man like the Doc, but it was cuter than a chuckle and smaller than a laugh. He also hadn’t expected to think the Doc cute, but the smile on his face definitely was.

“You’ve seen this before,” he said as he held up a curved needle. “It’s curved to make sewing flesh easier. Then this,” he held up what looked like a tiny pair of scissors, but with very tiny dulled blades, “is a pair of forceps. For grabbing.” Next he held up a fork with curved tines. “Retractor. For pulling fleshy bits aside. I prefer to use my fingers, but sometimes the space is too small, you know, to stick a finger in there, so you need something smaller to put in...”

Jeremy smiled a little at the Doctor’s enthusiasm, even if it was a bit... weird. He couldn’t imagine putting his fingers in a person’s organs, but Doc seemed to enjoy doing it.

He rummaged around in the drawers, humming. “Suction tubes pull blood out of the way,” he explained, “and--oh! Here are the bone drills!” He pulled out an intimidating looking device, grinning over at Jeremy.

Jeremy gave him a hesitant smile back. “You really dig this stuff, huh?”

Doc gave a hum, shrugging as he put the drill away. “Well, yes. I do. Surgery is my specialty. I sometimes wish I could do it more, but that’s not really a thing you can say to patients, is it?” He laughed, with a bit of a strange edge to it. Jeremy felt like he should probably be afraid of it, but he wasn’t. He laughed along with the Doctor, and he actually felt like smiling, for real.

“Hmmm. Yes, well. Are you hungry, Jeremy?”

“Huh? Uh, I guess I could eat.” He shrugged. “Not... You don’t have somethin’ squirreled away in here, do ya?”

The Doc laughed again, and it brought another small smile to Jeremy’s face. “No, no, of course not. I did think we could have lunch together, though. If you’d like?”

Jeremy shrugged again. “Sounds good to me. Lead the way, Doc.”

---

Lunch was... well, not terrible . It reminded Jeremy of high school cafeteria lunches: once-frozen chicken patties on almost-expired buns, with slightly soggy french fries and juice, not soda.

“I miss soda,” Jeremy lamented, looking at the juice can with a longing frown.

“You’ve only been awake for a few days without it,” Doc pointed out.

“Yeah, well, I usually drink, like, three a day.”

“That’s... terrible for your health. It will rot your organs from the inside and your teeth from your head, not to mention what the caffeine is doing to your heart--”

“Yeah, yeah, well. Somethin’s gotta kill me, right?” Jeremy shrugged, sipping his juice.

Doc just frowned. “I suppose we all have our vices,” he acquiesced.

“Even you, Doc?” Jeremy smirked, and Doc rolled his eyes.

“Yes, even me.” His patient wiggled his eyebrows, and he scoffed. “I doubt you really want to hear about what sort of habits I’ve acquired over the years. I’d rather talk about you, actually.” Jeremy seemed to deflate a little, but Doc pushed forward nonetheless. “What does your mother do? I haven’t seen her come by as often as she used to.”

Jeremy gave an owlish blink, taken off-guard by the question. “Oh. I thought you were gonna talk about, like... medical stuff. Like my legs or whatever.” Doc shrugged. “Well, uh. She works at Kroger’s most, and also at Sears, but she had to get an extra job and a few more shifts to pay for...” He waved his hand vaguely. “What, you into my Ma?”

Doc snorted. “Not at all. I just was wondering where she’d gone, is all. Any siblings?”

“Seven, actually.” At the doctor’s surprised look, Jeremy laughed. “They’re all older,” he explained, “and most of ‘em have moved away. Nicky’s still nearby-- he has a wife, but no kids.” He started counting off on his fingers. “Then there’s Finny teachin’ at a college upstate, Billy in the military, Vick in jail, Ronnie who owns a bar, Tony who’s a stay-at-home dad now, and Donnie wit’ his garage.”

“Gracious. Your mother is a... tenacious woman.”

“That’s one way’a puttin’ it,” Jeremy agreed with a snort. “She just... has a habit of hookin’ up with the wrong kind’a guy, you know? An’ she thinks it’s gonna last, an’ they end up hurtin’ her.” He frowned into his juice. “I try to tell her, but she don’ listen.” A few moments passed, then the boy looked up from his drink with his smile back in place. “But yeah. Eight boys. Two of ‘em are twins, too. Lord knows we didn’t make it easy for her, neither.”

