#NO ONE SAW ME MISGENDER MY OWN DRAGON OKAY

[tuxedo-floracat]

ahhh i'm so happy obelisk f noxtide is fixed and active now just waiting for dom discount to buy one for Olivine which I've wanted for her since day1 of unstatueing her...... been waiting on buying it for her just in case i didn't end up liking the corrected look on her since I wanted the color on her wings to get darkened and yep the fixed noxtide does just that!! (left is before, right is after)

and omg i just remembered i had another obby f with noxtide i totally forgot to check on them... Printty!!! oh wow they look so nice!! the fix ended up matching their outfit so well!?!? (left is before, right is after)

ahh i'm just so happy to see these genes finally getting fixed!!!!!

[youknow-i-loveit]

Why I Still Feel Like I Need To Ask Permission Before I Do Anything Ever

Randomly hit with the realization that my parents are still holding me back because they never taught me how to act with autonomy.

They never taught me how to be assertive or how to tell people things.

(They also wrecked my self-esteem, which was pretty horrible to begin with.)

My parents were very “do this because I told you to” authoritarian types who didn’t like to answer questions, and especially hated it when you questioned them. Questioning other authority figures was okay sometimes, depending on who the authority figure was, but my parents wanted to reign over their children with absolute power.

They generally had issues with needing to feel in-control. They didn’t have great role models for what it means to be an authority figure- my mom was the youngest, doted upon and spoiled for being the only girly-girl in the family, and by the time her parents had her (the eighth child), they were exhausted and distant, permissive, laissez-faire parents- and my dad grew up under an abusive military man who routinely beat his children, who used his voice as a weapon, and when he was at work, his wife ruled through manipulation, primarily guilt-tripping. Since my dad was the second of his six brothers, he was considered to have a better idea about how to deal with children, so my mom generally deferred to him, partly because of that, and partly because if my dad didn’t feel like he was in charge, he would make sure everybody felt miserable.

And as they say, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. My dad very much took after his father. He thought he was being toned-down and “gentle,” and bragged all the time about how he had it worse, making it sound like he was going easy on us. He often threatened to act more like his dad. But while I feel bad for him and his brothers and the abuse they endured, that gave him no excuse to abuse us the ways he did.

I could go on and on, but the point is, my parents didn’t know how to be in charge, but they felt that it was their god-given right to be in charge-- literally, they kept throwing “Honor Your Mother And Father” at us from the Ten Commandments.

My parents never admitted to being wrong. In fact, my dad hammered it in that being wrong was shameful and something that none of us should ever, ever do- ignorance was considered shameful, and if we ever dared utter the sentence “I didn’t know,” he would mock us, roar at us, and quite often, make references to that moment for the rest of the day, if not the rest of the week. It took me years to be okay with admitting that I don’t know things. To teach myself that learning should be fun and exciting, and that teaching others new information should be seen as an opportunity, not as a burden.

So my parents are proudly ignorant control freaks with an abusive streak, who want to rule with absolute authority; so far so great right?

My parents were strict Catholics who wanted us to follow their faith. They took us to church every Sunday. They enrolled all of us in Catholic school until they couldn’t afford the tuition anymore. They insulted anyone non-Catholic- even other Christians- calling them stupid and sinners and sometimes even “evil,” and considered anyone who attended Catholic church but didn’t adhere to their beliefs “not true Catholics,” so they were lumped in with the rest of the riffraff who were apparently going to hell.

We were allowed to question authority figures that didn’t adhere to their strict beliefs, and even encouraged to make fun of them, but if we ever dared to question someone who did, my parents informed us with cold, cutting certainty that we were making the wrong choice and were in danger of going to hell ourselves.

We grew up pretty sheltered. Our parents wouldn’t let us participate in most of the fads that swept up everyone else in our peer groups. It didn’t even matter when those peers were all Catholic kids attending our same Catholic school- my parents still thought their parents were making the wrong decisions, and we were effectively isolated from socializing with our peers. For a window into this, consider that I was forbidden from watching or playing Pokemon during the late 1990s. At recess, literally everyone else in my class would “play Pokemon,” whether that meant they were actually playing the trading-card game or whether they were pretending to be characters from the show. Since I wasn’t allowed to participate, I was left alone on the swings, accompanied only by one of the lunch moms who took pity on me. (Her name was Mrs. Stevenson. She was funny. I liked her. For Halloween, she wore an ugly holiday sweater with Froot Loops glued all over it and said she was a ‘cereal killer.’)

