#i want them to thrive NOT like the previous campaigns but in their own fucked up way

[beedreamscape]

Let me write this before I lose my line of thought, (Again another RANT for the weak of heart)

but I think BH needs to lose something that matters to them, I'm talking true loss --- not like losing Bertrand or Eshteross which they mostly didn't care about, or like losing the skyship which they sacrificed willingly, or 'losing' their newfound friends/lovers to a research mission that should've ended at least a month ago.

I could add Laudna to the above list since everyone knew we'd get her back eventually, but at the very least it gave them drive (which gave us one of the coolest battles in the campaign which was worth nothing in the end, hey Delilah...)

But lose something that makes them ache, that shifts their dynamic into life and gives them purpose --- like losing Dorian! like fumbling the Paragon's Call infiltration and losing that battle in Bassuras with three party members down! like dropping a ship on a wizard's head and meaning very little! like 'losing' each other across a communication-less Exandria when you thought victory was within your grasp! like aaaalmost losing a friend to a million pieces for a decision he made!

There's so much stagnation in Bells Hells that it drives me insane, they're not the same people from the beginning but maybe apart from FCG and a little bit Orym and Imogen, most of them are still committing the same fallacies as they did in the beginning.

[woman-for-women]

Excerpts from Elliot Page's Memoir, "Pageboy"

(Content warning: homophobia/lesbophobia, slurs, misogyny, violence, eating disorders, and self harm)

Homophobia/Lesbophobia

"The success of Juno coincided with people in the industry telling me no one could know I was queer. That it wouldn’t be good for me, that I should have options, to trust that this was for the best. So I put on the dresses and the makeup. I did the photo shoots. I kept Paula hidden. I was struggling with depression and having panic attacks so bad I would collapse. I could barely function. Numb and quiet, nails in my stomach, I was incapable of articulating the depth of pain I was in, especially because “my dreams were coming true,” or at least that is what I was being told. I dismissed my feelings as dramatic, berated myself for being ungrateful. I felt too guilty to say I was hurting, incapacitated, that I didn’t see a future."

"I’d decided I could go it alone after a previous experience where an innocent teenage question—“Did you ever watch Xena?”—was met with “No, because I’m not a lesbian.” I was glad to not be working with that publicist anymore—these comments emblematic of the Hollywood they warn you about. Plastic, empty, homophobic."

"It was 2014, and I had come out as gay only two months before at a Human Rights Campaign conference in Vegas called Time to Thrive, the inaugural event focusing on LGBTQ+ youth…“I see what you are doing. I’m not stupid. I see what you are doing.” He stood too close. Staring down at me where I sat. “What am I doing?” I answered flatly. More confused than anything. At his aggression, his malevolent smile. “Oh please. It’s obvious what you’re doing. The attention.” I was familiar with this tone, this body language—threatening but casual. Flaunting his power. But it took me a moment to process what he might be alluding to. “Is this about me being gay?” Spurred, somehow provoked, he sat on the bench next to me and started to lay in. “That doesn’t exist. You aren’t gay. You are just afraid of men.” He said it ruthlessly, loud but with a smile. Gloating. Responding was useless. It was making it worse. He just kept going. People were telling him to stop, but he didn’t, and they gave up. I stood up and crossed to the other side of the terrace, trying to remove myself from the situation. He followed, sitting next to me again, his body close. “You’re just afraid of men. Men are predators and you’re just afraid of them.” He spoke to me as if no opinion mattered but his own. A stroke of wisdom to bestow upon me. Wasted slurs of words vomited out of his body as my body compacted, elbows on alert. I told him to stop harassing me, to fuck off, that he was being extremely offensive. I got up again and went inside. He pursued behind. I sat down on a small sofa, and he did, too. People danced to the Spring Breakers soundtrack, breaking it down to “Scary Monsters and Nice Sprites.” Look at this I’m a coward, too You don’t need to hide, my friend For I’m just like you “I’m going to fuck you to make you realize you aren’t gay. I’m going to lick your asshole. It is going to taste like lime. You’re not gay,” he slurred. He kept describing how he was going to fuck me, touch me, lick me. How he liked to pity fuck women. I don’t know why I didn’t demand he leave, ask for people to do more than “Yo, leave her alone.” Some of my closest friends were there, witnessing it. Power works in funny ways. He was, and still is, one of the most famous actors in the world."

"We were two boys, and we looked like two boys. “What are you, fucking faggots?” A group of teenagers were coming at us. Faggots. Faggots. Faggots. They were bigger, menacing, cruel. “Faggots. We are going to beat you up.” “I’m a girl,” I told them."

"I sensed spite from some people in the industry, a hostility even. That flash of aggression, hidden in “jokes,” blamed on alcohol, the sexual harassment dismissed. I remember sitting in a former agent’s office, thrilled that VICE wanted to make Gaycation. We’d be in Japan in just a couple months to film the first episode. When one of the major players of the agency walked in, I shared the news. “We get it, you’re gay!” he responded instantly."

"I was persuaded to reject a character not long before I came out as gay because it “wouldn’t be helpful.” Subtext: people think you’re a homo and this will make them think you are definitely a homo and you can’t exist as who you are if you want to have a career."

"“Don’t you fucking talk about me, faggot. I know you’re talking about me. I’m going to beat you up, fag!” He charged toward me from behind, yelling at me, Madisyn hearing all this through the phone. “I’m going to fucking gay bash you, faggot.”...That jolt of panic, a flashback to being with Justin on the hill or when another man in West Hollywood, years before, screamed, “I’m going to beat you into the ground, you ugly fucking dyke. I’ll kill you before the police get here.” My friend Angela and I sped away in her car. Or when I ran from a group of teenage girls who surrounded me at eighteen. “It isn’t Halloween. Why are you dressed up as a lesbian?” one of them asked as they approached, threatening me. Or when Paula and I dodged a friend of a friend who came at us around a bonfire, wasted and enraged by our snuggling. “You don’t have to shove it in our faces!” he barked. Others had to intervene, fighting him off until he stumbled away. “This is why I need a gun!” the man yelled right behind me as I frantically swung open the door to Pink Dot. “Please help! This guy is screaming at me, calling me a faggot and saying he is going to bash me.” The words flew out of my mouth. As I swung my head over my shoulder and back."

"“Faggots! Faggots!” he said as he walked away. The s slithered, ssss, like poison down the throat. That time, I pivoted, a reflex, boiling rage from all the times I hadn’t turned around. “Did you just call me a fucking faggot? Fuck you!” I yelled, repeatedly, as a few people standing on the sidewalk watched."

"The first time I tried to speak to my mom about sexuality, it didn’t go very well. I was fifteen and coming to terms with how attracted I was to women, only letting myself think of them when I was alone. Searching online:  Am I gay? How do I know if I am gay? There was no need to avert my eyes from my male peers. They did not titillate me. My nerves hummed around certain girls, I’d have to avoid them. It must be so obvious, I’d worry. I was in the passenger seat, head down, mustering up my strength. I turned to my mother. Her eyes were on the road. Her silver earrings dangled, not quite reaching her jawline, swaying with the car’s movement. “Mom, I think I may be gay—” “That doesn’t exist!” she yelled before I’d completed the word. My body sank in the passenger seat, the air sucked from me. I hung my head. She looked forward again and neither of us said another word about it. As I aged, it became clearer that I wasn’t going to be a pretty straight girl. The pressure from my mother to alter my appearance began to increase, alongside the bullying at school. I tried. My mom’s joy and relief faded to disappointment as I began to return to my original state. She did not want me hanging out exclusively with boys anymore. “You like Tina, why don’t you do something with her this weekend?” she’d say offhandedly, as if I didn’t know it wasn’t simply a casual, friendly question. When high school began, she encouraged me to spend more time with the girls on my soccer team rather than my closest pals. She didn’t want me hanging with the kids who were dressed in all black with various colors of hair, purple, green-blue, poking out from under hoods and beanies. The freaks, the artists … let’s be real, the queers...I didn’t talk to her about my sexuality again until I fell in love with Paula at twenty years old. Actually, I didn’t talk about my sexuality even then, I just said, “I’m in love with a woman and her name is Paula.” At twenty-four I tried again. “I’m gay, Mom, you know that, right? I’m gay and I’m not going to end up with a man,” I finally said when a woman moved in with me."