“I’d imagine,” Doc said with a laugh. “Children are hellions when they aren’t in a pack like yours.”

“Plus we had all that energy holed up in a lil apartment in the city,” Jeremy added. “She’s a good Ma, though. Always tried real hard for us.” He trailed off, then seemed to remember something. “Hey, can I ask you questions back?”

“Sure, I suppose, though I can’t always promise you answers.” Jeremy frowned, and Doc shrugged. “I’m sure there are things you wouldn’t tell me, aren’t there?”

“...Alright, that’s fair, I guess. But, uh, howcome you got so much time to hang around me?”

Doc hesitated for a long time. “How do you mean?”

“Like, you got other patients, donchu? Shouldn’t you be, like, busy?”

“Well...” He hummed. “The short answer is, ah, no? You remember how nice the cancer wing was, yes?” Jeremy nodded. “Well, that’s this hospital’s specialty. Cancer. Specifically, bone cancer, as well as bone and blood diseases such as sickle cell. People come to this hospital from around the world to seek treatment for these things. But I’m a trauma surgeon, with a specialty in reconstruction and orthopedic. And I’m not the only trauma surgeon, so it’s sort of like we’re sharing the few trauma patients among us, and most are in and out...

"Plus, I like you. You have a lot of..." He continued, idly motioning with his hand as he searched for the right word. "Spirit."

Jeremy had a light dusting of a blush across his cheeks, and though he didn’t betray the fact that he noticed it, Doc thought it brought out the light freckles on his cheeks very nicely.

The Doc looked at him seriously, but with a softness in his features. “I want to help you find your spirit again.”

Jeremy was quiet for a while, staring at his empty tray. He didn’t look up when he spoke again. “...Sorry, Doc. My... spirit... was running. Running was what I did, it was what made me happy. But now I can’t even walk . Maybe we could make prosthetics work, but just one pair, not enough to have them sporty ones, you know? So it’s just... over.” He shrugged, then looked up at the Doctor, a weak smile on his face, his eyes dull. “Sometimes I think it’d be better if... I dunno. Ma’s in all this debt. I don’t really got anything, now. I just wish everything had happened different... Maybe Ma’d be good with seven kids.”

With that, he rolled his chair back from the table, grabbed his tray and clumsily rolled his way over to the trash can. Doc sighed, leaning his cheek on his hand and his elbow on the table. He pushed his fries around on his tray with a plastic fork, thoughtful.

Only a few moments passed before he saw Jeremy wheeling back over to his table. “Uh, that would’a been a cool exit and all, but I don’t actually know how to get back to my room from here. So, uh. If you could...” He scratched the back of his neck.

Doc smiled and stood with a nod. “Of course.”

[emotionalcarousel]

Using Mobility Aids with Fibromyalgia & Chronic Fatigue Syndrome

Yes, It Feels Weird. No, That Shouldn't Stop You.

By Adrienne Dellwo

Updated September 28, 2018

Do you feel weird when you think about using a cane, or eye the motorized carts they have at stores and other places? You shouldn't, and I'm going to tell you why that is.

First, though, I totally understand why it feels strange. When you have fibromyalgiaor chronic fatigue syndrome, you generally can still use your legs. They stiff, but they move just fine, right? It might hurt, and it might wear you out, but you're able to walk. Society has us all conditioned to think that mobility aids are for people who are "really" disabled, such as those with paralysis or severe injuries like a broken leg, or perhaps someone recovering from hip-replacement surgery. You know, people who can't walk.

Same goes for handicapped parking spaces—if you're not in a wheelchair or on oxygen, most people think you shouldn't be parking there.

Our Image of "Disabled"

The thing is, society's image of what "disabled" means is really messed up. Those of us living with chronic, disabling illnesses need to recognize that and move beyond it.

Why? Because things are specifically available to help you live your life a little better, and you shouldn't deny them to yourself based on other people's ignorance.

Yes, someone might look at you funny when you walk up and climb in a motorized cart at the grocery store. But is that person going to push your cart and unload the bags for you when you get home? No. Does that person have the right to judge you? No. Should you tailor your actions to that person's taste, when it means increased symptoms and misery for you? No!

