#humiliating social faux pas

[jimmypesto]

me: :)

me remembering the songs I would put on in the car in high school if anyone let me have the aux: :(

[imeverywoman420]

Men think that cheating on your wife is like. A social faux pas. And not an incredibly sadistic selfish evillll evil evil action. Especially if youre famous. You have to have CONTEMPT for your wife if youre a famous man and you cheat on your wife like the public humiliation. Its so transparent when men are like “but. But its not problematic!!! There was no power dynamic it was consensual!!” Your wife didnt consent to being cheated on. Why are you literally not addressing the fact that you don’t respect your wife or view her as worthy of any emotion higher than absolute contempt. You cannot accidentally cheat or make a mistake. Cheating is malicious. There is no situation where you need to cheat on your wife. Jerk off like a normal person if its a sex thing i legitimately dont know what to tell you. Theres no situation where cheating isnt an act of absolute malice lol.

[the-girl-with-the-glass-heart]

Sanders sides theory: Logan's eyes turning orange when he got angry was a misdirection and orange is actually guilt/shame/embarrasment

Allow me to explain:

Thomas posted a picture on his insta story from a ted talk and said he was "doing research" and fanders found out what it was about.

The ted talk was about how vulnerability and weakness are not the same, we are taught that being open about how you feel is something to be embarrassed about and that guilt is natural but shame is not.

What is the one consistent emotion thomas has felt talking to nico other than love or joy? What feeling do you think Roman gets whenever patton points out his poor thinking? Why didnt thomas just talk to lee and mary lee about the wedding? What's the main symptom of constant low self esteem (something Logan said thomas struggles with all the time)? Why do the sides struggle to admit their flaws and talk about their feelings? How does thomas feel when he asks himself if he's truly a good person? Embarrassed, Humiliated, guilty, ashamed.

Now how do you feel when you are ashamed or guilty? Do you feel like the whole world is watching you, almost like a giant pair of glowing eyes are watching your back? Hell, even in the great gatsby the eyes on a billboard are meant to represent the eyes of god watching down on everyone.

Thomas himself has said hes a religious man and its clear that shame he felt for remus's thoughts permanently seperated the parts of his imagination.

But how could this possibly tie into logan screaming at remus? If the orange side isn't wrath why did he even show up when Logan got angry? Well hear me out, it wasn't the anger that made him show up.

It was logan's shame at the anger that did.

Logan has consistently shown he prides himself on being calm ans collected compared to everyone else, he is logic, he is reasonable, and he is meant to be taken seriously.

So if you were Logan and you found yourself being so upset that you have an out of control out burst from something as petty as not being given any attention, as if you were some crying child on an airplane who needed to be coddled. ESPECIALLY from remus, the side who literally thrives from attention and can only be beaten by being ignored and absolutely no one would ever take seriously, how would you feel? I reckon you'd feel pretty ashamed of yourself.

Heck, what is the common ground between intrusive thoughts, anxiety and self preservation? shame.

Virgil is afraid of the humiliation you could experience from any number of horrifying social faux pas you could do and remus's intrusive thoughts are a huge cause of thomas's guilt.

Now this is all great but if Orange really is shame then what greater function could he serve to thomas? All the sides have good in them, even remus, logan even says that at one point.

I believe orange would be there to show that Thomas's action have consequences, if there was no guilt or shame imagine how well Patton's morality would work.

Would thomas even want to apologize anymore? Would he even care to stop somebody like remus? You can teach some one as many morals as you want but if you don't have a reason to have them then they won't work.

Heck, what was the episode we got the secret hello message? The episode all about feeling bad when you don't put others first!

I imagine the season finale will finally confront thomas's guilt and low self image and all the sides will finally come clean about how awful they truly feel causing orange to show up, then when orange shows up we can properly explore two very important things.

1. When properly and fairly holding yourself accountable ends and hating yourself begins.

2. What really happened when remus and roman became distinct identities (i'm not saying king creativity is cannon, i'm just saying it would be an exploration of what ever happened when remus was sent away.).

Hell, if the spit was a real thing that really happened and orange is guilt than its fairly reasonable to assume HE caused the split, not patton or Logan like most people think.

Remember the old hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil theory?! Well you know what pose people usually strike when they're embarrassed or humiliated, they cover their eyes in shame and wince at the thought of seeing their own cringey bullshit.

It's literally perfect.

I could always be wrong though of course, but i do think this is a relatively sound theory with some evidence on it.

As much as i love the idea of wrath/greed orange, guilt orange would be such an interesting character, but more importantly, imagine the fucking angsty uwu soft boiness we will get.

But thats just a theory, a sanders sides theory! Annd cut.

[cchapsticck]

RED ATMOSPHERES rcd. 1995 (19469 words) by cchapsticck Chapters: 11/14 Fandom: Stranger Things (TV 2016) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson Characters: Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson, Robin Buckley, Dustin Henderson, Original Characters Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Vignette Narrative Structure, POV Eddie Munson, Gay Eddie Munson, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Developing Relationship, Long-Distance Relationship, Genre Microcelebrity Eddie Munson, Multimedia, Journalistic Narrative Structure, Interviews, Unreliable Narrator, Getting Back Together, Getting to Know Each Other, The Brutality Of The Passage Of Time, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Jealousy, poor communication, Mental Health Issues, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm Series: Part 3 of METALHEAD Summary:

“That’s really great!” and she kind of gives him a little cheers with her blue speckled mug, realizes what she’s done, and goes through like. Every humiliation, oh my god you fuckin’ doofus, adjacent inwardly pointed emotion.

“Oh my god drink your fucking coffee, Buckley.”

“Is it rude as hell? Shit I didn’t even think about it…”

it all bursts out of her like she’s been holding in the question this whole time, unclear on the tact factor of the asking and its started to physically pain her to keep it down.

“I promise you, it’s not the first cup of coffee I’ve pined away for from afar and it certainly won’t be the last.”

She kind of hovers around it as it sits on the table, hands kind of twitching to make for it or not like she’s not sure if it’s a trap. Frozen in her own anxiety about committing some unforgivable social faux pas in front of the reigning king of social faux pas. And like, he appreciates her concern. Like actually. There’s a lot of shit he’s got to keep off limits if he’s going to like. Commit to the bit. And he catches himself sometimes, its little things, coffee, cold medicine, poppers (which like, yeah but also like, y'know) fucking benadryl. It sneaks up on him some days, the consequences, so Robin trying to go easy on him? Its nice. He appreciates it, actually. Its one of the most thoughtful gestures extended to him in years.

But also like. Jesus.

“Holy shit Robin, you’re going to give me an aneurysm.”

And she just like. Slams half a mug of nuclear hot diner coffee out of spite or reparations who the fuck knows.

[niobefurens]

Actual People.

The Abyss: Seeking Permission Through Onscreen Humiliation

For femme triple threats—actors/writers/directors—the subject of humiliation, embarrassment, and debasement is both limiting and empowering.

Long, Interesting.

•

09 NOV 2023

Actual People (Kit Zauhar, 2021).

—Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov

Humiliation is one of humanity’s cruelest jokes, one of its most repugnant punishments. The Latin root of the word, “humus,” translates to “earth,” or “dirt,” the idea that a person loses dignity and returns to something inhuman, crude and trampled on. The fear of being humiliated is a specter persuasive enough to shrink whole personalities, curtail ambitions, end life as someone knew it. Many mainstream filmmakers avoid its narrative possibilities because, maybe, to degrade a character would mean to degrade the film itself. I don’t think that’s the case. To see humiliation depicted onscreen can be like witnessing a corpse flower blooming: compelling, strange, beautiful; yet you’re very glad you’re not in the room during its unfurling.

I’ve always been drawn to films that allow the power of humiliation to overcome a character; my filmmaking in both ambition and practice have been shaped by my yen to explore this unspoken taboo. And I’ve discovered several role models in quest who shared my goals, my ethos, even my gender. When I looked at the debuts of the femme filmmakers I admired, I found that many of them wrote, directed, and starred in the projects that helped launch their careers. So I did it as well. And I did find some validation with my first feature Actual People (2021), in which I play a “faildaughter,” a young and often middle-to-upper-middle-class femme protagonist who is a bit of a virtuoso when it comes to self-humiliation. When confronted with challenges (ones that are notably padded by a level of financial security), the faildaughter will zig when she should zag, have weird and sad sex when she should abstain, and quit like a coward when it’s not even that taxing to persevere (the most popular example is probably Phoebe Waller-Bridge's eponymous Fleabag, whose adventures in incompetence were not only compelling, but relatable).

At the beginning of a filmmaker’s career, there are fewer eyes on their projects and therefore little to no expectations, bringing about the chaotic combination of more creative freedom with few people who want to be involved. This leads to some artists, either brazenly or defiantly, jumping into the role of the “triple threat,” meaning that they write, direct, and star in their own film (I’m co-opting this phrase from theater, in which the term refers to a performer who can act, dance, and sing).