"My partner [at the time] was more closeted than me for a change, but everything is in degrees, people meet at different points of their journey, unable to sync up the tracks. We were together for almost two years, and even some of my closest friends were not aware I was in a relationship. Her parents did not know. I was the friend that came for Christmas. Only her sister and two of her friends knew. We never touched outside, we barely went to dinner. She was in my phone under the name “Ryan.”...It was not a sustainable relationship, just like when I had kept people hidden. The lying, the anxiety, the disgust. People didn’t “think she was queer,” but they definitely assumed I was, and I don’t think she could handle the shame. Ultimately, she had to do what was best for her, and unfortunately it resulted in my heart being shattered."

"Similar to thoughts I had when the idea of being queer felt impossible, believing as an actor that I would never be able to come out, praying to God knows what, please make me like men."

"A couple hours into the flight I felt a tap on my left shoulder. It was the priest and the curate, they passed me a piece of folded loose-leaf paper. A note. I smiled pleasantly and turned around to read it. I unfolded it, expecting a kind message from an LGBTQ+ supporting, progressive religious leader. No dice. It began with him acknowledging that his companion knew who I was, but he did not. I took the liberty of googling you. (Uh-oh) He went on to say that what I am wasn’t real. A belief and just that. Your soul is struggling. You need the arms of the Heavenly Father around you. (Ew) And I kid you not. Signed, Your Heavenly Daddy. There were a couple hours left on the flight. I was not sure what to do. Do I say something? Do I write a note back? I figured, what was the point? Truly. A quick convo is not going to change that priest’s mind, and giving any of it the time of day would let the toxins sink in. So, I refolded the note, stuck it in my pocket, and went back to my business. The plane landed. Welcome home."

Gender Non-Conformity, Dysphoria & Same-Sex Attraction

"I was planning on wearing jeans and a western(ish) shirt to Juno’s world premiere. I thought it was a cool look, and it had a collar. That’s fancy, right? I thought. When the Fox Searchlight publicity team learned about my outfit, they urgently took me to Holt Renfrew on Bloor Street, with a dramatic rushing that is characteristic of the Hollywood circulatory system. I suggested a suit. They said I should wear a dress and heels. After they discussed this with the director, he called me. He said he agreed with them, insisting that I play the part. Michael Cera rocked sneakers, slacks, and a collared shirt. He looked fancy to me. I wonder why they didn’t take him to Holt Renfrew. I guess he had nothing to hide, he was approved. He fit the part."

"“When did you know?” she asked as we stood outside, leaning against a wall. She loomed over me. For a brief moment, I wondered what she meant. This is something I’m asked frequently and not something I wish for during a casual night out. I’d experienced this inquiry as a queer woman, but as a trans guy it’s perpetual. Code for—I don’t believe you. I knew when I was four years old. I went to the YMCA preschool in downtown Halifax, on South Park Street across from the Public Gardens. The building had a dark brick facade and has since been demolished and replaced. Primarily, I understood that I wasn’t a girl. Not in a conscious sense but in a pure sense, uncontaminated. That sensation is one of my earliest and clearest memories. The bathroom was down the hall from my preschool class. I would try to pee standing up, assuming this to be the better fit for me. I would press on my vagina, holding it, pinching and squeezing it, hoping I could aim. I befouled the stall, but the bathroom often smelled of urine anyway. I was perplexed by my experience, severed from the other girls, twists in my stomach when I gazed at them. I remember one in particular, Jane. Her long brown hair, the way she could draw, her eyes focused and still with concentration. I was jealous of her artistic abilities. When I drew a person, limbs would protrude out of the head, arms like branches, thin lines for fingers. Little chicken legs with oversize sneakers. Jane, however, would draw a body, a stomach, a belly button. I was transfixed. My first crush, but I knew I was not like her. “Can I be a boy?” I asked my mother at six years old. We lived on Second Street at the time, having moved only a few minutes’ walk from our previous attic apartment on Churchill Drive. A ground-level flat on a tree-lined street, it had two bedrooms, hardwood floors, and a lovely small living area with big windows. I’d sit in front of the TV for hours playing Sega Genesis—Aladdin, NHL ’94, Sonic the Hedgehog—praying to God when my back was against the ropes, requiring the all-magnificent force to help me beat the game. There are no atheists in foxholes. “No, hon, you can’t, you’re a girl,” my mother responded. She paused, not moving her eyes from the dish towels she was methodically folding, before saying, “But you can do anything a boy can do.” One by one, stacking them neatly in their place. It reminded me of how she looked when ordering a Happy Meal for me at McDonald’s. I insisted on the “boys’ toy” every time—a delightful, congenial bribe. My mother’s discomfort requesting the toy was palpable, releasing a sort of shy giggle, slivers of shame peering through. Often they gave the girls’ one anyway. At ten, people started addressing me as a boy. Having won a yearlong battle to cut my hair short, I started to get a “thanks, bud” when holding the door for someone at the Halifax Shopping Centre. It was unfathomable to me that I wasn’t a boy. I writhed in clothes that were even in the slightest bit feminine. Everyone around me saw a different person than I saw, so for much of my childhood I preferred to be alone. I played by myself extensively. “Private play,” I called it. “Mom, I’m going to have private play now,” I’d say as I marched up the stairs to my room, closing the door behind me. I loved action figures—Batman and Robin, Hook and Peter Pan, Luke Skywalker, two Barbies from Happy Meals whose hair I cut off. The “girl toy” making it into the bag, despite the “boy toy” request. I was a walking stereotype, just not in the way my mom wanted."

"I would write love letters to my fake girlfriend from across the lava floor, always signing, Love, Jason. I would tell her about my adventures abroad, how I longed for her, cared for her, that I needed her in my arms. Those were some of the best times of my life, traveling to another dimension where I was … me. And not just a boy but a man, a man who could fall in love and be loved back. Why do we lose that ability? To create a whole world? A bunk bed was a kingdom, I was a boy. My imagination was a lifeline. It was where I felt the most unrestrained, unselfconscious, real. Not a visualization, far more natural. Not a wishing, but an understanding. When I was present with myself, I knew, without exception. I saw with startling clarity then. I miss that."

"I often dreamed of being Aladdin. But it wasn’t for the rug, or the wishes, or the teeny monkey, but to know what it feels like to delicately touch a girl."