Once again, the answer to all of those questions is a resounding "NO!" Those carts are there for people like us, who need a little help to get through the task. Think about it: do people who arrive at the store in a wheelchair use those? No, they brought their own! The very purpose of those is to help people who aren't in wheelchairs but can't easily walk through the store.

If someone questions you, tell them that. Or tell them your health problems are none of their business and go about your day. Or tell them off. Or tell them you hope they're fortunate enough to never need that kind of thing. Tell them whatever you want, but don't let them stop you from using it. They're jerks.

Getting Over It & Getting Stuff Done

The first couple of times I used a cart, I felt like a fraud. I felt like I was taking something away from people who were worse-off than me. I remember being in a busy big-box store two weeks before Christmas, feeling rushed because I hadn't been able to handle a shopping trip for the previous month. People would glance down at me skeptically, or avoid looking at me completely. I felt simultaneously conspicuous and invisible.

But do you know what happened? I got my Christmas shopping done. It was a huge relief. Without the cart, I wouldn't have been able to do it—and not because anything was wrong with my legs. At that point, exertion was causing horrible abdominal pains and severe brain fog that would put me on the couch for days. The cart spared me that, so my children got Christmas presents.

On top of fibromyalgia, I have sclerosis (hardening and fusing) in the sacroiliac joints, which are near the base of the spine and help transfer your weight when you walk. At times, it's intensely painful and it can make walking a real problem. To my dismay, I realized that I needed a cane at those times.

The feeling of using a cane, when I was in my 30s, was entirely different from using the cart at the store. My severe limp made it obvious that I had a problem, and it's not like I was taking something away from someone else who might need it. In that case, it was pure vanity. I simply didn't want to use a cane like an old woman! Again, it was something I just had to get over. It took time, but I got to where I was okay with it.

I haven't had anyone made rude comments over my use of a mobility aid. The one I keep expecting is something about how I'd be able to walk better if I lost weight. My planned response to that is: Did you ever stop to think that my weight could be the result of the pain and not the cause?

A Word From Verywell

No one wants to stand out because of disability. It's hard to get over the impulse to pretend nothing is wrong, try to blend in, and worry about what people think. In the end, though, we need to take care of ourselves and manage our illness(es) in the best way possible. You shouldn't have to suffer because some idiots don't get that.

[anautisticdragon-blog]

On Conversing with the Unusual

In my last post I talked about how much I liked the McElroys, and why (which is important to read before this), but I'd like to expand on that with why this whole thing bothered me so much. As I said, as a person who endures an invisible prejudice, I've become very sensitive to all kinds of prejudice.

I know it might sound absurd to think that mentally disabled people really do experience so much hatred, but we do. The thing is? There's no skin colour to unify us, no gender, no obvious physical marks of our supposed deficiencies; so we're not a homogenised factor. When you add in the oddly individualistic personalities autistic people can have, and how different two autistic people can be fro one another (far more so than I've observed in neurotypicals)? This all adds up to something ugly.

Usually people need something simple they can grasp to grab ahold of in order to understand the injustices a person is suffering. As I said, this will so often come down to reductivism -- their skin is black, they're old, they're in a wheelchair, et cetera. In fact, people are so used to having that criticism levelled at them that they'll often snap back at anyone whom they think is being reductivist. I remember on the Battleborn community I mentioned how pleased I was with the treatment of a character who had a notable disability. I got a very angry response.

You see, it was assumed I was talking about Kleese. It was reductivist to say that because he had full use of his body and faculties, so his chair was instead more of an old person's aesthetic, the lazy chair, rather than something required for his mobility. This would be a fine argument, of course, were I even actually talking about Kleese. I was, instead, referring to Benedict. When I pointed this out, it actually took a good number of people a while to wrap their brains around this, as to why I viewed Benedict as a disabled character. Not much introspection in the world, these days.

Thumbs up to you if you've already figured this out. If you hadn't rushed off to look up pictures of Benedict, I'll give you this: He lost part of a wing, it's relevant to his character and origin story. It's been replaced by cybernetics, but it doesn't work nearly as well as his original. He can hover and glide, but no longer fly. Yes, he still has the use of all of the limbs a human would consider to be important, but what of his wings? I suspect of those reading, more will have twigged on now to where I'm going with this. Yeah?