A New Leaf (Elaine May, 1971).

On the other much longer end of the spectrum, there were the male triple threats who came in the form of charismatic cowboy legends (Clint Eastwood), neurotic intellectuals (Woody Allen, Nanni Moretti), mumblecorers like Joe Swanberg and Andrew Bujalski, and legends like Orson Welles and Charlie Chaplin. The range of the masculine triple threat seems endless; they’ve been heroes, lady wooers, assholes, good-intentioned guys, lovable normies, leeches, losers, sometimes all within one movie. And they continue to be. 

This is not true for many, most, of the contemporary woman writer/director/actors. Each of their worlds and their bodies in their worlds tell a more unified story: more often than not, a story of embarrassment, social faux pas, ungraceful but earnest attempts to assert their importance in a world that seems to not want anything to do with them. Particularly, the films that begin a femme triple threat’s oeuvre feel like they were born out of a singular primordial organism, squirming, writhing, already mortified at the prospect of being alive on this earth.

In A New Leaf (1971), pioneer Elaine May’s first film that she writes, directs, and stars in, she plays a bumbling cash cow, easy prey for a narcissistic and soon-to-be-broke buffoon. Issa Rae was first the “Awkward Black Girl,” constantly and gracelessly in distress. In Me and You and Everyone We Know (2005), Miranda July’s unnerving portrayal of an aspiring video artist bares her tenderness like an open wound for the world to prod at. Of course, there’s Lena Dunham, first getting fucked in a construction tube in Tiny Furniture (2010) by a guy who is somehow insidiously nonchalant, then in Girls (2012-2017) wading in the tepid bathwater of shame, lingering in it till she shivered with cold. 

Watermelon Woman (Cheryl Dunye, 1997).

In many of these films, there’s a self-reflexive, almost meta quality to the narratives. The protagonists are seen lurching through life in search of meaning and acceptance, simulating, we assume, similar struggles to those of the real-life filmmaker. At the same time, the artists seem to view the act of filmmaking itself as a means of self-searching and self-definition, a process of translating their lived experiences into something with technical and emotional resonance. Desiree Akhavan’s Appropriate Behavior (2014) explores a desperate and delusional Brooklynite going to great lengths to win her ex back, playing a woman so embarrassing even her family winces at her antics. Cheryl Dunye’s Watermelon Woman (1997) shows a young, aspiring filmmaker invalidated by the faux liberalism of racist academia, navigating a dead-end job, and enduring the cringe-inducing scrutiny of her interracial relationship. Joanna Arnow’s work, including her short film Bad at Dancing (2015),and her recent fiction feature debut The Feeling That the Time for Doing Something Has Passed (2023), put her deadpan persona front and center of all manners of sexual, social, and even familial debasement in the name of trying to understand where and how she fits into the various communities and relationships she sees as making the mundanity of her life worthwhile. A review in IndieWire by Ryan Lattanzio characteristically cites her “willingness to degrade herself on camera.” 

This all seems counterintuitive if you want to establish yourself as an auteur worth investing in. This promise of a big future has unfortunately become the primary marker of a successful debut: not necessarily what has been accomplished but how quickly your larger and more expensive follow-up is announced. If that’s the case, why would a femme triple threat not position themselves as some kind of glamorous maneater, a very “strong and powerful” lady, or at least some pensive ingenue who the camera always seems to catch in the most soft and flattering lighting? We know that actors are not their characters, but the boundaries of identity become blurrier when the actor is writing the part for herself (and oftentimes there is a level of auto-fictitiousness to the plot). And unfortunately, I don’t think the world is ready for a woman triple threat who makes films about how amazing her onscreen personas are. I think, actually, that woman would receive a record-breaking number of death threats. But women still need to make movies, and they still need to be seen. 

When I considered the emotional scaffolding of my character in Actual People, I knew that the foundation would be forged from embarrassment, exploring a character who was flailing and failing, self-absorbed while lacking self-awareness, wanting so openly and grotesquely that her desire felt like an infection other people didn’t want to catch. This was, perhaps paradoxically, the easiest way for me to get what I wanted for my career: a premiere, an audience, streaming, the next project. It had to be through the tactics of self-degradation. 

The Feeling That the Time for Doing Something Has Passed (Joanna Arnow, 2023).

I often received the question of why did I want to act in my own project, especially as an overstretched, struggling indie filmmaker on a dismal (or, in industry parlance, “micro”) budget? I have a lot of answers I give, about liking to act and the justification of my theater background, the scarcity of roles for racially ambiguous actors, et cetera. But if I’m considering the conception of femme triple threats as a whole, I wonder if my multi-part participation is a declaration of an artist’s complete and total competence. Not only can this woman write and direct, the triple-threat suggests, but she can carry a film with her presence. 

This notion of self-sufficiency is crucial. If you are making your first film without the privilege of being a nepo baby or a pre-established industry darling via connections, previous jobs, or dating the right person at the right time, you are casting “no-name” actors (a phrase I believe should be banished from the casting glossary, but I know I have no sway). Without access to more established performers who oftentimes don’t want to take a chance on a first-time filmmaker, casting prospects can become quite bleak. The alternative to hiring known actors is a widespread process like an online casting call, which could attract upwards of hundreds of eager actors, most of whom are far from qualified for the available role. So, the filmmaker decides she’ll just do it herself. And the femme triple threat is born.

There is also some comfort in knowing that if the film is poorly received, as so many independent endeavors threaten to be at some stage of production, you’re not putting another young woman’s image in jeopardy. Onscreen nudity was and continues to be a serious consideration with my films. I thought, If I’m not willing to get naked for my own story, why should another actress? Especially for a young woman who is “unknown” as a performer, nudity in an indie film can feel exploitative, risqué for the sake of it, a film school formula to show some level of seriousness for the project (for example: black-and-white, grainy film + naked waifish woman = something French-looking and therefore “art”). But this sense of an auteur bearing all for her own project, emotionally or physically or both, has the impression of a riskier gamble. She’s putting herself, her dignity, on the line. At least if the gamble doesn’t pay off, she only has herself to pick back up.

Tiny Furniture (Lena Dunham, 2010).

In a New Yorker article about two seminal pieces of vulnerable and all-bearing woman-made works, Girls and Sheila Heti’s How Should a Person Be? (2010), Anna Holmes writes, “The passions provoked by the show—among both critics and admirers—suggest something both refreshing and a little startling: that a pop-culture product that focuses mostly on women and intimate, sometimes gruesome details of their lives, is still considered a provocation.”

The provocation comes from a general audience being shocked that they are meant to take the minutiae of a woman's worldview seriously because of the attention and seriousness the material is shown by the artist herself. Let’s say that a film or show chronicles female friendship on a microscopic level, we see how these characters interact, we become privy to their inside jokes, we understand their past even if we did not participate in it. Many mainstream films use female friendships as easy plot devices. Femme friends are side characters good for a few quips, blatant foils to the protagonist, or sexy foreshadowing to preempt the betrayal of a stolen fiancé. But that doesn’t have to be the case. If a filmmaker takes the time to make an audience understand the intricacies of a friendship, that this bond is as powerful and complex as romantic love, then whether that friendship survives or how this intimacy changes becomes crucial to the plot, energy, and point of the story. The artist is saying that the character's friendship, however trivial one could disregard it as, is not only important, but necessary, to making the film go forward. It’s being taken seriously, and therefore there are aesthetic, tonal, and technical considerations to be made. Maybe in the real world this “storyline” wouldn’t even be given the dignity of narrative, but on screen the minutiae of so many women’s lives (people’s lives!) gets its moment of glory.

There’s the argument that in a sexist landscape people don’t necessarily want women to succeed, so it’s easier for a woman to make work that debases herself before someone else can on their own terms. There is perhaps some truth to that, but there’s a big difference between self-flagellation that elicits pity and vulnerability in the name of self-empowerment. These films, which I believe succeed most magnificently when they make me cringe, squirm, die a little inside, and rebirth me into a more receptive and courageous thinker, are definitely not interested in pity. They demand to be on an equal playing field of empathy. The vision feels more sacred, like modern martyrdom. To put yourself so vulnerably on screen, and to do so knowing there is a high possibility of condemnation, is a sacrifice, but at least it’s one that the artist is in control of. Unfortunately, unfairly, maybe being a woman means having a body always on the precipice of some kind of sacrifice, and you can either accept it or let someone else take control of the ritual. The lore of legendary filmmaking is rife with horror stories of women who allowed a male director to take control of their body and psyche. They gave themselves up for a vision that was deemed greater than their individual suffering, but the films don’t necessarily honor this unnecessary loss. If a film actually necessitates a sacrifice from a woman, shouldn’t she make it for the sake of her own vision and ideals?