"A barrette in my hair with a baby-blue butterfly. I wanted to tear it out, taking my hair with it. I’d throw a fit, a feeling of betrayal spreading through me, as my mom tried to dress me. The sensation of tights squeezing my legs exacerbated all the discomforts that I couldn’t yet put words to. I didn’t grow out of this “phase” when I was supposed to, and my mom’s distaste for what I wore and whom I befriended grew. Masculine clothes and boys as friends should have been over, that whole tomboy thing—a label that never felt quite right to me, but it was what everyone called me so eventually it was what I called myself—a hazy memory. I should be turning into a young lady, my mother’s idea of one at least. “I just want what’s best for you … I want to protect you … I don’t want you to have a hard life.” These sentiments would slide over me. What was best meant fitting neatly into our society’s expectations. Staying inside the lines. The perfect heroine’s journey preemptively and unknowingly written for me. How would her family, friends, soccer parents, fellow teachers, and neighbors feel? Had she done something wrong? What if it was a sin? And whether it was conscious or not—If I had to conform, why shouldn’t you have to?"

"This was around when I was arriving at the age where being a tomboy was no longer a cute look. The lurking pressure to change was omnipresent, a consistent state of disapproval. I imagine [my mom] may have prayed for me to not be gay."

"As puberty transmuted me into a character I had no interest in playing, my isolation, insecurity, and unknowing grew."

"Hair, wardrobe, and makeup at work was typically a nightmare for me. Ironically, playing a pregnant teenager was one of the first times I felt a modicum of autonomy on set. I was wearing a fake belly but not being hyperfeminized. For me, Juno was emblematic of what could be possible, a space beyond the binary."

"My chest began to grow, leading to awkward conversations about training bras, forcing me to try to find those perfectly oversize concealing T-shirts; my posture began to fold, shoulders caving in. My confidence dwindled in conjunction with my self-disgust rising. And then my period came...That smell of metallic blood, a robot leaking. My dad went to the store and got pads. I fussed and fiddled until it was secure in my underwear. I’m going to have to wear this diaper every month? I thought. I wished I could wear a tampon due to the chafing, but no fucking way was I attempting that. My weight redistributed in a way that I did not understand, my clothes from the Gap’s boys section began to betray me. I could not detect myself. I didn’t transform into me—the me I knew I was—like the other boys did. I was desperate to wake up from this bad dream, my reflection making me increasingly ill."

"In retrospect, I should have known the shoot was going to be a shitshow...I knew from the initial wardrobe fitting. Instantly I discerned what they were aiming for. More like a girl. Heels and skirts were laid out, which I didn’t understand, they were medical students in residency at an intensive care unit. The film takes place over a matter of days, and my character hardly even changes her clothes. I understood the assignment and I was going to comply, but there was categorically no rationale for the character to wear heels or a skirt. I said yes to fancy blouses, tight jeans, and boots with a heel. I figured the issue was settled. We solved the problem, the problem being me."

"[O]ne of the heads of production asked me, “Ellen, can you stay for a bit so we can chat?” “Sure,” I responded, thrown off by his tone, saying goodbye to everyone. I sat across from him, a desk between us, the sterile room enclosed by unadorned walls. “You know, Ellen, I grew up in a very progressive area,” he began. “It is very open there and I grew up knowing gay people…” Oh no, I thought. Never a good start. The words came out as if rehearsed. I imagined him workshopping the moment, blocking it out in his mind, matching the words with the smiles. The cloak of “nice.” “Ellen, are you mad that this character isn’t gay?” he asked me. I stared at him. I paused, less shock, more astonishment. He’d been friendly, grounded, and passionate, someone I was looking forward to working with. His exuberance clear at the table read, I had admired his energy. My astonishment morphed into a quiet boil. “Are you asking me this because I did not want to wear a skirt?” His face remained the same, an annoying grin with a glinting youthfulness in the eyes, but I pressed on. “Are you really asking me if I am angry about this character not being gay because I am not wearing a fucking skirt?” He looked on inscrutably, as if being pleasant means you are not queerphobic. “Your view of women is egregiously narrow,” I said to the man, reminding him lesbians wear skirts, too. He tried to voice a response, fumbling again and again, tripping over his words. He attempted to recover but failed. I left him in the room and headed back to the studio. When I arrived, I beelined to an executive’s office, a man I would later watch give a woman an unwanted massage on set. His subsequent texts to Kiersey asking her to go to dinner glared with gross. I entered the room with his name on the door and crossed to the chair in front of his desk. I lifted my hands, and curling my fingers I brought them together, creating a nanoscopic tunnel to peer through. “Your view of women is this small.” I spied through the hole at him, apoplectic. “It is this fucking small.” He looked back vacuously. I persisted, speaking of the limitations, the misogyny, the queerphobia. All that I had swallowed for years, I hauled out my insides for him to gorge on. In spite of all that, I continued to prioritize the needs of everyone else over mine. I allowed the erasure, endorsing their disillusionment, trying not to be “difficult” anymore. I knew those in charge were dancing around the subtext. I knew they wanted me to look “less queer.” I asked them to leave me to it, again reiterating that if I were to wear the clothes they wished for, I would look ridiculous, incongruous with the script, and that I understood the mission. That I would execute it. I’m sorry who I am is repulsive. I’m trying. Can’t you see? I try to rid myself of my “queer walk,” the way my arms dangle and bend, how my hands move, that way I sit, “not ladylike,” as my father used to say. Soften the voice, be quiet. The screen can’t be full of my repugnant features. Those “boyish” ones, those “lesbian” ones. I know that. I’ve known that."

"I’d always been told I was gay, made fun of for being a dyke. I felt more comfortable in environments with queer women, but inherently something in me knew that I was transgender. Something I had always known but didn’t have the words for, wouldn’t permit myself to embrace. “I was never a girl, I’ll never be a woman. What am I going to do?” I used to say. Have always said. The first time I acknowledged I was trans, in the properly conscious sense, beyond speculation, was around my thirtieth birthday. Almost four years before I came out as trans publicly. “Do you think I’m trans?” I’d asked a close friend. They answered hesitantly, knowing no one can come to that conclusion for someone else, but they looked at me with a quiet recognition and said, “I could see that…” A sturdiness shining through, a light from under the door."

"The world tells us that we aren’t trans but mentally ill. That I’m too ashamed to be a lesbian, that I mutilated my body, that I will always be a woman, comparing my body to Nazi experiments. It is not trans people who suffer from a sickness, but the society that fosters such hate. As actress and writer Jen Richards once put it: It’s exceedingly surreal to have transitioned ten years ago, find myself happier & healthier than ever, have better relationships with friends & family, be a better and more engaged citizen, and yes, even more productive … and to then see strangers pathologize that choice. My being trans almost never comes up. It’s a fact about my past that has relatively little bearing on my present, except that it made me more empathetic, more engaged in social justice. How does it hurt anyone else? What about my peace demands vitriol, violence, protections? Sitting with Star by the pool, I couldn’t quite touch the truth, but I could talk about my gender without bawling. That was a step. It had taken a long time to allow any words to come out. When the subject came up in therapy, my reaction felt inordinate, lost in sobs. “Why do I feel this way?” I’d plead. “What is this feeling that never goes away? How can I be desperately uncomfortable all the time? How can I have this life and be in such pain?”"

"My chest, the staring down, wanting more pressure but despising the reminder. There was always a reminder. Unable to shower, remove my hoodie, eat without anxiety, or eat at all. Sadness came over me, a grief and anger, livid that I could not just be. Exhausted by the distress, a brain that was about to crack, unsure if I was able to cope. And then something happened. You don’t have to feel this way. That voice. I don’t have to feel this way? That fucking voice. You don’t have to feel this way. I don’t have to feel this way. This was not miracle water that sprang out of nowhere. This was a long-ass journey. However, this moment was indeed that simple, as it should be—deciding to love yourself. There had been multiple forks in the road, and more than once I had taken the wrong path, or not, depends on how you look at it I guess. It is painful the unraveling, but it leads you to you. There it finally was, a portal. It was time to step through."