Consider a world where flight is an everyday occurrence. Just imagine it. Would it be likely for there to be stairs, lifts (elevators), escalators, and so on? If everyone can fly, the living space would likely be much more vertical with an emphasis on building things in higher places. Birds do this as an instinctive factor, there's less danger above than there is on the ground, so I'd imagine that much as how we've adopted instincts from our simian ancestry, they adopted factors from their avian heritage.

And what if a person in such a world could no longer fly? Certainly, there would be the equivalent of ramps (lifts for disabled people), but it would be seen as something they have to grudgingly use because they've no other choice. Others might look at them funny, start treating them differently, since they're no longer "the same" as the rest of society. It's always the case that neurotypical society rewards homogeneity, the status quo, and an earnest effort to uphold the Zeitgeist.

Often, neurodiverse people are told that in order to survive in a world "owned by neurotypicals," they have to behave, act, and fit in as them. They have to assimilate into neurotypical culture. When your nature is as contrary to homogeneity as an autistic person's is, however? That can be really bloody tricky. And even for those who even care to make that effort in the first place, the body language and smalltalk are so irritatingly tricky to emulate that cracks in the facade will shine through. Which is why many will simply choose to not bother -- opting to be a hermit or merely accepting the inevitable, that they're always going to stand out no matter what.

I noticed that Benedict, that Battleborn character, was unduly obsessed with both flight and his wings. This can happen with someone who finds theirself newly disabled, or discover that they have a disability. There can, for a time, be an unhealthy fixation upon this fact as it separates them from the rest of humanity. They haven't yet come to accept that they're different and that there really isn't a lot they can do about it, so they haven't come to terms with who they are and that perhaps there's nothing they need to do about it in the first place. Some, possibly due to a lack of introspection and self-awareness, may never arrive at this point.

So consider my reaction to a fantasy world.

I like insects. I like snakes. I mean, of course I do. I love wolves. It's probably quite obvious that I like dragons. So, that lich... Is it really a malignant evil or simply a downtrodden individual chased from society for having no choice other than to exist outside of the norm? I mean, consider this. It's a little jovial and facetious because that's my nature when I'm trying to help people understand something, but it's what I want you to think about. It's a very Pratchett-esque perspective. More people should read Discworld.

Anyway... A townsperson spots a gathering of undead, accompanied by moaning, shambling, and strange, fel lights that seem to ebb, flow, and bob around with wanton abandon. The immediate assumption is that this is an undead invasion! The reality, however, is that the spirits of the dead were feeling restless and pestering a nearby lich to raise them so that they could have something of a party. They wanted him to throw together a shindig, since it's nice to get out of one's grave every now and then.

The lich resisted, initially. "You know how they'll react," he bemoans, listlessly. "It'sss alwayss the saaame with them. It'sss an undead horde! It'ss an invaaasion! They're going to eeat our braaainss. Have you ever tassted brains? They're grossss... I don't know of aaany undead that even eeat brainsss. Do you? Didn't think ssso. They'll sssee the lightss, hear all of you chuckleheadsss yukking it up and I'll have another paaarty of blasssted adventurersss on my hands again."

It's an empathetic lich though. It's not nice to be stuck in the ground all the time, especially when you really don't want to be. So he rises the dead, puts together this wild party for them, and everyone's having a great old time. Then the adventurers turn up and what do you think happens next?

Perhaps if this were The Adventure Zone, maybe good things! Sadly, most people aren't like that. And most tales told aren't, either. It's really quite the depressing state of affairs, quite sordid and unfortunate, that we can't envision something that's inhuman as anything other than evil. When I say "we" I do of course mean neurotypicals. I don't have that problem. They seem to have it Universally, though.

"It's aesthetically displeasing. It's evil! KILL IT WITH FIRE!"

And they never really question it, do they? They never stop to think about it. Like I said, there's just a general lack of self-awareness and introspection amongst neurotypicals. Not a whole lot of Theory of Mind to go around, there, I feel. They are sorely, sorely lacking in that department.

So, these gnolls have amassed a small pile of gold by hunting, tanning, and preparing hides to sell to traders who'll then sell them in human cities. "They came from a nomadic group of noble savages, humans, of course. No gnoll merchandise here!"

Then one of the merchants gets a little bit clever, he cooks up a cockamamie cock-and-bull story about how these gnolls jumped him, killed his guards, and robbed his caravan blind. His last stop was at an opulent port city with riches to spare, says he, and his wagons were overflowing with gold. "Oh, I just knew I shouldn't have passed through the fallow glades, but I was trying to make good time to get here before the market! You know how it is..."