Appropriate Behavior (Desiree Akhavan, 2014).

To sacrifice something means that the thing given up has power and value. To degrade someone means that that person also holds in them the potential to be venerated. You don’t knock someone down unless there is the threat that they can destroy you. When humiliation is given the spotlight, it is deemed something worth filming and showing the world; even the smallest acts surpass trivialization—there is this uncompromising humanness that must be recognized, like someone has just been stripped bare in front of you and you mourn in real time that you have no covering to offer them. After all, can’t “humus,” earth, dirt, imply a person has been brought down to the most fundamental forms of existence? The film’s stakes, however small, become charged, brutal, meaningful, and you’re a part of them. You understand them. Perhaps without the audience ever fully realizing it, the woman on screen who they thought was so pathetic and unruly has gained full control of the viewer's attention and empathy. And maybe even respect.

In 2022 Elaine May, already long considered a legend, received an honorary Oscar. Akhavan went on to win Sundance. Issa Rae recently won the Trailblazers Peabody Award. There are countless other successes from these artists that once bared all and asked for nothing but someone to watch them in return. They are more than respected, they’re revered, lauded, canon. They let their onscreen personas have the most awkward sex, cry over bad decisions, suffer, fail at the easiest things, get taken advantage of, have their hearts broken by the wrong people, and a thousand more humiliations. And we took them seriously too.

At the same time, May hadn’t been able to make a movie since 1987 because she was continuously stifled by the patriarchal bureaucracy of the studio system. The gender disparity in Hollywood is still abysmal. Among the dozens of successful women auteurs I admire, some of whom I have the privilege of knowing personally, I know the struggle for funding, validity, and respect can be as difficult as when they first started out. As I attempt to get my third film off the ground, the prospect of acting in my own project feels not only like a financial hindrance, but potentially spiritually draining; I wonder if there would be anything left of me once I call the final “cut.” After all, sacrificing yourself over and over again is fucking exhausting.

Kit Zauhar

[melsdreamweaving]

The zany escapades of my youth still coax a cringe-laugh from me to this day. I quickly realized that weeping over each ridiculous episode of my life, wishing for the disappearance of all parties involved was as futile as teaching a cat quantum physics. I was the baby of my anime-loving, convention-going squad, with much to learn about the universe's bizarre ways. Among the oddball highlights was my towering tutor, whom we'll dub Green—mainly because I'm convinced his people skills were about as developed as a cactus's ability to run a marathon.

Green, our resident Groot, often haunted the campus café, throwing compliments my way like sporadic sprinkles of confetti. Admittedly, my dance class attire might have played a small part. The glares he received from my study group could've frozen lava. In hindsight, they were probably just jelly confused young adults with extremely high emotional investments.

Numbers were exchanged in a ceremony as awkward as a tuxedo penguin wandering in a desert. Green's attention was refreshing like a cool breeze; not an anime fanatic, but a lover of numbers. Yep, our chats were about math, my arch-nemesis, disguised as a mandatory academic requirement.

Fast forward to our date, a rendezvous I naively anticipated might blossom into at least a sitcom-worthy amicable friendship.

The scene: a diner on 88th, sandwiched between a bookstore and cinema. Post-feast, Green drops the "Dutch treat" bomb. A tad inconvenient for yours truly, the jobless only focused on getting a degree wonder.

What ensued was a staring match worthy of a spaghetti western duel at high noon. When I hinted at his chivalry and the fact that he had been the one to do the asking, he retorted with "Equal rights, babe..." I wasn't sure if I was on a date or in the debate club back in High School.

Desperately, I excused myself and summoned my grandmother, the geriatric cavalry, for financial backup and an escape route. As I bade Green adieu, his brain visibly churned to life like an old computer booting up. Like that meme says: that's when he knew he fucked up.

My confidantes later lambasted his faux pas in my favor, yet I wallowed in jobless shame. My pride stung in a way that I felt like I needed to change. Despite my family's support enabling my academic indulgence (five classes, woo!), the sting lingered.

Green, undeterred, called for two months, offering explanations that fell on my now trauma-shielded ears. The incident left me craving independence like a catfish desires a bicycle—fervently, albeit inexplicably.

Thanks to this debacle, I hustled towards financial self-reliance, a quest that was briefly derailed by my grandmother's health. But it also forced me into a much more adult role.

As for Green, I hope he found a fellow mathematician enthusiast of awkward bill-splitting, perhaps an accountant with a flair for dividing a pie chart of love. Perhaps together, they might have embarked on romantic escapades like debating the economics of sharing a latte or the moral conundrums of coupon dates. (Not that I look down on coupon dating)

Meanwhile, I became a connoisseur of independence, navigating college with the finesse of a cat on a scalding hot tin roof. I learned to differentiate between "crucial" and "meh" ramen brands and to save for those just-in-case life decides to throw me a curve moments.

The anime crew's saga of comedic misadventures and social faux pas marched on without me. They were fun people while they lasted. I stepped into the realm of grown-up duties, occasionally hearing of their attempts to consult an Ouija board for anime spoilers or their crusade for cosplay as mandatory exam attire.

Green, bless his equality-loving heart, morphed into my own personal campus legend, the ghost of dates past, forever haunting the diner with his calculator and a half-split pie.

Embracing life's absurdities with a grin, I treasure the bizarre, sometimes humiliating lessons and the crazy colorful cast that had graced my coming-of-age story. Whenever life throws a curveball, I reminisce about the Great Dutch Date Debacle, reminding myself that even though I do not understand fully why people feel the need to express themselves in the way that they do, I at least handled the situation gracefully.

Here's to the quirky, the cringeworthy, and the path to financial and emotional autonomy. May we all navigate through the mazesand pitfalls of adulthood, one face-palm moment at a time.

[giannascott]

One of the most humiliating social faux pas is having smelly shoes. Even the cleanest people can smell their shoes. Fortunately, anyone looking for advice on how to get rid of odorous shoes can find it. Visit here to know more: https://glovestix.com/blogs/news/7-best-ways-to-get-rid-of-stinky-shoes

[titoist]

exhausted exhausted exhausted, exhausted to the point of nausea. but i must continue writing anyway. and then i suppose i'll collapse in bed. but for now i write. my earliest interactions with other children… perhaps only came about when i was around 3-4 years old, as i was kept particularly sheltered in a small space until then - kindergarten, i utter with a sort of caustic sludge escaping from between the gaps in my teeth. it's interesting. the earliest association which was made in my childhood was that between social interaction and feelings of shame, humiliation, retreat. because… well, it felt(& certainly was, for a good while) that, when extending a hand, i could only ever be on the receiving end of mocking, in one form or another. i was desperate for interaction, very specifically hungry for friendship, but felt consistently denied it… &, in a perverse sort of way, seemed to be actively punished at every turn for even attempting to pursue it. attempting to turn the film of my mind back & even further attempting to dig at… something… something to de-fragment with… this sort of rejection, the feeling that it was unavoidable, & the consequent fear of it, is something that, i feel, would go on to define the rest of my god-given life… or, at the very least, until now. it felt like in some way or another all of my independent ventures could only ever end in disaster. only ever laughed at, despite my wishes otherwise… & i was conditioned into defeatism, into a feeling of inferiority, because i sincerely could not conceptualize how i was such a consistently bad omen - the only reasonable explanation that does not rely on the spiritual being that i am just… fundamentally disinclined towards happiness or ontologically lacking, in some way, i suppose… i was an undeniably autistic child. i was undeniably a… not quite healthy child. not very smart, as small children tend to be, & i was also not particularly aware of social rules and/or etiquette. & i suppose i convinced myself that this was the root cause of it, in a rather simple fashion. that i was just always going to be consigned into misery due to being rejected for factors i could not control, & that's about that. &…well, being a small autistic child was certainly a factor. but i think there's something more here, something beyond "i made a faux pas or two"… my mother only dropped me off at the kindergarten… let's say, once or twice a week. to the children who went there and conversed with one another every single day, my absence - and my relative strangeness - solidified me as… a very concrete out-group. something to alienate & rebel against, my position was that closer to an authority figure for them to subvert than a fellow child. there's always the instinct among children to separate themselves among these lines… so i suppose it makes sense. it's not like it was particularly hard to find qualities to alienate me over.

but that's the thing… it was entirely circumstantial - accidental, even. none of it necessarily had to happen the way that it did, but… in a show of extreme simplicity in its cruelty & tragedy, it nonetheless happened in a manner which was totally ignorant of any foreign expectation of likeliness. there was no guarantee for any of the factors that coalesced & reinforced one another continuously, but in a show of extreme misfortune, they… just were, anyway. "a victim of experientally tragic circumstances who allowed those same circumstances to solidify themselves permanently in her thought processes, given form & rebirthed as concrete personal fixtures" is a pretty funny thing to have happen, isn't it? even when those particular circumstances were no longer present, i made them present via my erroneous suspicion that they were, manifestly given form in my judgement and actions…

this is rambling. i feel like at this point i'm not saying really anything at all. let me think. i guess that, on some level, it feels impossible to admit that i am not personally broken in some way… because it was a belief that was very concretely, demonstrably beaten into me. and it certainly was reality that every endeavor i undertook in order to prove the invalidity of this claim invariably ended up blowing up in my face. so at a point i had no other choice but to sit down & accept it. & i feel that the concrete consequences of this - my total disinclination towards sociality, my personal and emotional seclusion - have been cemented so heavily that i fear they may never now be uncorked. but i would, if nothing else, really rather like these personal instincts to be fueled by a conscious desire to not interact with my environment due to the very concrete evils i know it possesses… & not out of some childish fear of others.