Disordered Eating

"The waiter placed our food on the table, snapping me out of a stupor. I stared down at my margherita pizza. Wiebke sat opposite me, lifting the knife provided to cut hers, it had pears and ham. I zoomed out, departing from my body. Nope. The voice spoke with a sinister tone. That can’t go inside of you...It isn’t as if I had no food thoughts before. They had started to pop up when puberty launched. I was filling out, growing breasts, all my discomfort heightened as boys and girls disentangled. Watching myself on-screen had not been a problem for me really, but as my body morphed, that changed. The more visible I became, the more I waned. My pizza still untouched, we headed home."

"It seemed to be the solution, food restriction my new norm. This all coincided with puberty, my body continuing to develop, but not like Mark’s. Reality settled in, I would never see myself in the mirror, I’d forever feel this disgust, and I punished my body for it. Research has shown that transgender and gender-nonconforming youth are four times more likely to struggle with an eating disorder. My brain became consumed by counting calories, time passing, how to make myself full without making myself full. When to make the clear herbal tea that satiated my gut just enough. Endless gum chewing. Avoiding. I’d measure my All-Bran in the morning, the soy milk, too. Dismissing Wiebke’s concerns, I’d bring a protein bar to school for lunch and allow myself to eat only half of it."

"Playing a character that was partially starved to death allowed me to lean in to my desire to disappear, to punish myself. “It’s for a film,” I’d say in response to a mention of my small bites, the annoying, concerned tone, almost a challenge. I’ll prove to you all that I need nothing. The little voice would brag with the creak of a side smile. In agony, Sylvia would scratch the concrete floor until the tips of her fingers wore off, she chewed her lip compulsively, biting through the pain. When they found her body it looked as though she had two mouths. I’m hungry. Two more hours, then you can eat. What am I going to eat? Steamed vegetables and brown rice … half of it. How much more time? One hour and forty-five minutes. I’d shower at night, washing off the burns, the bruises, a reminder that I had nothing to complain about. How dare I acknowledge my silly pain as anywhere near hers....By the end of the shoot, I had lost a significant amount of weight. And it continued to plummet when I returned to Halifax, where I was still living on and off. I dropped to eighty-four pounds. My arms were so skinny I could take the outer sleeve of a to-go coffee cup, stick my hand through and slide it up my arm, beyond my elbow and to my shoulder. Wasting away. Later that year, I dressed up as a coffee cup sleeve for Halloween—WARNING HOT BEVERAGE INSIDE—spelled out with a thick black marker. No matter the words or looks of concern or how many rich pastries people tried to get me to eat, I could not see it. I refused to. Hurting my body to that extreme must have been a cry for help, but when the help would come, it made me angry and resentful. Where have you been? An unfair question really. I had never communicated what I’d been grappling with to anyone."

Self Harm

"Getting ready for school, solo in the bathroom, I’d smash my head with my hairbrush. Who is that in the mirror? Squinting my eyes shut, bracing for it, slam slam slam. My mother’s queen bed had a frame that included tall wooden posts on the corners, the tops of them resembling upside-down ice-cream cones. When I was alone, able to keep my secret, I would climb up onto the bed. I’d stare at the post, aligning my torso so the spike would drill directly into my stomach. I’d hoist my body up, conspiring with gravity to impale myself. It hurt but also didn’t hurt. I loved having an outlet for my self-disdain, the nausea, I wanted it scooped out."

"I looked down to my hand and clenched it. The words were always the same, I just needed to shut up. Hard and sharp, I struck myself with my knuckles. Surprised at my temerity, I glanced back down at my fist. Inspecting it, I looked at both sides and then, WHAM! Again. And again. Harder. Sharper. I pummeled my face, pounding next to my right eye. Some other force working to knock it out. Bruises materialized. I’d be seeing people in a couple days, friends who were coming up to stay briefly at another cabin nearby. I had to surmise a way of explaining it, or a way of hiding it. Did I trip and fall? Hit the side of the table? That seemed made up. I iced it on and off, obsessively checking the mirror. Maybe I dropped my phone on my face while lying on my back? The bruise was way too big for that. Maybe you need to just tell someone? Nope, I wasn’t going to do that. I attempted to cover the shiner with foundation. Dabbing it with my finger, trying different strategies. It worked somewhat. My face hurt, but the pain came mostly from shame and guilt. I felt awful about what I had done to my body, about covering up for my self-abusive self. Sleeping in my shoes was one thing, battering my face was different, a breaking point. And there it was, that edge again. A body smarter than me."

[noncombativednd]

What Does a good D&D game.. look like?

“Those Lost Shall Not Be Forgotten” is what the flag says. That’s the Flag to the city of New Hope. It’s written in Infernal, and it’s about the previous city “Last Hope” that was destroyed by a powerful ritual that wasn’t stopped in time. Last Hope was the only Tiefling run city and when it was destroyed, the survivors were kicked off their “borrowed” Elven lands and forced to create a new city on new lands.

The flames and the colors on the “compass“ represent the 8 major families and the common colors of their houses. Those families are suppose to be direct bloodlines from powerful devils who’s powers they used to help keep the city in control. Those houses where not spared from the powerful ritual that destroyed most of the old city; and new young upstarts to these houses are starting to learn the powers their bloodline has, as they struggle to built up a whole new city on foreign lands.

Now here’s the kicker. That’s not Lore. That was the GAME. What started up as a joke with all three of us saying “Ha! Let’s all just play Tieflings! Oh, they have high Charisma? Why not make them all part of a traveling Band!” turned into a powerful story about a tiny nation struggling to survive against those who would rather see it destroyed; with us, the players, at the center of it. Each of us started as just children of the leaders of a powerful Tiefling house, but due to our own incompetence and inability to see the real threat.. We went from wanting to run away from home.. to being 3 of the 8 council members of the only Tiefling Nation! We would die to keep this nation afloat.

We would not forget those the died that day.

Now I’m not saying a game is only good if your players decide to make a fricken flag! Or even (and yes we DID do this,too) write a song to inspire the survivors of a tragedy... but it goes to show how engaged with the game we were by the fact that we did all this because we cared. We were invested! Now, how did we do this? How did we get so invested in the game we were taking time out of our life to slap together flags, songs, and business plans for our game? I’ll tell you how. We, the players, helped create everything.

The DM didn’t write a whole lore dump we had to create our characters against, she worked with us on the spot to write up the whole things about Us, our powerful bloodline families, and what it meant for us, why the city was the way it was. We, the players, were creating it; she just helped glue all the pieces together so it all made sense. It wasn’t just that though. Last Hope, the old city. We started there!

That’s right, we started level 1 in Last Hope. We were kids of the powerful adults, just starting to grow up enough to want to get the hell out of that city and out of the shadows of our parents we didn’t like. We wanted to, but.. then we heard rumors. That whole Ritual? We are the ones that failed to stop it in time. We were distracted, we were misunderstood, and not trusted. One of our parents died and we couldn’t figure out if the Half-Elf that told us that something worse would go down meant “assassinate all the powerful families” at the funeral, or “do some strange ritual” at the park that would damage the city. We split up, and failed to think that the ritual itself was what would kill our parents, our people, our... city. Half the city was erased from the world in a moment. Then the game kept going.

