#something something internalized ableism probably

[soup-spoonie]

Has anyone ever seen art or poetry re: internalized ableism? (see tags on this post.)

[technoxenoholic]

anyway. i think more people need to stop reacting to "this post leaves out people like xyz" type additions with "i'm literally xyz shut up!" when the post itself literally does not mention people like xyz even once and reads as though people who are like xyz were not even considered. like, just because you are xyz doesn't mean that's clear in your post. people are not automatically accusing you of hating or not caring about people like xyz for bringing up that a specific post leaves them out. (and also people are not reading every inch of your blog before responding to a one-off post they encountered on someone else's blog.)

if you make a post about abc and leave out xyz, then people who live at the intersection of abc and xyz are allowed to mention that the intersection exists. just because you also live at that intersection but didn't point it out doesn't mean people are attacking you or whatever.

whatever happened to assuming "yes, and"? why does everyone assume (and react in kind with) "no, fuck you" nowadays?

[unravelingwires]

Stoopingly

Jaya physically showed the most signs of the war after it ended. That made some sense. Astra was a healer, the person who most commonly patched Jaya up after scraps, so she knew that Jaya won her fights by tanking injuries most people would dodge. When people expect self preservation, having very little gives you an edge. It wasn’t that much of a surprise that she was the first person after the war to start physical therapy, walk with a cane, or avoid the stairs.

It was kind of sad to see the most active person Astra knew slow down so quickly. Jaya seemed happy with the trade off, with being soft and worn instead of quick on her feet and made of sharp edges, but Astra remembered the way Jaya looked when she scrambled up trees, and she kind of missed it.

[wheelie-sick]

Limb Difference Basics

Everyone loves to talk about us no one really knows about us

What is a limb difference?

A limb difference is a structural and visible difference in a limb. This includes limbs that formed incompletely, formed differently, or are missing entirely. There are two major categories of limb differences

Congenital limb differences: Congenital limb differences are limb differences where the variation developed in utero

Acquired limb differences are limb differences where a limb is lost (partially or completely) due to illness, injury, or medical treatment.

What isn't a limb difference?

Missing or different facial features (such as microtia- underdeveloped ears) are not limb differences, they are facial differences

Differences in how a limb moves (such as hypermobility) are not limb differences

Differences in how a limb feels (such as limbs with chronic pain) are not limb differences

"Limb difference" exclusively refers to structural differences in appearances of a limb.

Just because an aspect of a limb varies from "typical" doesn't mean it is a limb difference. Limb difference is a specific and narrow category.

"Limb typical" is a term that refers to someone without a limb difference.

"This sounds like differently abled"

This is so rude to say! We get to define ourselves however we want to. Beyond that, this term was created to be both more inclusive of the many types of limb difference as well as to escape derogatory terms like "deformed" and "disfigured." The terms are reclaimed by some of us but they have a complex history and not everyone is comfortable with them- hence limb difference.

Additionally, originally the only term to describe limb difference was "amputation" and "amputee" which do not remotely cover the vast experiences of limb difference. It leaves even people with congenital limb reduction in an awkward spot. "Limb difference" is far more inclusive of the variety of people who find themselves in this community.

Disability and limb difference

Not every limb different person considers themself to be disabled! Despite popular misconception, this does not come from a place of internalized or externalized ableism.

The decision made by some limb different people to not identify as disabled does not usually come from a negative view of the label. It generally comes from people with congenital limb differences or other people who have lived with their limb difference from a very young age. In the same way that a limb typical person knows exactly how to navigate the world with their typical limbs, so do limb different people with our own limbs.

The viewpoint of some limb different people is that they can navigate the world exactly as a limb typical person would because they know their body and how to move it. They view their limb (or lack thereof) as something that differs in appearance rather than something that disables them.

Some limb different people reject the pathologization of their body entirely, declaring that they do not have a medical condition and instead exist as natural, non-disordered variation.

While most limb different people embrace the label of disability it's important to respect and acknowledge those who don't.