"victim of circumstance". i guess it really can be that brutally, horrifyingly, complicatedly simple. but the consequences certainly don't feel so.

[musings-and-muses]

How’s your head?

Getting better is a long process, but there is hope. These words are sweet redemption to me. Absolution and rapture, but especially coming from a psychotherapist. Hearing it from a family member, s.o. or acquaintance always feels civil and polite. Somewhat superficial and rehearsed, in an attempt to segue into a comfortable topic and keep the chatter light-hearted. A psychotherapist saying it is not at all the same and such comments, as well as diagnoses are things that shouldn’t be said carelessly. 

This week I managed to get more appointments for first meetings with new psychotherapists. I had a second session with J.B. today. He is handsome and tall. He seems very sensitive and talks very gently. He is very thorough when explaining things and brings up many things up before returning to the main point. In that, we are very much the same. 

This time I started by stating that I wasn’t sure what to expect of the session. We settled on that I will continue to see him for a “teaser” into Verhaltenstherapie and he will also support me emotionally as I look for a therapist. We can start some of the introspective exercises that could well be brought into a longer therapy once I find a spot. 

The chemistry between therapist and patient is the most important factor for success. It is very likely that the same patterns of a patient’s life will occur with the therapist. In this non-threatening environment, however, the pattern can be observed and rewired by confronting it together. This is reason #1 to seek for a good-looking young male therapist personally. My avoidant and imitating patterns of only showing as much as is shown to me before and only mimicking behaviour and care to even it out is rooted in my childhood growing up closeted among my male peers. There was a fear that “falling in love” meant being inappropriate. That getting close put me in danger of sharing too much and being rejected. At the same time, I longed for a feeling of intimacy, belonging and being loved but feared that reaching for that would result in rejection, humiliation and  even violence. So all my ambigous, meaningful male friendships were based on mirroring behaviour and interest, in only giving the same amount of homoerotic ambiguity and affection that was given to me first. Showing my true self, was betraying my deepest longing and was giving up on the object of my desire, all at once. A total wreck. 

Verhaltenstherapie seems like a very good option for what I want to achieve right now. However, very orthodox therapy places like the Institut at HU might not be good for me. There are other institutes, such as DGVT, PPT and BAP that use more holistic approaches such as “Schema-Therapie” and “emotionsfokussierte Methode.” In principle, I would focus on creating an environment that nurtures me out of the panic mode that I usually experience and to strengthen pathways that can help me safely explore my interests and social interactions. I wish to gain more agency and security in what I like, and for that I have to learn to not mimick, to create space to let myself unfold and to not falter when I confront the unknown in me. Key is to also focus on the emotions that I usually feel and how they serve me or hold me hostage, and understand which habits and stimuli strengthen the good ones, and which stressors maintain the negative ones.

Reality checks and learning to “adjust” my inner judgement. Usually, I’m perceiving reality much more threatening and judging where I stand in life as much more dissappointing that any of those actually are. I distrust social situations and fear faux pas to the point of freezing my thoughts and becoming alienated. These reactions can be explored and challenged by confrontating fears and having reality checks. If I escape mental scenarios and confront my fears in real life, I can empirically dismiss my fears as exaggerated and decrease their hold on me. Also, by checking in with others, or a psycotherapist, I can slowly learn to build an innner judgement of what is acceptable and trust it enough to stop relying on others so heavily to form my worldviews. 

I should get my blood tests taken, because some emotional struggles could be caused by imbalances in some blood values. Adressing those imbalances could lead to significant improvements in mental health.

[after-witch]

A Simple Cup of Tea [Yandere Scaramouche x Reader]

Title: A Simple Cup of Tea [Yandere Scaramouche x Reader]

Synopsis: You have to be prepared and poised and perfect. But it’s hard to be all those things, even with the looming threat of your husband sitting next to you, when you’ve got a secret hidden underneath your clothes...

Word Count: 1875

Notes: yandere, forced marriage, abuse, bondage, NSFW 

Poised.

You must be poised. Every movement, every gesture, must embody a quiet grace. Your face must be pleasant, without seeming garishly joyous. Your voice must be soft, melodic, clear; yet loud enough to be heard without being required to repeat yourself. 

You must know how to keep a conversation going smoothly, like water in a stream, yet understand when to keep silent. You must know all of these things and so much more, and act on them at all times in the proper degree; all in order to avoid embarrass yourself and more importantly, embarrassing your husband.

In other words, you must be perfect.

And you try--you have to try, because what other choice does Scaramouche leave you?--but it’s difficult. You were never born for this stifled life he’s pushed you into, for a life spent mostly within the walls of his home or at most, behind the high, impenetrable walls of the courtyard.

A life draped in rich clothing, overseeing fine details of the estate that make your head spin. How many bags of this or that must be ordered per week? When should the bedding in that room be washed? What is the appropriate amount of money to put in a servant’s purse when sending them to the market? Questions you never imagined yourself asking yourself, which now fill your day with a gilded tedium.

There’s a deceptive leisure lurking underneath everything here. True, you no longer have to travel far and wide, selling your family’s wares from heavy baskets carried on your back; you no longer have to search the edges of the forest for edible plants to toss into boiling broth on days when you could not afford meat. You never want for food (unless he takes your dinner away as punishment) and any comfort you could need is within reach, so long as you’re behaving.

But you are on edge, always. Preparing yourself for another pitfall that might open up beneath your feet, and always looking for ways to improve yourself. Or at least ways to avoid earning your husband’s sharp disapproval. Regardless of your efforts, you have been on the wrong end of a harsh insult, a slap, a pinch, a cane, more times than you care to count.

Be prepared, be poised, be perfect. It’s the mantra you repeat to yourself every morning.

The mantra you repeated to yourself this particular morning, in preparation for a meeting he insisted you attend. A meeting which apparently required your finely-tuned skills in pleasing conversation and your much-practiced ability to “pour a passable cup of tea.”

Anyone else might assume it was meant to be an insult, but your time with Scaramouche has led to you to understand that the slightest praise towards you, while minuscule to others, was something you were meant to fall on your knees and thank him for. Sometimes literally, depending on his mood.

Why he wanted you to pour tea for some delegates from Fontaine, and what their increasing presence in the area really meant, you didn’t know. But it wasn’t your place to ask him, and the memory of recent stinging pain on your backside keeps you from feeling even remotely tempted to broach the subject.

So here you are. Dressed elegantly, but not garishly, as is proper for his wife. With a tea pot in your hand and perfectly arranged cups and the ghost of a pleasing smile on your face. Charming words drip from your lips, pleasantries, pleasantries, pleasantries--the type of words Scaramouche loathes yet drums into you all the same.

Prepared, poised, perfect.

Except for the slight tremble of your hands.

Except for the uncomfortable hitch in your breath as you speak.

Except for the fact that there are ropes tied snugly around your breasts, wrapping around your chest and criss-crossing between your breasts with an uncomfortable pressure, all hidden underneath the outfit he’d chosen for you that afternoon.

You’d balked, first--then begged. Begged not to be humiliated like this. What if someone sees? What will people say? You’d even tried to appeal to his pride, suggesting that if you couldn’t fully concentrate on your duties, well, how would that reflect on him?

All that earned you was a glint of a smirk and a tug as he knotted the rope encircling your breasts, making it even tighter than before. His final threat at your continued pleading--”I can always make you go out in nothing but the ropes”--finally shut you up.

And so, here you are. Face hot with shame and something more, silently pleading that your clothing won’t somehow shift and reveal the secret underneath. Despite the layers covering you, you still feel naked, exposed. As if the people indulging in polite conversation can see right through you, see the way your breasts are framed by the itchy ropes. See the way your body is responding to such a total humiliation. 

It’s not just the chafing rope that bothers you. It’s the pressure itself. It feels… no, you don’t want to think about how it feels.

Instead, you hone your focus in on the task at hand. Pouring the tea, a nice subtle blend made with Violetgrass flowers. A previous round of guests from Fontaine had enjoyed it so well that Scaramouche had you tell the teashop to start stocking up for future visits.