See, this was why it was so good. Everything was just part of the game. Our rolls, our choices, our story. We decided to get boats, and take all the survivors away when the Elves, who’s “land” the city was built on, decided that the giant explosion was our fault. Fuck em! We’d rebuild the city elsewhere, and we’d use the help of their enemies, a Dragon/Dragonborn empire. We took whatever we could and found a new island that wasn’t on the charts. There, we started to rebuild. More rolls, using an updated kingdom system to build a city, setting up defense armies using an updated army warfare system, and setting up a council of the 8 houses that made up the strongest and.. well richest of the Tieflings choose what resources would be spent on what. Our rolls, our choices, our story. The DM had never planned on this, she just.. changed things after every roll.

Now if not obvious enough, there was plenty of combat. We fought to stop the ritual, as my character who is affectionately called “En”, the fighter of the group, was knocked out in the fight, only to be woken up by Chant, the bard of our group, that had finished the fight, but too late to stop the ritual. Monsters poured out of the portal, and our parents arrived in time to tell us to help evacuate the city. Beaten, but not broken, we decided to do just that. As we fought monsters to buy time for the citizens to get to safety, En lost consciousness again as she once again jumped in the way of the blow targeting another, and was impaled by it’s horns. Tresse, the sorceress of the group, was able to finish off the monster, but En was in no shape to wake up anymore. En would have to be told what the explosion that left a giant crater in the city looked like.

En would have to be told what she had failed to stop.

The combat was just the backdrop, though. Our decision to not leave the city, our decision to investigate our cities problems, our decision to try and stop a dangerous ritual on our own; That was the story. It all added up to our story, where we now are trying to help our flegling new city grow and thrive on a large island that we found out once was home to a large empire once before. Nothing was prewritten problems, nothing was just about one player’s character, nothing was about our long elaborate backgrounds, and nothing was about the NPCs. It was all about us.

So when I talk about the game, I talk about what we all did together at the table. Not our character’s backgrounds. Not the grand lore of the world. Not just one small moment in the battle where ZOMG I Crit. No, the game was good because the DM let the players help guide the story. She took our ideas and built on them, not around them. It still ongoing, too. We had to take a break, but we’re in the middle of a tense situation as we later found the “old” empire actually still existed on the island. They had their own “magical” problems hundreds of years ago, and they had finally recovered enough to try and reclaim their old lands... our lands. Needless to say, we are not giving them up. We’ve learned what horrible things they did that killed off their own people, and we’re not letting them get back that horrible power. We will not let a tragedy like that happen again. We will not lose hope again.

We will not lose our city again.

TLDR; The DM of the game asked me to add this. At the end of the day, this is the player's game. They improvise and deliver lines for the main cast of characters, decide who they are, where they go, and what they do. They make up a majority of the game even! The campaign doesn't belong to the DM, though their job is important. They still have to manage background characters, keeping the pacing right, throw problems at the players, but the editor doesn't write the book, the authors do. The Players are the Author, the DM is the Editor.

[makeste]

I’ve just realised it’s been over a year since you last listed your top 10 characters! Has anything changed since then?

a lot has changed! actually, every single ranking has changed from last time except for one (which you can probably guess, lol).

1. Bakugou (previous rank: 1)

yes, believe it or not, Bakugou is still my favorite. I’ll understand if you all need a moment to recuperate from the shock of this.

2. Deku (previous rank: 4)

hi, so. I really love Deku a lot. I think he is a great character and there’s a lot of subtlety and complexity to him that he doesn’t always get credit for. he is loving and kind, but he’s not a pushover. he has moments of deer-in-headlights anxiety when he’s in the spotlight or talking to celebrities (or girls), but then he’ll go and launch into a five-hour speech if someone mentions a topic he’s interested in. he’s very much aware of the huge burden that’s been placed on his shoulders, and is struggling to figure out how to become his own person (which is fucking hard, you guys; how many sixteen-year-olds do you know who have a solid, firm idea of who they are as a person and what it is about themselves that makes them unique individuals?) while still living up to All Might’s legacy. he’s smart and determined and capable of extraordinary things, but second-guesses himself and has a tendency to overthink everything he does. he is interesting!! and he doesn’t always get credit for being interesting! but he is! anyways Deku ilu.

3. Aizawa (previous rank: 2)

still the best. still so tired. the manga is tripling down lately on highlighting how awesome he is. childhood angst and guilt and trauma?? yes. kicking lots of ass?? hell yes. being outrageously sexy with his floating wavy hair and glowy red eyes and spending almost this entire arc in Eraser Mode while Horikoshi hopes to god no one remembers how he made it a Whole Thing after USJ that Aizawa supposedly couldn’t hold his quirk for long periods like that anymore?? oh, you bet. who is even gonna complain about it. you?? I sure am not. and last but not least, being the greatest dad in the world who’s willing to stab god in the face in order to stay alive to protect his children and continue to watch them grow?? fam. you goddamn know that is a YES WITH CAPITAL LETTERS. how can one character honestly be so great. how can he even contain it. he’s so powerful.

4. Todoroki (previous rank: 5/6)

Ochako slid all the way off my top ten list and I feel so bad about it. but she hasn’t had the spotlight for a long time, and meanwhile Shouto has had what feels like ARC AFTER ARC of being awesome and doing awesome things like becoming Bakugou’s Undisputed Best Friend, having the longest and purest canon romantic relationship in the series (I am of course talking about him/soba), and playing a key role in one of the most beautifully executed family arcs I have ever seen, with his conflicted feelings about his father that are so layered that THEIR LAYERS HAVE LAYERS. and meanwhile his quirk kicks as much ass as ever. remember that one time Shouto almost burned Tetsutetsu alive. remember that other time he fucking annihilated Ending (“GIVE ME BACK MY BROTHER”)?! and meanwhile he remains the goodest and purest child in the entire series, making sure Mt. Lady’s heart is okay, and offering his two friends internships without a second’s hesitation because THAT’S WHAT FRIENDS DO. it’s just what they do you guys.

5. Hawks (previous rank: n/a! welcome to the top ten kiddo.)

OH NO I LOVE A MURDERER WHAT A STUNNING INDICTMENT OF ME. send me off to jail. anyway so I have always liked Hawks, but the latest arc has sent him skyrocketing up through the ranks of my heart. not because of the murder thing, but... okay well but actually, it is because of the murder thing though. NOT BECAUSE I’M HAPPY HE KILLED A GUY WE ALL LOVED, jesus, but because of how well Horikoshi portrayed his struggle over it. he didn’t want to do it!! but he ended up having to in the end, and he paid one hell of a heavy price for it. and listen, but if you give me a character who is smart, who is compassionate, and who is one of the most mentally and physically capable characters we’ve seen in the series and yet simultaneously does not have even the slightest ounce of regard or self-preservation for his own mental health? a character who is tired, who is willing to make sacrifices up to and including the ultimate sacrifice for what he believes is the greater good? a character who is achingly alone and isolated in so much of what he has to go through, who doesn’t dare drop his guard ever, who’s not able or willing to share his burdens with anyone else? if you give me a character like that, and then ask me not to love him, it’s like. I am very sorry but I truly have no say in it at this point. he’s adopted. I’m sorry it’s the law.