The umbrella

Limb difference is a huge category that many people fall under. Many disabled people read about limb difference and ask themself "could this be me?"

If you're asking this, the answer is probably no.

One of the defining features of limb difference is its notability to others and yourself. While many limb different people are not handed the term "limb difference" on a platter by a doctor the realization of this term's existence tends to be a definitive lightbulb moment- a word that finally describes all those experiences you've had up to this point.

Medical neglect happens and people are diagnosed with limb variations later in life (hell, that was me! victim of small town healthcare ✌️) However, even before receiving a specific diagnosis, limb different people tend to notice that their limbs are, well, different from other people's.

If you do not feel absolutely sure that you have a limb difference and if you do not have a difference in the appearance of your limbs visible to the naked eye of a stranger, you should not be calling yourself limb different.

A non-exhaustive list of limb differences

General

Achondroplasia and many other forms of dwarfism

Amputation

Arthrogryposis

Limb length discrepancy

Skeletal dysplasia

Arm and Hand

Cleft hand

Clinodactyly

Macrodactyly

Madelung's deformity

Polydactyly

Radial longitudinal deficiency

Radioulnar synostosis

Symbrachydactyly

Syndactyly

Ulnar longitudinal deficiency

Leg and Foot

Cleft foot

Club foot

Femoral anteversion

Femoral retroversion

Fibular hemimelia

Genu varum

Metatarsus adductus

Miserable malalignment syndrome (🙋)

Proximal focal femoral deficiency

Tarsal coalition

Tibia hemimelia

Tibial torsion

^^ even if your condition isn't on the above list it still may be a limb difference. This list is just a handful of thousands of examples. ^^

I cannot tell you if you have a limb difference. do not ask.

Diagnosis, treatment, & assistive devices

Limb differences are generally diagnosed via examination and x ray. Diagnosis is typically made through examination with details later being confirmed through radiology. Radiology is rarely required to identify a limb difference as they are, by nature, visible to the eye.

Surgeries are available for some limb differences. These surgeries often aim to make a limb appear as typical as possible and are many times cosmetic. Many limb differences are rare, and especially in their more severe forms. This means that many of these surgeries are experimental. Corrective bracing is sometimes used in children to train a bone to grow in a more typical fashion.

The more common approach to managing limb differences is through assistive technology. Limb different people may use any combination of prosthetics, wheelchairs, walkers, rollators, crutches, canes, braces, and splints. Many limb different people, particularly those with upper limb differences, use additional assistive technology at home to make everyday tasks easier.

[neon-sunsets]

it’s actually insane to me in retrospect that viktor got the arc he did. I need to go back and count his screen time minutes, but it’s clear that he’s up there numerically, and his story has so much weight within the narrative outside of just numbers as well.

beyond that, though, is the fact that viktor's narrative is fundamentally one about internalized ableism and the systemic structures that encourage it.

(obligatory disclaimer #1 that I have a significant mobility disability and a progressive chronic illness, but I am only one disabled person.)

imagine this: you are a child. you are disabled. the world you live in is one where you cannot afford healthcare; no one is there to teach you how to even use your cane correctly. your world is inaccessible and, worse, even the people who would normally show class solidarity with you don't, because you are not even able to do what they expect from you. characters like vi, powder, claggor, ekko, and mylo are all shown care and solidarity that viktor isn't — because they are able-bodied and therefore able to "pull their own weight."

this, at least, is an environment that can probably be overcome or mitigated by age and meeting people in your community who do care about you. this is an environment comparable to that of many, many, many disabled people who manage to thrive in a deeply unfair and ableist world.

but then you encounter a man who sees that you have talent and tells you as much. he does not ask much of you and he does not care that you are disabled. all he asks is for some help, which you give, and in return he teaches you the things he knows. what comes of this, after all is said and done and your understanding of the world has been fundamentally changed, is that you do have something you can give to your community, to the world. you have a talent which you can use to make yourself useful. you're not strong or sturdy but you can make machines, and that is always in need.