A witless, hapless troupe of murderers under the job description of ‘Adventurer’ decide to... investigate this terrible crime. They find a small encampment of gnolls with a marginally sizeable pile of gold. What do you think happens next? Isn't it depressing? And how often do you think you're lied to by quest-givers in video games, had you considered with ho much regularity you could be being manipulated by bandits, thieves, and excessively avarice-laden, filthy rich autocrats?

How often is it that these "monsters" are simply acting in self-defence. Indeed, how often does an adventurer charge in slashing their blades before so much as a by-your-leave. Not even a how-do-you-do? No, you were given a quest by a human and the antagonists of this narrative aren't humans so naturally they're the evil ones, here. No need to even bother with an investigation, why even bother conversing? What use is reason?

And it just feels grotesque.

I mean, it's just another expression of prejudice, isn't it? A normalisation thereof. If a right wing mendicant can't be permitted to slag off real world groups, they can commit murder and genocide against fantasy creatures for the mere sin of what they were born as. I don't like that. I'm sorry, I really don't like that at all. I think that's awful. I think that a good narrative should always dictate good or evil based upon one's personality and what drove a given soul to be who they are and do what they do by that point. It's inexcusable laziness (and worse) to put it down to a species.

And maybe I would like to have a chat with these liches, these dragons, and these gnolls. Whatever sorts of creatures regularly blunder in on and slay without ever really thinking aobut it, honestly. I might find like-minds. It might just be that these creatures consider themselves an abused underclass, seen as sub-people, troglodytes who're just there for "glorious humankind" to besto its "infallible justices" upon.

That dragon stole your prize bull? Did he? Are you sure? See, I bothered to investigate and I found out that actually it was one of your competitors who did the deed before the next farm show. You're apparently edging them out of all their fields and cutting into their profit margins so they wanted to humiliate you a little. It was the "perfect crime," kidnap your bovine under the cover of darkness and then spread rumours of the local dragon having a taste for domesticated beef. Your negligence might've cost that dragon his life. There's always someone out there who'd be happy to have just about any excuse to slay a dragon and steal his hoard.

I don't know. I just find that I empathise and connect with these creatures who constantly seem to be the targets of never-ending persecution. Is there that much of a difference between Jews and fantasy gnolls? Whilst that might sound offensive, it's because it really is. Fantasy racism is just another analogue for what happens in the real world, and I find it... I don't know. I find it oddly distasteful. I don't like it. I don't like neurotypicals, I guess.

And the thing is? That's the norm. I can cite exceptions, anyone can, but they're so few and far between that they're the exceptions that prove the rule. For example: Phantasy Star had an option where you could try and converse with the creatures you'd encounter. And I thought that was incredibly nifty! I could glean useful information from these friendly, giant spiders just by being genial and polite to them. Imagine that! How many games offer that as an option, though?

How many games can you think of that actually give you the chance to converse with inhuman creatures as opposed to just slaying them? I bet you can't go beyond just your fingers with the examples you can actually come up with. I know I can't, and I have a very extensive knowledge of video games, I've played the vast majority of them over the course of the decades I've spent on this planet.

And that's why people like me are fit for derision, because this is an uncomfortable truth about the ugliness of people. An ugliness that I don't possess. As I said in a prior post, I'm quite the quasimodo so I've ugliness to spare, but this particular flavour of it isn't my own. And with this bizarrely homogeneous, almost hive-like way that neurotypicals look at themselves, this reflects badly on every last one of them. So they have to defend despicable actions rather than owning them, which is the "norm."

And another day's lesson on why I don't like neurotypicals very much, nor am I all that fond of the video games made obviously for them. If they were made for me? Empathetic discourse, with a basis in reason, would be a way to solve most problems. I mean, there was New Vegas and that was lovely, but sadly not a huge amount of non-human life in that one. I guess that reason is only okay when it's human and beautiful, right?

You know, those oh so desirable qualities. White... Beautiful... Straight.. Healthy...

Point made? Yeah. I'd hoped so.

So, as I said in my last post? I'm happy that Travis wanted to converse with the voidfish. That's a very non-neurotypical thing to want. I admire that.