6. Tomura (previous rank: n/a)

OH NO I LOVE TWO MURDERERS WHAT EVEN IS WRONG WITH ME. hahaha. so in between the time of now and when I last did a character ranking, Tomura had a flashback! and it was very traumatic! he was little and sweet and his dad was a dick and there was a lot of blood and gore and a dog died!! and then AFO was all “HELLO IT’S ME COME TO SWOOP IN AND ADOPT YOU AND ENCOURAGE YOU TO KILL STUFF AND ALSO HERE ARE YOUR DEAD FAMILY’S SEVERED BODY PARTS TO ADORN YOURSELF WITH SO YOU NEVER STOP FEELING MISERABLE.” and everyone sitting there reading was all, “well I’ll just come out and say it, I can sort of understand why he became a murderer now,” and we all agreed that yes, it did indeed make a great deal of sense, when you put it that way. anyway, so obviously you can’t not feel empathy toward the kid after all that, even if he is going around killing A WHOLE LOT MORE people now, and has basically gone batshit insane actually. I remain steadfast in my conviction that Tomura is not the actual final villain -- AFO is. and call me crazy, but in spite of everything, I still think this kid has a shot at redemption. it won’t be pretty, and it’ll be a long, long path, and he might not ever fully make it all the way, but he’s someone who’s been manipulated and used as a puppet his entire life, and I want him to have the chance to finally break free from that. hopefully he’ll get it.

7. Mirko (previous rank: n/a)

so previously this section just said “MIRKO!!!!!”, which I honestly think sums it up pretty well. I honestly can’t think of any other character who has come along and just slapped me straight across the face with their sheer awesomeness as much as her, though. every time she’s onscreen/on the page my face is just a huge grin the entire time. she is fearless. like, she’s the type of person who actually does laugh in the face of danger -- like that’s not just an expression, she will LITERALLY LAUGH. she is Peter Pan with a dagger to his throat, smiling and saying “to die would be an awfully big adventure.” she is someone who’s found her purpose in life and is thriving. Mirko has no time for your existential angst; she’s too busy kicking ass every minute of every hour of every day. I love her so, so much. thank you so much Horikoshi for being obsessed with her and making her the biggest badass in the whole series.

8. All Might (previous rank: 3)

I still adore him! he just has had next to nothing to do for what seems like forever, so the other characters who are still getting steady development are kind of just sneaking past him one by one. but he is still the absolute best. he cares so much. so, so, so, so much. he’s not always the most natural when it comes to being a teacher or a mentor, and he stumbles and makes mistakes, but he loves his kids. he cares about them so fiercely. and that’s far and away the most important thing, and it’s not even close. and he’s also just so endlessly self-sacrificing and constantly putting everyone else before himself, and it’s insane. he’s someone who is just constantly thinking, “how can I do more, how can I help more, what else can I do to try and make the world better” even as he stumbles along with half a lung, and struggles with his feelings of inadequacy and helplessness and feeling like it’s just still not enough. I want to give All Might the biggest hug in the world and tell him that it’s all right, that he did good, that the kids are going to be all right. when Aizawa told him “you being alive is enough” I almost had a breakdown tbh. anyway if I keep going I’m gonna talk myself into moving him back up the list and then I’ll have to rearrange this whole thing lol so suffice it to say, fuck yeah All Might.

9. Momo (previous rank: 7)

when is Momo gonna do more stuff, Horikoshi?? huh??! he does realize that whenever she does stuff it’s always amazing?? so why is she not just constantly doing amazing, awesome stuff all the time?? I don’t know, and frankly I’ve had just about enough of this. let Momo do stuff 2020. but I won’t talk about this anymore for now because I haven’t ready any chapter 278 spoilers and I’m keeping my fingers crossed.

(ETA: I HAVE READ CHAPTER 278 NOW AND ALL I CAN SAY IS YESSSSS!!! MOMO!!!! also I swear to god I genuinely had not seen any spoilers when I was writing this post lol, it was a total coincidence. I’m glad the “let Momo do stuff 2020″ campaign was so immediately successful though.)

10. Kaminari (previous rank: 8)

last but not least, my five-and-a-half-year-old traitor son, Kaminari Denki. he is just such a shining beam of light and life and goodness and chaos. there is this amazingly buoyant energy whenever he’s on the page that just fills me with love for him. I constantly just want to ruffle his hair, just, all the damn time. he is everybody’s friend, he loves them all so much, and he fearlessly calls Bakugou “Kacchan” heedless of the repercussions (OF WHICH THERE WERE NONE!!), and he sincerely tells Jirou that he’s in awe of her musical talents, and he wrecked his fingers learning to play guitar for her but he was happy to do it, and he was afraid to fight in the big ALL THE VILLAINS VS ALL THE HEROES battle because DUH!?! but he still did it anyway because he had to protect his friends. and his quirk and its side effects are constantly used for comic relief and not taken seriously at all (even though it’s actually insanely powerful holy shit), but he doesn’t care because he’s happy to make his friends happy. he’ll willingly be the butt of the joke if it means he gets to see them laugh. he just has such a big heart, and in all seriousness, if you think he’s the traitor I just don’t even know what to say to you.

so that’s it! Tokoyami, Ochako, Shinsou, Iida, and Sero would probably be the next five, with Endeavor, Toga, Mina, Jirou, and Mirio rounding out the top twenty. maybe not in that exact order but it’s close enough. really there are only like three characters in the series I actually truly dislike, so I’m honestly glad “top ten” is the general standard otherwise I’d be here all night running through them all lol.

[coriandher]

Big thanks to @falloutfandomeventhub and @yesjejunus :D fun to do!

General

Name: Doctor Camille Ng

Aggression: Aggressive

Confidence: Brave

Assistance: Helps nobody

Karma: Evil

Location: Bitter Springs Medical Tent, Callville Bay if camp is massacred

How To Obtain: pass Perception check, spar her, or kill the camp

WARNING, further reading contains mentions of slavery and eugenics. The Vestalis usual

Companion Wheel

I think we should travel together: 

“Remember, natural selection will take out slow walkers.”

“Wacky adventures with the Mailman!”

Use Melee: 

“Promise you’ll cover me”

“(lightly humming Butcher Pete)- chopping that meat”

Use Ranged: 

“If I hit you, discount coupon on treatment”

“Their post mortem will be… ever seen a swiss cheese?”

Open Inventory: 

“Anything new you’ve got?”

“Hoarding is a disorder y’know”

Stay Close: 

“(mumble) -at least dinner first”

“Okie dokie”

Keep Distance: 

“Oh… did I do something wrong?” 

“But :( I thought you liked me…”

Stealth:  

“Lay low. Try to, yeah shh”

“Tiptoe-tiptoe”

Back Up: 

“Sorryyyy”

Be Passive: 

“Yeah yeah, peace, no war, ring around the rosies”

[If Under Attack] “Here?! Now? I’ll PASS on that!”

Be Aggressive: 

(cracks neck)

“Make way, medic coming through”

Use Stimpack: 

“Dosage correct?”

“It’s not spiked with anything right?”

“Where are you injecting?!”

Wait Here: 

“O..kay?”

“Like, stand still here?”

“Can I wander around at least?”

Follow Me: 

“Where did you go?”

“Yay :D It was getting boring”

“Continue adventure!”

Send to the Lucky 38: 

“Oh that fancy place. Take care out there!”

Send Home: 

[Bitter Springs] “Hope the Lt’s more reliable (sigh) Back to volunteer work”

[Callville Bay] “How fast do Cazadores hatch? I should make notes”

Injured: 

“Rookies think this is deep”

“Son of a- fuck”

“Stimpak, stimpak, stimpak!”