but you can't skate by on being useful like a normal child. the onus is always on you to prove that you're worth the air you breathe and the space you take up, that it's worthwhile to keep you alive. and the place to go to make yourself the most useful, where the most change can be made, is not a place you have any traditional way of accessing. you, through tenacity and grit, manage to get there anyways. (the show doesn't depict this, but any way viktor would have managed to get to the academy would have involved significant difficulty and possibly deception).

and when you get there, to that towering city of bronze, you find that nothing you do actually matters all that much.

everyone looks at you and sees your disability. everyone looks at you and sees where you're from. no matter how smart or accomplished or helpful you are, your behavior will always be, in their eyes, representative of your people. you could handle the stares, the rejection. but their judgement is dangerous to you and your people.

so, in order to survive, you must be perfect. you must project confidence or at least indifference to their cruelty. you must do as you're told and accept meager promotions and toil away as an assistant. you might be the only disabled zaunite they'll ever meet, so you have to make it count. if you fail, if they decide everyone from the undercity is lazy and useless, it's your fault.

you tell yourself you won't let them get to you. you tell yourself that you believe in your abilities.

it's a convenient narrative, and it's wholly untrue.

you, after all, are only a human being. a lifetime of the chips stacked against you is nearly impossible to overcome.

and so the image you build of yourself is that of a man far more self-confident than you, one who is quiet and reserved but proud of his accomplishments. the man you actually are, though, is one desperate for acceptance. desperate to assimilate. you chase your dreams, yes, but you can't bear to take credit, can't bear to be the face of them. you don't let yourself get close to anyone except the man you've built all of this with, who you love more than anyone else. you don't let anyone touch you (except him) and you don't touch anyone. you convince yourself you don't deserve his love or anyone's, that you're not whole enough for that.

you take it so far that, when you finally have the technology you think can cure your terminal illness, the first thing you try to fix is your leg. not the thing eating at your lungs and cutting short the time you thought you had, but the leg which has marked you as Other your entire life. and even though it doesn't quite work, even though it still causes you pain with every step, you force yourself to run on it — faster and faster until you're outrunning the ships and screaming because you may have visibly "fixed" your leg but it still hurts the same.

and when the system is not only oppressive in the material sense but also set up to make you hate yourself, there is almost no escaping this cycle of self-hatred. throw in the fact that in season 2 viktor keeps getting tossed from resurrection to resurrection against his will and it's no wonder the man did the things he did. it doesn't excuse them by any means, but arcane is not interested in excuses — it's interested in what makes people do the things they do. everything that he did to the people in the commune was a reflection of his own self-hatred, both because he still possessed it after death but also because, since he was programming the hexcore to try and save his life but started with "fixing" his leg, it is designed to make people as physically "normal" as possible. the faceless, identical machine people are a metaphorical representation of the ideology viktor has bought into in his pursuit of self-hatred and internalized ableism. his whole arc across both seasons is a demonstration and condemnation of the ways that systems of oppression reinforce self-hatred in the people they are oppressing.

obligatory disclaimer #2 that I don't think arcane did everything right. I'm frustrated with the direction of season 2 away from the piltover/zaun class conflict and towards the broader league of legends universe. but I do think, as a disabled person with a very similar experience of my disability to viktor, that this arc is well-done and very compelling. in the end, what saves the world is viktor accepting that he is deserving of being loved. I'm going to be thinking about this one for a good long while.