You wish you could hide the way your hand trembles ever so slightly as you pour the last cup of tea for a woman whose name you regrettably can’t remember. You normally repeat their names over and over in your head, lest you forget and endure Scaramouche’s sharp tongue (if not his cane) later on; but your predicament made it impossible to keep track of new information.

You might be able to enjoy the tea, enjoy the facsimile of polite conversation weaving its way around the table, if only you weren’t so distracted by the tightness, the chafing, the undeniable fact that--oh Archons above, that all of this was making your nipples humiliatingly hard underneath your clothing.

“Do you agree, wife?”

All eyes glance at you. Whatever Scaramouche just said had clearly be addressed to you, only you were too distracted to notice.

In the moments that you’re left half-gaping, mentally groping to somehow pull his previous words out from the ether, his hand snakes around your waist. You feel his fingers on the outside of the soft fabric, searching until they find their intended target--the knot--and tugging hard to tighten it further.

You gasp, your body lurching upward and forward at the sudden sensation of your breasts being squeezed, and the tea pot you’re still holding drops to the table. Time seems to slow to a thick crawl, and you can see the pot is not cracked, but tipped over, hot tea spilling onto the table underneath with abandon.

The sight of the dark brown stain spreading, trickling underneath saucers and cups, leaves you helpless until you force your shaking hands to grab the pot and set it back up on the table.

“I, I--” you start to stutter something. An apology? An explanation? But the constricting ropes and the dawning realization that you have just committed an extensive social faux pas--in front of guests, no less--leaves you helplessly unable to speak.

The guests, for their part, look suitably uncomfortable. The woman whose name you can’t remember is holding onto her cup, saving it from being intercepted by the trickling tea. You don’t know whether their looks are because of your embarrassing display or because they know your husband’s reputation, and feel pity for you. Perhaps a bit of both.

Scaramouche’s voice cuts through the tension, though it does nothing to lessen it.

“I apologize for my wife’s clumsiness,” he says. “I should have realized that she wasn’t up to the apparently complex task of serving tea.” His voice is dripping with condescension, making more heat rise to your cheeks.

Humiliation does not begin to describe what you feel as he gently--public appearances, you think--takes your arm and stands, bringing you with him.

“Perhaps you are ill.” He looks you up and down, faux-concern written all over his face. But you know what he’s really thinking about, as his eyes linger on your chest for a fraction longer than they should.

You swallow hard, and do your best to nod. It doesn’t take any effort to look ashamed at what’s transpired.

“I--I have been feeling unwell,” you say, making sure to project loud enough for the audience he’s curated for you. “I may be too tired.”

He shakes his head, as if he can’t believe your silliness. A silly, silly wife--that’s what you are. Never mind that it’s all his fault. Never mind that he chose to do this to you, and chose to do it in front of guests. 

A small, bitter part of you resents the guests for being there at all, resents the fact that they probably know you’re an unwilling ornament to the Harbringer’s obsession but do nothing about it.

But what good does resenting them do, when it won’t change your fate?

He takes your hand and gives it a pat, each touch patronizing to the core.

“Apologize to our guests and go rest. And send someone more capable to clean up your mess.”

You have to apologize for the fact that you spilled tea due to his decision to engage in some perverse bondage in a public fashion. You have to apologize for the fact that he deliberately made you do it, too, knowing how you might react when he pulled the rope.

It’s horrible and humiliating and unfair. 

But you do it anyway.

Turning towards the guests, gaze downcast with shame, you force out an apology; keeping your voice soft and melodic and clear, as expected.

Then you retreat as calmly as possible, feeling everyone’s gaze--but especially his--on your back as you leave. You catch the eye of the nearest servant as you make your way back to the bedroom, laying out the quickest version of events and not relishing the look of anxiety that crosses their features at the thought of dealing with Scaramouche after such an apparent social travesty.

But you only have enough energy to consider your own anxieties, so you continue on without thinking more about them.

Walking only seems to make the feeling of constriction worse, and you bite down on your lip as your sensitive nipples begin rubbing against the fabric with every step. It feels good, it feels bad--whatever it is, it’s all too much, and you want nothing more to cut off the ropes and hide until the morning.

Not that you have the courage to risk such an endeavor.

You don’t feel any calmer by the time you reach your shared bedroom, but at least your humiliation is a private one, now. And you can rest, at least until he’s finished for the evening. For a moment, you simply stand still, bringing your arm across your chest and pressing to provide some pressure, some relief, to your sensitive breasts. 

There’s an undeniable twist in your stomach when your arms brush against your nipples, and you hate it, and you love it, and you feel just as sick and perverse as he is when you slide a hand inside your clothing and give one aching nipple a pinch. You rub your legs together and ah, there it is--the pleasurable tingling and beginnings of wetness, and well, why not give yourself some pleasure, you think; why not give yourself something good and pleasant before he comes in and ruins everything with whatever sick punishment he’s concocting? 

It’s not until you make to curl up on the large bed, eager to relive the tension building inside you, that you see the scroll wrapped up on the pillow. With a sense of justifiable dread building in your stomach, you sit, and unfurl it. 

The words are written in Scaramouche’s familiar handwriting:

“Take off your clothes. Lay down and spread your legs on the bed until I return. Don’t touch yourself. I will know if you haven’t followed my instructions.”

Bastard, you think. As if your humiliation today wasn’t strong enough. Your hands go to undue the fastenings keeping your clothes together, and the first hints of bare skin leave you with anticipatory goosebumps. How long would you be expected to be on the bed, presenting yourself for his apparent pleasure? 

Bastard, bastard, bastard.

But--well. At least he didn’t tell you to bend over the caning stool again.

[izzyspussy]

i don't think izzy is into public humiliation, i think it's just a mix of:

• things genuinely not registering as social faux pas

• very poor improvisational speaking

• all boundaries are negotiable for edward's sake

I'll certainly agree with the last point. he'll literally endure anything for ed and get gratification from it because it's for ed.

the thing about being "into" humiliation is that like... that doesn't necessarily mean you like it or enjoy it or it feels less humiliating. it's just that that particular brand of pain sparks in your brain just right that it gets you off real hard and maybe knocks loose some psychological debris too.

and like. izzy's devotion to ed is the kind that necessarily includes sacrifice or suffering or dirty work or whatever. it has to have some level of unpleasantness, it has to be difficult, to be complete. he wants to endure for edward, he wants to be tested and prove himself, he wants to be put through trails and earn and win a place as Ed's Number One.

so no. he doesn't necessarily need a thing specifically for humiliation (where ed is concerned). because any kind of suffering for the sake of showing off that he can take it will do.

[adultingautistic]

I have a question about the concept of shame. Since you've brought it up in a few answers that you don't personally experience feelings of shame, it made me wonder what shame actually is and if I experience it myself either. The definition of shame is "a painful feeling of humiliation or distress caused by the consciousness of wrong or foolish behavior." My question is, would it count as shame if you're more concerned about the reaction of others to your behavior than a deep feeling of 1/4

unhappiness with yourself? Not to say I don't get upset when I do something that hurts/upsets others or goes against my principles. But I do think the feelings of deep anxiety/distress comes more from the idea that others will stop liking me if they see me as embarrassing or I'll get written off as a 'bad' person if I do something that is considered shameful. Like, shame (to me) seems like something that others put onto each other and not something that comes from the inside. 2/4

When I'm by myself and I catch myself doing something silly or against my own principles, I don't really feel ashamed of myself. I either laugh it off or try to remind myself how to do better next time. But if another person sees my behaviors, that's when I get the "painful feeling of humiliation". Not because I feel different about myself, but because I worry that I have changed their opinion of me for the worse. Or is that all shame is? A concern for how others perceive you? 3/4

If you don't mind answering, as someone who doesn't experience shame, do you get concerned when others think you may be acting in a shameful way (whether you really are or not)? Or does it not phase you what so ever? 4/4

Ask date: September 14th 

My question is, would it count as shame if you're more concerned about the reaction of others to your behavior than a deep feeling of unhappiness with yourself? 

Like, shame (to me) seems like something that others put onto each other and not something that comes from the inside. 

When I'm by myself and I catch myself doing something silly or against my own principles, I don't really feel ashamed of myself.

But if another person sees my behaviors, that's when I get the "painful feeling of humiliation". Not because I feel different about myself, but because I worry that I have changed their opinion of me for the worse. Or is that all shame is? A concern for how others perceive you?

If you don't mind answering, as someone who doesn't experience shame, do you get concerned when others think you may be acting in a shameful way (whether you really are or not)? Or does it not phase you what so ever?

So these are some really in-depth, really useful, really important questions!  And I haven’t entirely thought about these myself before!  You really got me thinking on this.  Really hard. 