We weren’t allowed to watch Sailor Moon, or Rugrats, or Dragon Ball Z. We weren’t allowed to play with Furbies. We were allowed to accept Beanie Babies as gifts, but our parents were too poor to buy us any, so I think the most I had was about six.

We were also (wrongly) informed that people different from us were all stupid. I questioned this from a young age, asking why people were different, but instead of actually answering me, my mom would go “Exactly!” as though that settled that.

So when I asked why African Americans spoke differently or dressed differently or said things like “black pride,” I was told it was because they were entitled and because they thought they were special, but that they were foolish and wrong. It was only later, on my own, that I learned they don’t do these things to set themselves apart from the rest of society out of some weird petty desire to be special and different, but because we stole their culture from them, and they need to reclaim an identity that they can be proud of. The system is stacked against them, so every act of embracing their blackness is an act of rebellion against the system that tries to crush them every day. They speak differently because of where they live, because of history and culture that have shaped their words that way, and if their grammar is improper, that’s most likely due to underfunded school districts, but it could also be code-switching so they fit in with their peers.

And when I asked why anyone would be anything other than Christian if the Bible really was the word of God, and God was real, I was told it was because they’re too stupid or jaded to see the truth. So when my uncle came out as Muslim when I was a teenager, our family ostracized him, berated him, and made fun of him relentlessly behind his back, because we all thought he was stupid. It was years later that I became an atheist and I realized the questioning process he must have gone through, the philosophy he must have studied, the books upon books he must have read, the agonizing introspection he must have endured, all while living under his parents’ roof... 

We were told that we were smart. That we were important and special. 

But we were also taught that we were constantly on the razor’s edge of being undeserving of love or redemption.

Naturally, this caused me to form strong attachments to characters like Loki, Bucky, and the Beast from Beauty and the Beast- characters who others saw as monstrous, but who seemed worthy of redemption, who didn’t seem to deserve everything that was done to them, even as much as they blamed themselves or got down on themselves sometimes.

The constant messages of “you need to be perfect or else” and “you are a disappointment,” accompanied by my dad’s ridiculously high standards, made me desperate for approval. 

I sought favor with my parents nearly every day, but was so often disappointed- especially by my dad. Even when I’d done something I was really proud of, he’d find ways to poke holes in it, talk down to me, call me stupid, and ask something to the effect of why I’d made such a horrible decision.

So I started looking elsewhere.

Friends. Partners. Teachers. Professors. Therapists. Co-workers. Bosses. Other people’s moms. Members of groups I joined. Anywhere I could get it, I was (and still am) constantly thirsty for validation, praise, and approval.

My parents probably weren’t trying to do this, but they taught me to constantly second-guess myself. They taught me that I needed to ask for permission to exist.

One of the things that was brought up over and over again whenever one of us would upset Mom was that “she gave birth to you.” On one memorable occasion, my dad went into graphic detail about how exactly the birthing process worked. He made it sound like some sort of accomplishment, or personal favor, that I should be forever grateful and reverent towards. But I never asked for this. Giving birth was something she couldn’t avoid. I should have never been guilt tripped into feeling like I owed her something for it.

Whenever my dad was a certain flavor of upset, he’d bark “Get out of my sight!” We would flee to some far corner of the house, behind some closed door, and cry where no one could see. In that moment, he had ceased to give permission to exist in his presence.

So when I first came out as trans, I struggled a lot, because I felt like I constantly had to ask everyone around me for permission to be myself.

It’s tragic that, in retrospect, everyone would have respected me a lot more if instead of asking, I had simply told them who I am and then been myself. I should never have felt so timid, so cowed. I should never have felt like I owed anyone an apology for asking them to use my name and my pronouns.

I should have been free to be me.