Death:

“Fucking kidding me- like this?”

“s’ fine….s’ lright”

Perks

[I’m A Healer, But] Camille gives pointers on where to most effectively strike opponents. Gain +15% critical hit damage bonus when she is in the party.

[Burn Forsooth] Your enemies can hurt you less if they die faster. Once per day, give her a melee weapon and she will upgrade it to have +10 damage per hit.

[Gone To Flowers] In the wasteland, always bring medical supplies with you. Once per day, she can give you 3 stimpaks or 1 Super Stimpak (Luck dependent)

Drops

Encrypted Notes - It has symbols and alphabets combined from different languages. It’s meant for someone. More than one?

Diadem - 10mm SMG with a faster reload time. The receiver is engraved and inlaid with silver.

Doctor’s Bag - A normal doctor’s bag, it drops a collar when used.

Recruitment

She’s treating refugees at Bitter Springs. Pass an [8 PERCEPTION] check pointing out that she doesn’t seem to be from around there. Camille scoffs and introduces herself, saying she’s obviously a Followers volunteer. She can be recruited, as she voluntarily went to the camp, thus she can ‘voluntarily leave as well.’

Failing the Perception check, there is an option to spar with her early every morning. Defeat her or last for a few minutes and then she can be recruited. If she wins, wait for another day.

The Bitter Springs Camp can also be massacred to recruit her. She’ll disappear from the camp if you open fire and once everyone is dead, she can be found chilling by the docks at Callville Bay. She can immediately be recruited.

Camille will not leave regardless of Karma leaning or chosen factions.

Personal Quest

 [Not All In Vein]

Spend enough time with her and new dialogues will unlock. Camille shares her outlook on life. It’s said in a joking tone, but it’s implied that she believes in philosophies such as social darwinism, slavery and eugenics. You can agree or disagree with her. Bring her to Vault 22, Primm, HELIOS One, The Thorn, Cottonwood Cove and the Fort.

Once her dialogue is exhausted, she will openly admit her ideology and share her background.

If the Courier has previously agreed with her, Camille will continue with the prejudiced reasoning. The perk gained is [Burn Forsooth].

If the Courier has disagreed with her, Camille will abandon her old ways and promises to look at life differently. The perk gained is [Gone To Flowers].

However, you can later tell her that you changed your mind, believing the vice versa. Camille will then leave you. If agreed-then disagreed with her, she will be at Legate’s Camp. If disagreed-then agreed with her, she will be at Mormon Fort. Camille can be spoken to, but not recruited.

Other Quests

[Et Tumor Brute?]

She can be asked to operate on Caesar. She will not be available as a companion for a day, but Caesar will survive and things can go as normal.

Alternatively she can be sold to Lucius. This will cause her to approach the Courier, berate them with ‘You could’ve just asked?!’. Camille will flee, shooting the guards. She can be killed at this time, but if she escapes the tent she disappears forever. The quest must be completed using different methods.

[Beyond The Beef]

Camille can be offered to Mortimer. She overhears and refuses, threatening to kill the entire casino. However with 800 caps she can pull some strings to supply the specific type of person Mortimer requires. After three days, speak to Mortimer again and find that the casino has received a man named Fraser for the banquet.

Ending Slides

If her personal quest is not completed, Camille will be known as a bigoted but talented doctor. This caused her to be ostracized by other medics and kicked out of the Followers of the Apocalypse. People still find her for health matters but it’s up to her to decide if they deserve to be treated or not.

If the Courier sides with Legion,

- [Burn Forsooth] is achieved, Camille marries a high ranked Legion officer. Her services as a doctor are only offered to ‘worthy’ Legionnaires. Shockingly, she has a voice in the misogynistic society, giving valuable input to optimize slavery operations. Her first contribution was to direct the military to conquer her old vault, and she personally coordinates the ‘sale and stock’ of her own family.

- [Gone To Flowers] is achieved, she continues to live in Legion controlled land as a travelling doctor. When the Followers were exiled / killed, she figured that the common people would still need medics around. Camille understands how Legion slavers operate, and would occasionally give tips to her patients. She never teams up with anyone anymore, knowing individuals are harder to target.

If the Courier sides with NCR,

- [Burn Forsooth] is achieved, she attempted to run a new slavery ring in the Republic, much underground than the previous Slavers Guild. Camille was successful for a time until a convicted politician exchanges her information for a shorter sentence. Camille was caught, jailed, then executed via hanging.

- [Gone To Flowers] is achieved, Camille starts a clinic in the Mojave. It is very well received with the local community, treating everyone from all walks of life. She wouldn’t charge patients that couldn’t afford it. There are unsettling rumours regarding her past, but nobody’s willing to speak up. Anyone who did open their mouths found that she is as likely to heal you as she is to stab you.

If the Courier sides with House,

- [Burn Forsooth] is achieved, she follows the retreat of the NCR back West, posing as a medic. While the Republic recovers from losing the military campaign, she re-established her old contacts. New Vegas thrives with the old world glory House wanted and Camille finds business in dealing with the Three Families, particularly in the less seemly side of the neon lights. The Omertas is her most loyal client, finding new ‘talents’ in resources she sends over. Camille remains with her old vault’s doctrine, ‘Everything has worth’. 

- [Gone To Flowers] is achieved, Camille negotiates with House’s forces to allow the Followers of the Apocalypse to be left alone. Instead, House decided that the faction can occupy the now abandoned NCR Embassy in exchange for loyalty and an imposed medical tax. Many of the Followers, most prominently Julie Farkas had disagreed, believing it goes against their philosophy. The group left Freeside to find a new base of operations in the Mojave. However, a splinter group lead by Camille emerged, settling with House’s proposition knowing that their facilities and funds will be considerably improved.

If the Courier makes New Vegas independent,

- [Burn Forsooth] is achieved, civilians sometimes go missing without a trace. People who disappeared are usually attractive, well-behaved with no enemies and most of all- healthy. Addicts, drunks and troublemakers are left untouched. The local community banded together to investigate and avoid future abductions, but in the end nobody’s convicted. Without a task force capable enough to uncover her new operations, Camille founded a new Slavers Guild underneath Sin City.

- [Gone To Flowers] is achieved, her presence stabilizes the overrun Mormon Fort. Camille became Julie Farkas’ advisor, helping to organize the Followers better. She has the connections and the resolution to keep the faction afloat. Members are encouraged to take in apprentices to grow their numbers. Working side by side for so long, Camille began a relationship with Julie. The Followers of The Apocalypse gained notoriety and respect with the community, cementing their influence.