And frankly I’m not philosopher enough, or psychiatrist enough, to feel like I’m qualified to answer all of these.  But that last question you asked, which was about how I personally feel, that I can do.

So you phrased it as “get concerned when others think I might be acting in a shameful way”.  Since I don’t really understand shame (because I don’t feel it), my brain translates this to “do I get concerned when others might get upset with me.”  And that’s all I can understand about it.

For example, I know that others have called my behavior “embarrassing” to them.  When this happens, what I feel is distress that I have made them feel upset.  Often, I translate their upsetness into anger, which is a feeling I do understand, and so I’ve had many, many conversations like this:

Allistic friend: “Your behavior was really embarassing.”

Me: “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you mad.”

Allistic friend: “I’m not mad, I’m embarrassed.”

Me: “Uh...” *not understanding* “Okay, what was the thing that I did that was wrong?”

Allistic friend: “You shouted across the whole room about how you needed to use the bathroom!  Everyone doesn’t need to know that!”

Me: “Oh, so was this a ‘tone’ problem?”

Allistic friend: “No!  It’s a subject-matter problem!  You don’t talk about things like that in public!”

Me: “Our friends are ‘in public’?”

Allistic friend: “No!  It’s just embarassing, you don’t have to mention it.  Next time just get up and used the bathroom, you don’t have to tell everyone.”

Me: *creates rule in head “Do not talk about using bathroom out loud, just do it.”*  to friend: “Okay.”

So this is what it’s like for me.  It’s not any different for me than stumbling upon any other social “faux pas”.  All I see is that my friend is upset because of social reasons, and I try to understand how to change my behavior so that they are not upset next time.  

So I do feel concern, as you put it.  And that concern can sometimes manifest very strongly, so that it turns into worry or even fear about saying the “right thing” or not saying the “wrong thing”.  So I might sit in a room, contemplating what I want to say for an hour, trying to decide whether it will make others “upset”.  But for me, that upsetness they feel translates into “I don’t want them to be mad at me for saying the wrong thing”, because shame isn’t something that comes into my calculations.

So I think it comes down to the reason why I don’t do things.  I think for an allistic person, there is something inherent in them that makes talking about the bathroom “shameful”, and so they don’t even want to talk about it, and would be hard pressed to do so if asked.

For me, I don’t talk about it because I know it will make others upset.  If I suddenly found myself in a room where we were supposed to talk about it (like at the doctor’s office), then I do, without problems.  I’ve had doctors comment to me about how confidently and easily I answer “embarrassing” questions, which has always confused me, because if you’re not embarrassed and I’m not embarrassed, then why is the question embarrassing?

I don’t know if I’ve answered all the deep, philosophical questions you asked.  But I think it’s awesome that you’re thinking about those things, and that level of deep self-reflection can only help you as you figure out yourself, others, and your relationship with others.

Thank you for this awesome exercise in depth of thought, I really enjoyed it!

[johannas-motivational-insults]

Class Dynamics in MFS 1x05

One thing I have found fascinating in Motherland: Fort Salem so far is the way classism is woven into the world, the High Atlantics vs. the shit birds and the various attitudes they carry. It’s very evident in the first episode and continues to be a theme throughout the season, but it’s most pronounced in 1x05 “Bellweather Season.” That episode takes place in a different environment than the rest, on Abigail’s home turf as she tries to wrangle her unit into being impressive to the dean of war college.

It’s honestly kind of hilarious that Abigail didn’t realize before this episode that she was going to get into war college on name alone. It was pretty obvious to Raelle, who is Abigail’s foil in terms of being poor, rural, and from an undistinguished matriline. Watching Raelle this episode was really interesting. Before they even leave the fort Abigail manages to piss her off by saying this is their chance to impress the community that matters. Which, like, yikes. I know what she meant, obviously she was referring to the people who can help them get ahead, but with all the very obvious classism she has already displayed it’s no wonder this only served to piss Raelle off. I don’t blame her for pointing out that none of those high-class people are going to be interested in conversing with her and then threatening to go off on Petra (Abigail’s mom) about how the “peasants” are getting primed to be war meat (something she actually gets close to doing).

Watching Abigail’s reactions to everything going “wrong” once they get to the event is both funny and painful. Because while her obsession with everything being perfect is annoying, it’s also stressful to watch because she has reason to be upset. It’s super important to remember is how crucial appearances are in upper class culture, including the High Atlantics. Every time the others act in a way that is unexpected we see her getting more and more frustrated and humiliated because her squad is not acting the way she wants them to. She sees this as them being uncooperative when really they are just totally unfamilar with High Atlantic customs.

That’s something we see in this episode again and again, Abigail and Petra struggling to keep up appearances while getting annoyed at the antics of the lower class shit birds. Really, it’s not like Tally and Raelle and Scylla are doing anything wrong, aside from Scylla’s whole party crashing thing. They’re just chatting and enjoying the alcohol and fancy food they’ve probably never had a chance to eat before, but they’re shirking the etiquette that Abigail is so familiar with and making her look bad. And they don’t even realize it, because how are they supposed to know how to act? Aren’t parties supposed to be fun? (Clearly not; in upper class society parties are just one more social maneuver where your behavior has to be perfect and fun is strictly out of the question.)

One great moment that contrasts the two viewpoints is when Tally sees Gerit and asks her squadmates whether or not she should go say hi. We get Raelle’s casual yet emphatic “Yeah!” and Abigail’s stressed out “No!” And Raelle at first thinks Abigail is just being hoity-toity and controlling again, but this time it’s not just about appearances. Knowing High Atlantic customs, Abigail realizes that Gerit’s sash means he’s off-limits, but Tally has no idea and runs over and starts blatantly flirting with him in public, which is humiliating for all of them (especially Tally) in retrospect.

Another scene that I really like and is a great microcosm of the class dynamics in this universe is the scene where Raelle confronts Petra. It’s really layered and both characters’ motivations come through, even if Petra has in general been presented as less sympathetic to the audience.

So, look. Raelle barging in in the middle of a conversation between Petra and some of her other older family members is a huge social faux pas, especially in a culture so set on keeping up appearances and not allowing for any sort of mess. I also don’t blame her one bit. Petra’s talking about the importance of family and that sounds super hypocritical to a young woman who has lost her mother to combat and father to conscription.

If you look at this interaction in terms of scene study, they both kind of “lose” the scene. Raelle loses more if you are evaluating in terms of power shifts, but it doesn’t turn out great for Petra either in that she ends up feeling guilty and barely manages to save face in a potentially disasterous situation. The way Petra reacts, though, is very interesting when you dissect it from both points of view. She barely even lets Raelle get started before cutting her off and talking over her. She responds with platitudes, things that are kind to say but also sound very scripted, regardless of how true they are. She tries to relate to and soothe Raelle’s grief by saying she wishes her mother could be there and giving her a hug.

From Raelle’s point of view, this was just her getting shut down again by the elitists. It confirmed her expectation that no one from that culture would listen to anything she has to say. Also, her motivation in confronting Petra was to express her grief and get some answers about how this tragedy in her life came to happen, why her mother was ripped away from her. Raelle needed answers and genuine acknowledgement of her pain, not platitudes, even if they were heartfelt. And Petra just saying what she did and hugging her did nothing but make her feel talked over and unacknowledged, again.

From Petra’s point of view, however, she was playing damage control for both her and Raelle. In her mind she was doing Raelle a favor by cutting her off before she could say anything too inflammatory and get herself into trouble. This kid was clearly not sober and behaving disgracefully for that environment (and according to military protocol) and Petra combatted this by responding gracefully. She could have shut Raelle down in much worse ways, pulling rank and punishing her for her outburst, but instead she responded with compassion. Obviously she was also saving face for herself by shutting Raelle down before she could put her on blast in front of her whole family, but it’s more complicated than that. And when Petra was hugging Raelle and again after Raelle ran off, she looked pretty troubled and guilty for a moment before pulling that mask back on.

I am always more inclined to side with the poor characters in these situations, seeing as that’s my background, and I really like how Motherland balances illuminating the privilege of the High Atlantics with illuminating their motivations. Even if Abigail’s classism and blind privilege is annoying, we see her frustrations coming from a genuine place of trying to help her unit but simply not understanding their experiences and perspectives. The Bellweathers are more than just cardboard cutouts of rich people, and I appreciate that. This show actually makes me empathize with and care about all the characters, and that’s a pretty impressive feat.

[kulshedradrangue]

Zuko, Ozai, Iroh - Masculinity and the Crisis of Honor

I argue: There is no difference between guilt and shame.

But first, what do we understand about the concepts and the terms 'guilt and shame'?

Most people define guilt as „I regret to have done this or that“, it is bound on one‘s action, while shame is more of an emotional state, „ I am a bad person, I feel so ashamed“

But, as I see it: Guilt is a specific part of shame.