But when I lived under my parents’ roof, I wasn’t free. I was forced to hide, to pretend. I was forced to let them deadname and misgender me. I was still forced to attend church until I moved out-- I got out of attending weekly mass by pleading that it was detrimental to my mental health, after being forced to attend masses as an atheist for over a year. But in order to keep a roof over my head, I was still forced to attend Christmas and Easter mass every year, and badgered to attend more masses at nearly every opportunity.

I had to lie about who I was dating too. I had to hide all the ups and downs- the euphoria of new crushes and new relationships, the agony and heartbreak of breakups or bumps in the road. I couldn’t ask my parents for advice navigating this extremely important part of my life. Instead I had to figure it all out on my own, and lie, and pretend they were my “friends.”

My parents made me feel as though I couldn’t do anything on my own.

So to this day, I still often feel like I have to ask for help or for moral support in order to get things done. Not everything, but anything that my partner could feasibly be involved in or have any opinion on whatsoever. Filling out forms, looking things up, buying food, scheduling our week.

And anything that I’m not 1000% sure my friends would invite me to, or anything I’m not 1000% sure they want me to do, I’ll hang back on or stay silent. Any sort of physical affection that I’m not 1000% sure is welcome, I’ll hold back on or I won’t even offer, because I’m so scared of rejection or retaliation. Any complaints that I have, I’ll run by someone else first, and sit on for often weeks or months before I bring it up, if I ever bring it up, because I’m so worried that someone’s temper will flare, or that they will grow cold and distant and cut me off from their affection/ attention/ presence.

My parents never taught me how to ask for things.

They never taught me how to tell people things, simple things, like “I’m going to the store,” or “I’m a guy actually,” or say “Oh, you’re going to meet up with a bunch of people I know? Can I come?”

I’m self-taught in a lot of things, but socializing is one of them.

And as I’m sitting here typing this, I’m waiting for my partner, because we have to get through a lot of paperwork and beaurocratic nonsense this week, and even though not all of it strictly needs to involve her, I still feel like I can’t do it on my own.

It’s okay to ask for help. That’s something I’ve had to get used to too.

But sometimes I worry if I ask for too much help. >_<

[whereiswere]

Travis Rogers did not know where to start. He had just killed his parents. His. Fucking. Parents! And he had no clue why! Sure, he had daydreamed about doing it before but he'd never actually go through with his daydreams! That's all they were. Daydreams. Or at least that's what they should have stayed. In a daze, Travis grabbed his emergency backpack and shoved the knife he used to just kill his parents in it, along with a couple of other knives. Oh god, his socks had blood on them. As did his shirt and boxers. He didn't have time to change! He had to go! He just shoved on some pants and shoes and grabbed a sweatshirt. Thankfully he already had two binders in his backpack, so although he wasn't wearing one at the moment he'd still have them wherever he ended up going. The small 16 year old snuck out the back door, even though it was the dead of the night he still felt eyes on him. Although maybe that was just his hallucinations. Fuck did he pack medicine? No time to check he had to go! Travis had run away from home before, and he knew the location of several abandoned houses, but the police had found him there before. He needed somewhere where no one would check... Oh god...that's really the only place, isn't it? Travis took a deep breath and headed in the direction of the forest where no one came back from. If he went to another city, they'd find him. If he went into the woods they would not. Rumor had it that there was something in the woods. Killing anyone who dared to set foot inside. Well, thought Travis. I just killed my parents...maybe I deserve to die? Get murdered, like I did to them? The shadows seemed to cackle at him and follow him, although he was pretty sure that happened to just be some of his hallucinations. Sometimes, he had reoccurring hallucinations, so he named them. He busied himself by thinking of them. Clockwork was his 'alarm clock' and wouldn't stop screeching until he got out of bed and tapped on its head. Travis liked to think of Clockwork as a girl, but he wasn't sure why. Clickity Clack was a robot like hallucination who made clickity clack noises when he moved. Clack was the most annoying of the hallucinations, but Travis couldn't bring himself to hate him. Scales was a dragon, and would randomly scream and roar. Scales liked to touch Travis, which not many other of the hallucinations liked or would do. Elf was a very short elvish looking creature, and Travis liked to imagine that Elf would be one of Santa's elves. If Santa's elves were pitch black and had fangs, at least. And finally... There was Stick. Stick was the most verbal out of all of them, including his random auditory hallucinations. Stick had to be at least 10 feet tall, and had a mainly humanoid like appearance. Although he was pitch black like most of the others, and had a tail. He was also skinny as fuck. Back when Travis had them all as imaginary friends, he'd named Stick, well, Stick because of his stick like appearance. That was before his doctors realized that he had schizophrenia and that his 'imaginary friends' were actually hallucinations. Travis took a deep breath. He was at the forest now. Once he entered... There would be no going back.