[gryffon]

gonna post that thing i wrote about my abusive ex, this isnt a callout but its just like, all the shit ive been wanting to say and havent felt like i could. gonna namedrop people, gonna not give a fuck, i cant cw for everything but there are rape mentions, physical assault mentions and like. general feelings that happen the wake of emotional abuse.

i dont check often but my ex has deleted the blog she was currently using, (@windowpainter or somethng. she was @hamgubber before, previously @miniaturehorse if anybody remembers from when we were totgether and would post on each others blogs nonstop lol) she has a history of lurking around and worming her way into befriending popular people in online subcommunities i am part of or adjacent to. i have not spoken to her since i realized she was abusive and started to try to pull out of our codependent dynamic. she panicked when i realized actions speak louder than words and her long winded apologies, excuses, and textbookish tripe about DBT and getting better or whatever meant nothing in the face of months of repeated lying, breaking of promises, degradation, disrespect to me as a person, disregard of my physical disabilities, insults, patronization, manipulation, multiple instances of cheating, antagonization, neglect, extortion and overall emotional abuse. when she caught wind that i was going to leave her she wrote me a series of emails totaling over 30,000 words, all varying from "i love you please dont leave me we can work this out. breaking up with me is weak." to "you are not a victim. you are not a victim. here is a categorized list of the ways in which you are abusive while i downplay my own behaviors and patronize you. here's an ultimatum and you are not allowed to respond with more than one sentence." to which i disregarded and wrote up a long, thoughtful reply and chose to never send, ending contact with her for good. this was like, 2013 or 2014.

she never called me out, and i never called her out despite giving very serious consideration to it. i was listening to the advice of my therapist at the time, who told me that she thrives on drama and spends her life constantly creating it, and to give her that kind of attention was exactly what she wanted and would only engage her more in my life and be more degrading to my mental health. the best course of action was to give her nothing, and not give her any more power or influence over me, any footholds or any more of my time, consideration, energy or thought. if anybody reading this has endured emotional abuse from somebody you love, you know it is extremely difficult to totally ignore somebody like this, especially when that person has isolated you from the majority of your support system and friends and you have shaped your entire identity around your relationship with your abuser. but i have followed my therapists advice. i have been working on moving on.

still, over the past few years ive had my mutuals contacted by her friends and told to stop talking to me. ive had people i follow put her and her friends on my dash, which up until recently would send me into a panic that lasted several hours. i have a lot of people in the lesbian/commie/leftist/trans/etc/whatever circles on tumblr who just like randomly have me blocked for no reason (since i dont give a fuck and im going for a spirit of total honesty here, ill name drop @butchcommunist, who she dated for a period of time iirc. a lot of my followeds and mutuals reblog from her. i made a point not to check either of their blogs after finding out but it was upsetting since i would see julia all over my dash. that connection still exists in my mind and its pretty upsetting.). ultimately, and rationally i know that these things do not matter that much. i have a vibrant, healthy and loving circle of friends outside of the internet/tumblr and some randos on the internet having me blocked doesn't really mean anything in the scheme of things. still, when this shit happened it felt terrifying and i was horrified, my emotions magnified by the effects of emotional abuse. despite my VERY intense urge for closure, i try to keep as far away from her as possible.

i gave this woman a year of my life that in my memory is defined by her. i was very madly in love and i spent countless hours at her beck and call, countless hours in calls and in text conversations with her, countless hours supporting her through breakdowns, countless hours talking through her fears and worries, countless hours defending her when she stirred up drama, countless hours defending her horrible behavior to my friends, countless hours rationalizing her abuse to myself and people who approached me with worry, countless hours loving her and wondering why it felt so horrifically painful to be with somebody who told you they wanted to spend the rest of their life with you. almost all the money i was making at the time was spent on her. i helped her move across the continent. i had her at my house for weeks. she fucking took out a loan from my mom. despite how big a role she played in my life, over the past 3 years since our falling out i have only checked her blog less times than i can count on my fingers, usually in moments of distress and in the spirit of self-destruction.

i know for a fact she has convinced her friends to check my blog for her god knows how many times, telling them about her fear of me as a 'dangerous person', that i’m going to call her out, her "fear" that im obsessing over her and am quietly plotting to ruin her life. she's scared for a good reason, but not because i'm an abusive bitter ex out on a smear campaign to slander her innocent name and ruin her life in the name of revenge. she's scared because she knows i have some undeniably serious receipts on her. i have receipts of her sending me a horrifying letter her ex had written her describing a graphic instance of a time my ex had raped her, and of her admitting outright to the rape. i have logs of her checking her rape victim's blog and telling me how exasperated she was her victim was still angry with her even after she apologized, and couldn't understand why her victim was stuck on her and wouldnt move on, going on to blame modern feminism and its tendency to portray abusers and rapists as incorrigible. i have receipts of her admitting to perpetrating emotional and physical abuse in her previous relationships, like an instance where she describes losing control of herself and beating her ex senselessly. i have talked with exes, who confirm stories she had told me where she would cut her arms in her presence, deep enough that her life was at risk, and then refuse to go to the hospital, leaving her girlfriend to either bandage and tend to her wounds or else my ex would bleed out and die. those are just the more horrific ones. i have many receipts that document her emotional abuse towards me as well, which im barely even getting into here. i know plenty of other people have experiences with her and accounts of interacting with her that undeniably portrays her as a serial abuser, rapist, and extortionist and exposes the falsehood of her charming and intelligent persona.

several times i have considered calling her out because she has proven herself beyond a doubt that she is a serial abuser who leaves a trail of burning bridges in her wake. i have no doubts that the evidence i have against her is completely solid, and her claims of my status as an abuser that she perpetuates to her friends are built on pillars of sand. i am not afraid of anything she could bring to the table anymore. i have spoken quite a bit with exes and ex friends (some of which sided with her during our breakup and who eventually ended up cutting off, and we reconnected with years after), and they all suggest the same shit. she is manipulative to her very core and will not stop hurting and using people until she dies.

these are big claims and again, this isn't a callout and the reason im not providing the logs is because im just trying to get out my thoughts in an honest way and im not trying to make a case about anything. this is cathartic. im so fucking tired of feeling like its a secret. i dont even know what blog shes using or whatever and while that scares me, i don't care anymore. people who are still semi-big names in the online communities i drift around in still have me blocked and a lot of times i wish i could message them and tell them "hey, you know she's wrong, and i have absolute proof." but my self worth is high enough that i dont need to go around convincing every single rando who doesn't like me that im a good person, not to mention the risk of indirect contact through those who's lives she is still present in.

for a long time the way i coped was by holding onto the idea that she would apologize to me, and i could finally have closure. she apologized to the ex i mentioned earlier, and because of that i hoped she would grow enough as a person to realize that there is literally no way any rational being could look at our relationship and say that, yeah, i was the one hurting her. apparently thats too much credit to give her, and i realize she only apologized to her ex because she wanted me to think she was changing, growing and a good person at heart who just had a rough past. after enough time, enough conversations with people who she was previously close to, i have accepted that she will never truly dedicate herself to getting better. she will always be using people, always be hurting people, always lying, always hypocritical, always disingenuous and always covering her ass by hiding under the language of victimhood, trauma, recovery, self-improvment, DBT, and therapy to convince her victims that her offences are missteps in her journey to improvement. 

this isn't a callout, this isn't meant to be circulated as a warning, this isn't meant to be any sort of vengeance or crusade. i dont even think shes fuckin on tumblr anymore lol. i don't care anymore. i dont care what people take this as. this is me writing an honest, open, reflective, cathartic processing of the scenario that impacted my teenage years so severely.  this isnt concise or well written and i dont need it to be. i've spent too many years wanting to talk about this, needing to process it more openly, but being riddled with horrific anxiety and fear, worrying about her and her social influence and her ability to impact my life. but its been a long time. ive worked hard at this. ive worked hard to get past this. ive worked hard to learn how to be with people who will treat me with kindness. i needed to write this and i needed to post this without editing every sentence a thousand times. this is largely unedited. i dont care if this makes me look pathetic or obsessed with her ive been letting these feelings stir for years and im just ready to breathe again.

if you want to talk about this post DM me or whatever. if you know her and think its all bullshit and you want logs, sure. i dont have anything to hide anymore. her name is viv and she is the worst person i have ever met and i feel sorry that i gave her so much of my love. thanks.