And shame is a part of „social surviving strategies“, meaning that feeling ashamed after (unintentionally, unconsciously ) done something not appropriate (in public, but also something that has been revealed), can readjust one‘s standing in their specific social environment. Shame can also come with humiliation or embarassment.

'But what has this to do with Zuka and Ozai', you ask?

Well, Zuko feels guilty for his actions (e.g the fight with Ozai + and that resulting to search for the Avatar + and losing track of him; especially betraying Iroh) and thus ashamed. He also feels humiliated by his own father – who gave him the scar on his face.

And I think the scar on his face is a beautiful metaphor for shame (and guilt based on shame and humiliation based on shame):

First of all, I do not believe one bit that Zuko should have felt guilty. However he has every right to feel humiliated. Even though both are connected to shame, the difference lies in the outcome:

Feeling guilty invites you to change for better and it is up to you to take the responsibility. But humiliation invites you to stand up for yourself, to demand respect (which is taken away from you).

Consciously, Zuko‘s scar is – at least to him – a sign of weakness, of shame (- and of the humiliation).

But unconsciously, it is a scar that never will leave his face. No matter how much he tries to resurrect his name, his reputation, his honor. It will always be there, like a warning not to give in too much into those concepts, that you yourself are not responsible for.

Which brings me to Ozai and his lack of the social surviving strategy „shame“. First of all, I think we can all agree, that Ozai seems to be a psychopath and therefore lacks it in terms of the need to have this kind of emotion. And as a „rich kid“ that never had really existential problems, I can see where this may come from. But the humiliation based on shame is a concept he very well knows, because to him, any humiliation against his person is an attack to his position of power. So on the broader aspect of shame, I argue, it seems to add fuel to the crisis of honor. Because it is shame that means exposure and this exposure can mean the loss of honor.

And here comes Iroh with his way of understanding: Pride is the fuel, that nourishes shame. And real honor comes from humility. Which connects to the word humiliation. The way I interpret it: a person that learns to feel humble will never have to be afraid to exposure and thus to the loss of their honor. They would not bring the person who offended them into a position of danger or humiliation, but rather give them a helping hand to recover from their faux-pas, showing real dignity - which can make people, who are like Ozai, very furious because they cannot understand the concept of humility and dignity without having to be weak.

any thoughts?

[claudehenrion]

L'Europe est morte... elle est la seule à ne pas le savoir !

  Par rapport aux États-Unis, à la Chine et même à la Russie, l'échec de l'Europe-institution est total. Pour elle, le défi se résumait à produire et à distribuer ''du'' vaccin, et l'Union a échoué sur les deux plans. Le programme de vaccination européen se retrouve ''largué'', loin derrière le programme américain et encore plus loin derrière ceux d'Israël et de la Grande-Bretagne post-Brexit... qui est de plus en plus persuadée d'avoir fait ''le bon choix''. D'autres pays européens, de plus en plus nombreux, envient sa décision --et son courage à la prendre. Alors que le tyranneau ottoman la ridiculise impunément, quels futurs s'ouvrent encore devant l'Europe ?

Un sondage récent nous confirme que la promesse gouvernementale d'un retour à une vie normale ne va sans doute pas être tenue, sauf pirouettes et ''intox'' de dernière minute ... D'ailleurs, on commence à nous faire peur avec des ''variants'' folkloriques de plus en plus innombrables, qui seraient 3 fois plus ceci ou 4 fois plus cela... pour préparer le terrain à des ''vagues'' n° 4, 5, et 6.... évidemment dues à ''la faute à pas de bol... puisqu'on allait juste rouvrir les vannes à partir du 5 mai, et surtout après le 15''. Pas de bol, dites-donc ! Voilà-t-y pas que le destin se mettant à être contrariant, on va ''devoir'' régionalocaliser, échelonormaliser, étageationner et décentrationner, subsidiairementer... et que sais-je encore (pour les néologismes creux, on peut faire confiance aux énarques en place !). Il vaudrait mieux nous préparer à ce que notre retard sur nos compétiteurs va se compter en années plus qu'en mois, et ce temps perdu va se traduire en déficits, en faillites, en fermetures, en drames personnels et en décès injustes, et laissant présager une régression économique massive de l'UE (et de la France) par rapport au reste du monde.

 La gestion des vaccins ''à l'européenne'' est une métonymie et un hypallage de ce qu'est l'Europe (rappel : une métonymie est une relation de cause à effet et un hypallage , un ''habillage''. Revoir vos cours de 3 ème) : c'est une farce tragique d'idéologues rabougris et inopérants. Les prébendiers du faux ''gratin'' qui dirige si mal cette pauvre Europe sont faibles, lâches et pusillanimes : ils ne sont pas démocratiquement élus, ils ne sont pas transparents et ils ne sont responsables devant personne, et ils ne représentent rien, au sens démocratique du terme, face à des gouvernements qui ont la légitimité d'être élus... mais qui ne s'entendent jamais entre eux. Même le satrape Erdogan ne s'y est pas trompé, lui : il insulte Macron, mais c’est de loin... alors que c'est face à face qu'il humilie l'Europe.

 La sagesse et le bon sens dictent de ramener l'UE à un marché unique, c’est-à-dire à un territoire sans frontières intérieures ni obstacles réglementaires, à la libre circulation des biens et des services, mais surtout rien de plus. Seulement, voilà : l'orgueil idéologique qui pourrit toutes les institutions européennes pousse dans la direction opposée, vers une centralisation toujours plus grande, au détriment des intérêts vitaux des européens. La seule question qu'il faille se poser, au point où nous en sommes, est : l'évidente désunion des européens est-elle une éclipse passagère, une panne de circonstance, ou une débâcle historique ? 

Par exemple, devant la crise actuelle, Trump, Johnson et Poutine ont été des hommes d’Etat modernes : Trump a favorisé la production rapide et massive de vaccins sur le sol américain, Johnson a poussé la coopération entre Oxford et AstraZeneca, et Poutine a réalisé en Russie un exploit comparable à celui des américains et des britanniques... A l'opposé, l'inexpérimenté Emmanuel Macron et la vieillissante Angela Merkel se sont comportés en dirigeants du XXe siècle : ils ont ''géré des commandes groupées'' ! Moralité : l’UE a confirmé être une machine à casser l’industrie et l’innovation, et la crise vaccinale a souligné ses défauts. Les dirigeants européens n'ont, tout simplement, pas imaginé (a)- que le vaccin serait trouvé aussi vite et (b)- que l'industrie n'était pas prête. Cette erreur d'appréciation résume ce qu'est l'Europe : elle est déjà morte, mais  refuse de s’en rendre compte.

La crise a confirmé qu'il n’existe pas ''un peuple européen'' et que ce qui pourrait créer une identité commune disparaît. Si nous voulions avoir une confédération européenne, avec des langues et des cultures différentes comme la confédération helvétique, il fallait tout miser sur la subsidiarité, sur la démocratie, sur l'absence de normes contraignantes, sur une gestion rigoureuse de l'autorité centrale et sur une harmonisation fiscale par la baisse, pour rendre la zone euro plus attractive aux investisseurs. Or on a fait  exactement le contraire : on a méprisé les référendums nationaux, donné toujours plus de pouvoirs à la coûteuse bureaucratie bruxelloise, laissé filer le dramatique endettement français à l’abri des taux d’intérêt allemands, situations fiscales très disparates --bercés par cet égarement français qu'une confiscation fiscalité finit par être tolérée... Mais les idéologues de tout genre ne pouvaient se contenter d'une Europe-moyen-économique : il leur fallait une Europe politique, une Europe sociale, une Europe de la défense, une Europe des normes, une Europe écologique et géopolitique. Le fiasco est total ? Ils persistent !

Pourtant, l'UE n'a pas toujours été la grosse machine lointaine actuelle. C'est une mauvaise évolution qui a détourné les institutions européennes vers des missions qui leur étaient étrangères, comme cette folie d'une ''politique étrangère commune'' (commune au Royaume-Uni, à l'Autriche et au Portugal, à la Hongrie ... et à la France, entre autres ?). Les nuls surpayés du Berlaymont ont cherché à maquiller ces cauchemars sous un langage fleuri (''rendre l'UE plus démocratique'' e faisant croire que leur main-mise était démocratique et allait le devenir plus encore...), alors que la désunion, évidente, provient surtout du refus du réel des responsables européens, français en tête. Les élites de l'UE savent qu'elles ne sont rien : ni élues, ni transparentes, ni responsables. En fin de compte, tout se résume à un jeu de rôles entre elles et des gouvernements (élus, eux) qui ne s'entendent sur rien.