So he took a step. And then another. And another and another and another until he was running through the woods at top speed. They'd never find him. They couldn't. They wouldn't. Or at least that's what Travis hoped.

The small 16 year old took deep gasping breaths as he rested. It had been hours since he'd left his house. Hours since he murdered his parents. And he still had no idea why! In all his periods of rest, he still couldn't figure it out! He'd tried to talk to Clickity Clack but he'd never really been a talker. Clockwork was no where to be found. He wasn't hallucinating Scales or Elf. And Stick...Stick had been following Travis silently. In fact...Stick hadn't left since he'd reappeared after vanishing after woah okay that's too confusing a timeline. Stick was talking to Travis. Then Stick suddenly vanished. Then Travis had felt like he had very little control over his body. Then he'd murdered his parents. Then Stick had reappeared. And he hadn't said a word since he reappeared. Travis turned around to glare at his hallucination. "Got anything to say?" asked Travis, poison in his voice. He wasn't angry at Stick, more like he was angry with himself. Stick scratched his chin. "Don't touch that bush, its poison ivy." Stick pointed to the offending bush. Travis groaned and made an over exaggerated step around the bush. "Ta da!" Stick looked like he was going to say more, but Travis turned back around and continued walking. He heard Stick sigh from behind him but didn't turn around. Dumb hallucination.

Thinking back on things, Travis realized that he'd never actually seen Stick interact with his other hallucinations. Sometimes he'd even stand in the same spot as Clickity Clack or Scales and they'd just both stare at him. He'd never pointed it out, he'd just though that was their way of interacting. But now it was suspicious. Of course they were all just figments of his messed up mind, so why did it bother him so much? Travis would mention Clockwork or Clickity Clack to Stick and he'd just go along with it. Like he didn't know who they were. Then again, had he really seen Elf react to Clockwork's noise making in the morning? Back when they were thought to be imaginary friends, they'd interacted a lot more. But Stick never had. Travis was just thinking in circles now. He was also pretty sure that he was also walking in circles. It was hard to tell in a large forest.

After about the 100th time passing a tree, Travis noticed a bird, a baby bird with no feathers. Travis made a face and stopped to watch it for a while, taking note of a bird nest in the tree above it. Finally, Travis sighed and walked over to the poor baby bird. "Wa-wait Travis don't!" shouted Stick. It was too late though as one moment Travis was bending over to pick up the bird and the next he was hanging upside down from a tree. Travis spent the next minute in total shock. "What. The. Fuck?" screeched the small teenager. A sturdy rope was tied around Travis' ankle, holding him up by said ankle. There must have been some kind of trap by the baby bird...but why? And why so strong a rope? Travis allowed himself a couple moments panic before he looked at Stick. "...hey I can touch your hat now." Stick gave him the weirdest look. "That is not what you should be thinking about!" "What should I be thinking about then, figment of my imagination?!" "I-there's-oh fuck!" Stick brought up his clawed hand to ruffle his hair underneath his hat. He clearly looked distressed. "Hey do you think there's bears in this forest?" asked Travis. "No? Why?" answered the figment of his imagination. "Because this is one study rope. Clearly meant for things heavier then foxes," explained Travis. "Wait why am I explaining this to you? You're Caption Obvious! So tell me things I subconsciously noticed. What was the color of my first girlfriend's eyes?!" "...you've never had a girlfriend." "Damn it you're good..." Travis was getting bored now. Which was astonishing considering that he was fucking hanging from a tree awaiting certain doom by starvation or bears or something. So he began to swing back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. "Stop. You're going to break the branch or something," ordered Stick. Travis responded by giving him the middle finger. If he could've taken a picture of his hallucination he would have because Stick's face was priceless. Huh, maybe he should write his own comedy show. 'My Friends; the Shadows' would be a cool title. Man he really wished he had a journal right now...and some nachos...and a bathroom. There was a long list of things Travis wanted. There was a rustling in the bush, that was getting louder and louder. "Hey, is that the poison ivy bush?" "No, it's over there," Stick said, pointing in a different direction. "Ah man, I want my murderers to get poison ivy!" Then a tall pointy eared man and a smaller black eyed man stepped out of the bushed. The elf man had blackish brown hair and was wearing what appeared to be waiter's clothes. When he smiled at Travis he had a mouth full of fangs. The black eyed man had black hair and had a satchel slung over his shoulder. Travis blinked. His hallucinations hardly happened to people, but they were also rarely in color... Were these people real or pure hallucination? "Mmmm! Skinny white teenager for lunch! Yum yum!" said the tall elf man. Travis felt a pit of fear in his stomach. They were going to eat him? The fuck?! "Hey, remember our agreement. I get some of the vital organs for my collection!" said the black eyed man. Travis looked at Stick, then he looked at the weird cannibal and the doctor man. Then he looked back at Stick. The pair said some words that Travis was too busy having a mental breakdown to hear. Oh god he was going to die and he was going to be eaten. Oh fuck oh god what did he do to deserve this?! Oh wait, he murdered his parents...right. "Aw look at her face! She's so scared! So delicious looking~" That misgendering was enough to snap Travis out of his downward spiral. "Who the fuck are you calling a girl? Pussy!" There was a long silence... Said silence was broken by the cannibal laughing so loud that Travis swore he'd never be mad at Scales' loudness anymore. The doctor collector was unamused. "Cut him down Chef." "Ahhh, he's so funny! Can't wait to eat his flesh!" the cannibal, Chef, look out a saw and began to cut the rope. "Oh...I'm just going to fall and break my neck, am I? You pussy! Slay me with your hands!" shouted Travis. Chef considered this for a moment, though his back was turned to Travis so he couldn't read the chef's face. "Chef no--" "Chef yes!" cackled the cannibal. "Doc you cut him down I'll catch him and we'll have a bit of fun~" The doctor collector man, Doc, sighed but obeyed anyways, mumbling something about him still getting his organs. Stick was silent in shock for the most part, his pitch black face twisted in concern. Stick didn't like to talk much when others were around. He seemed to understand that Travis looked like a crazy person when he talked to thin air. The rope finally snapped, and Travis fell into Chef's arms, who immediately squeezed him so tight that Travis was pretty sure at least one of his ribs broke. He tried to breath but Chef just squeezed tighter. Travis had a vague though about Chef's hugs, but didn't pay much attention to it. He wasn't sure how much time had passed, he was aware of them moving to go to a place they called the Mansion, but not aware of much else. He was too focused on trying to stay alive.

Travis' vision was starting to black out completely when they arrived. It was apparently a shortish walk. Travis felt his blood run cold and his body go numb. Was this how he died? Being hugged by some clown of a cannibal? "Put him down Chef." Travis' body hit the floor, and he took many deep breaths, trying to both calm himself and figure out what happened. "Ah, why'd I have to do that?" asked a voice Travis vaguely recognized as Chef's. "I've been watching him," said a deep voice that sounded more like Travis' more demonic hallucinations rather then a human's voice. "He's about fifteen though, no offense boss," said the voice that belonged to Doc. "Hmm, and just killed his parents." Travis mustered enough energy to look up, and instantly regretted it. Before him, was something he'd only imagine would be in a horror film. A white scaled demonic humanoid with pitch black eyes and curly ram's horns stood before Travis. He appeared to be looking at Travis, but it was hard too tell with his pure black eyes. Travis didn't realize that he'd stopped breathing until his body screamed at him for air. "Ugh! So no lunch?" pouted the cannibal. "Not of the human kind, no," said the sharp toothed demon. Chef groaned but didn't complain further. Doc sat down in a corner and mumbled something about not getting his organs. "Now, now, why don't you come with me, young Travis?" Travis was so shocked that he could only accept the outreached hand of the demon to help himself up.