Ce qui a détruit le ''rêve européen'', c'est la vicieuse subversion des institutions européennes vers des missions qui leur étaient étrangères : la paix (pari perdu !)... la lutte contre l'exclusion sociale... des normes communes... la doctrine du libre échange poussé à la caricature et à la perversion... la promotion d'un progrès sociétal mortifère... la sécurité et la justice redéfinies... ou une politique étrangère commune, comme nous l'avons vu. Institutions et procédures ont été ensuite constamment adaptées, tordues et déformées, pour atteindre ces fausses finalités extra-économiques --au détriment de leur ''feuille de route''. Parmi ces nouveautés contre nature, le Pacte vert pour l'Europe est un crime qui veut faire de l'Europe le 1er espace ''neutre pour le climat'' (sic !), en réduisant à zéro les émissions de gaz à effet de serre d'ici 2050, quitte à mette à genoux des industries entières ou à supprimer des millions d'emplois (NDLR : ce sujet mérite un ''billet'' à lui tout seul). Mais les prises de positions étant ce qu’elles sont, tout réveil est hélas impossible !

   H-Cl.

[web-of-fics]

Notes - Part 2

Starring: Peter Parker x reader (female)

Fandom: MCU

Words: 1674

Click here to read part 1!

Summary: After befriending the person he shares his desk with, Peter tries to find a way to meet them. 

✎_____________________________________________________________________

“Mr. Parker. What were you thinking!” coming from their principal, it wasn’t a question as much as an exclamation.

“I-- uh, I’m sorry sir I--”

“I don’t want to hear it!”

Peter sank further into the office chair. It wasn’t until he had been called in that he had realized he probably could have volunteered to monitor the detention room or something. That option had not occurred to him while he was flooding the east hallway to make it a slip-n-slide during lunch hour. He wanted a fast ticket to detention without actually doing anyone harm. But according to the school administration, the floors and walls had suffered enough damage to warrant suspension.

“Look, it was just supposed to be a prank. It was a stupid prank, I promise I’ll pay for any damages. It might take me a while but I’ll even pay to repaint the lockers or something too. Just please please don’t suspend me, I’ll lose my internship for sure...” Peter babbled.

The principal stiffened, recalling that Peter worked for Tony Stark. The Tony Stark, who had so kindly funded the school’s science and technology programming for the past few months. Surely those donations would cease if they were no longer benefitting his own intern.

“Mr. Parker,” he sighed heavily.

Peter stared, wide-eyed.

“You raise some good points. I am going to let you go this time with a warning,” he said through his teeth. “And if I ever catch wind of you being involved with something like this again in any way, I will have no choice but to suspend you, if not expel...”

Peter’s mouth was dry. Hermione had been right: just thinking about expulsion sent Peter into a panic worse than when he had faced death through his Spidey adventures. Hopefully this would all be worth it when he got to finally see you in detention.

“I understand, thank you sir,” Peter said breathlessly. “I suppose I should just march myself down to detention, huh?” he said willingly.

“Ab-solutely not! I want you off school grounds by the time I count to ten and I don’t want to see you here for the rest of the day Mr. Parker. Go home and study.” He pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, breathing steadily to manage his fury.

“But shouldn’t I be punish--” Peter started. The principal began counting and Peter darted out of the room, almost slipping on the still-wet hallway.

He didn’t take the ten-second countdown seriously, but Peter knew he had to stay out of sight. Still, he took the long way around to the front exit so he could pass the detention room.

Peter approached the door, glancing up and down the hallway as he did to make sure he was still alone. He angled himself so he could peek through the slotted window in the doorway without being in plain view of anyone inside. He craned his neck. He could see that someone was sitting in his seat, but he couldn’t see their face. He pressed his hands to the door and leaned sideways, craning further, trying to catch a glimpse...

Peter’s shoe squeaked as his foot slipped sideways, forcing him to reach out instinctively for support. His hand caught the door handle, pushing it down and opening the door as he regained his balance.

He froze, staring at the room full of delinquents as they stared back. The attending teacher looked up lazily from his desk. “Ah, late for detention, eh? May I assume tardiness is what brought you here to begin with?” he smiled knowingly, although he could not have been more wrong. “Grab a seat please. We have about twenty minutes left.”

Everyone else in the room turned back to their own thoughts as Peter’s feet propelled him forward and into the open seat next to the girl he was certain was his desk friend. He glanced at you sideways, unable to tear his eyes away as he tried to learn as much as he could about you now that he was seeing you in person. Loose hair, soft jaw, pursed lips.

You were were focused on your Chem homework, hoping to finish it by the time you were dismissed. Other than the social faux pas of being a kid in detention, it was just like another study hall. The quiet in this room sure beat the chaos at home. You scribbled a few more calculations and closed the last page of the packet, glancing again to the bottom corner of the desk where you had written your answer to your mysterious friend’s question last night. The “yes” had been erased with no replacement question for you to answer. You weren’t sure what it meant.

The kid who had come in late and sat next to you cleared his throat loudly. You ignored him. You flipped your packet over and started to doodle on the backside, watching the clock count down the remaining five minutes before you were free.

Peter cleared his throat again, accidentally aspirating this time and launching himself into a coughing fit.

You inched your chair away self-consciously, not sure if this kid was sick on top of being tardy. You hated tardy kids. As if they had more important places to be than school! You got that school wasn’t for everyone, but some of your classmates could at least make more of an effort than showing up an hour late with their extravagant and unnecessary lattes.

“Alright everybody, that does it for today. Scram.” The teacher unbuckled his briefcase and slipped a folder into it as the room emptied.

You stuffed your supplies into your backpack and stood.

“Um,” the kid who had been sitting next to you caught your attention. You looked down just as he erased something he had written on his desk. Had he been coughing to try and get you to look over? Suddenly everything clicked into place. But you were too nervous that you might be wrong. Better to hear what this guy had to say first. His warm eyes and floppy hair didn’t seem threatening. But how humiliating would it be to have the wrong guy.

“Uh, yeah?” you said cautiously.

He stood awkwardly to meet your gaze. “Um, hi.”

The teacher didn’t so much as look back at the pair of you as he vacated the room.

Now the two of you stood alone. At this point you weren’t positive if you were speaking to a friend or a total stranger.

“Weird question,” he laughed nervously. “But, um, do you sit there every day?” he pointed at the desk.

Heat rushed into your face. “Yes,” your tongue dried up as you answered.

“Oh, good. I mean me too. During first period.”

“Oh! Wow so that means... you get my notes?” you said boldly.

“Yeah,” he laughed nervously. You felt the same way. Excited to finally meet your mysterious new friend but terrified of messing it up now that you were standing face-to-face.

“So, um, this is sort of awkward, but you didn’t answer my last question...” you said.

“I did! And I asked you--something, but when I sat there today it was all erased. I wasn’t sure if it was, you know, someone who works here or maybe you didn’t want to answer me or something,” Peter said quickly.

“Oh,” you said, taking a moment to process this. You had spend the beginning of detention thinking your question about his favorite birthday had scared him off. “Yeah, well I didn’t erase it,” you laughed. “I guess things turned out okay though!”

“What do you mean?”

“My answer was yes. Yes, I would very much like to meet in person someday,” you beamed.

Now it was Peter’s turn to process things. “Um... cool.”

“What, am I not all you hoped I would be?” you said half-jokingly.

“No--not that! Sorry! You seem just as cool as I imagined. Cooler. But I was just thinking that meeting in detention is kind of lame,” Peter said with an uncertain smile.

“Oh, yeah,” you felt heat rise in your face even more. What must he be thinking about you right now? “I’m only here because I let my friend copy my homework. She’s not doing great in Chem but she needs to keep her GPA so she can stay on the volleyball team,” you shrugged, hoping it was better to sound like a nerd than a prankster or something.

“Oh,” a genuine, relieved smile spread across Peter’s face. You both turned for the door and continued talking into the hallway. “You know, I’m not even supposed to be in detention.” he said.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Peter was about to say more when you both turned down the water-soaked hallway. Whoever had attempted to clean this up earlier had really not been thorough.

“What--” you started.

Peter burst into laughter. “Um, I could explain this if you want. It’s a whole thing.”

“You did this?” you said with wide eyes as you picked your way carefully towards the exit.

“Like I said, it’s a long story. Um, if you’re free we could stop for a milkshake somewhere and I could tell you about it? We could pretend that’s our first time meeting instead.”

“That sounds awesome. I have to stop home for like two seconds but give me an address and I’ll meet you there.”

“Maybe this is a good time to exchange numbers?”

“Oh yeah, definitely,” you said, handing your phone over and typing your name and number into his. You switched back and read his name, finally having a name for the mysterious note buddy you’d had for the past three weeks.

Peter Parker.

Your phone buzzed with a text from him: the promised milkshake address.

“Got it. See you in a few, then, Peter Parker.”

You both waved as you parted, grinning wildly to yourselves with excitement at the realization that your beloved note friend turned out to be an equally cool nerd in person.

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