[basilpaste]

i am very out of it atm and if i wasnt i could make a more coherent post about it. but do yall ever think about how all of the things siffrin 'misses' are a direct consequence of him being recently disabled?

their depth perception is off and the one eye they do have is probably significantly worse than it was because it has to overcompensate. so they miss the switch in the death corridor.

and he misses the key in the head housemaidens office. because its on the bottom of the drawer. and he wouldnt be able to see that at all, but if theres any indication that the drawer looks off, like a weird gap at the bottom, itd be really easy for them to miss it.

and the same goes for the key in the classroom. its in a thick book and chances are they cant really process the fact that the space between some of the pages is larger than normal.

and theres the counter. and how he trips in bonnies friendquest. and they blame themself for these things EVERY TIME. they call themself stupid and bad at their job and he LOST AN EYE. and its just like. its all internalized ableism, baybe! all the fucking way down!!!!!

he wants to operate how he did before losing his eye. He wants to be able to do all the same things the exact same way. and that just isnt feasible. which is okay! and people would understand if he just TALKED ABOUT IT. but they wont!!!!!

anyways ive been thinking about siffrin and the fact that they got so used to fighting on flat ground. and like what that means post-loops. ive been thinking about him knocking into something or missing a little detail and just fucking losing it because hes SO frustrated. so unbelievably mad at himself for not noticing something obvious, not seeing.

and im thinking about them being forced to learn that they run differently now. and theres no going back! no fixing it! and he just has to live with it!!!!! because the eye is gone and they cant just get a new one. and maybe they dont have to be okay with that, but he has to learn to accept that hes changed.

waugh.

[solarmorrigan]

Nothing Could Be More Important

For the @steddie-spooktober day 27 prompt: Scary Movies Rated: T | Words: 1812 | CW: some internalized ableism | Tags: established relationship, Steve Harrington has chronic pain, Eddie Munson is a sweetheart, Eddie Munson takes care of Steve Harrington, hurt/comfort Divider credit: @steddiecameraroll-graphics

This is shit.

This is utter shit.

Yes, fine, Steve gets that you can’t put your body through as much shit as he’s done without some kind of consequences. You can’t rack up that many injuries without later having to deal with things like migraines or, apparently, chronic pain.

And he gets that the weather tends to negatively affect him. He gets that the temperature oscillating between warm and cold like it often does in the fall is probably going to trigger an episode (something about shifts in atmospheric pressure; Dustin had explained it once, but he’d used a lot of jargon and, to be honest, Steve hadn’t retained most of it).

He gets all of that.

But today? Today of all days, when Eddie has planned something for them, when he needs Steve to be up and about and able-bodied?

Fucking bullshit.

Turning a groan into his pillow, Steve tries to stretch out, tries to work some of the tension out of his aching body, but it’s no use; his muscles pull and his joints creak in protest, and Steve deflates against the mattress with a sigh. His head is swimming, and his limbs are heavy, and the thought of having to get up already makes him want to cry out of sheer exhaustion, and – today just really isn’t going to happen, is it?

It's about the time this realization hits that Eddie chooses appear in the bedroom doorway. He’s already dressed and looking far more awake than he usually does in the mornings, and Steve wonders how late he’s slept in.

“Hey, there you are.” Eddie grins, crossing the room towards the bed. “Thought I was going to have to wake you up so we didn’t get a late start.”

Steve’s stomach sinks even further in the face of Eddie’s excitement, and something of his own dismay must show in his expression, because now Eddie is frowning and settling himself on the edge of the mattress.

“Everything okay?” he asks, reaching out and running a hand down the length of Steve’s back.

And Steve can’t help it – everything hurts, his skin hurts, and he lets out a noise of pure discomfort, flinching under Eddie’s touch.

Eddie snatches his hand back as if he’s been burned. “Steve?”

Guilt creeps up Steve’s throat, doing as much to twist his nerves as the pain itself, and he reaches out to take Eddie’s hand, threading their fingers together. His wrists and knuckles twinge, but it’s manageable.

“I don’t… think I’m going to be able to do today,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” Disappointment drops immediately onto Eddie, pulling his face into frown and stooping his shoulders, and fuck if that doesn’t hurt, too.

Eddie’s been planning today since the beginning of October. They’d meant to start out in the early afternoon and make a circuit, hitting all the haunted houses, corn mazes, hayrides, and whatever else they could find in the area, making a whole day of it. This would, unfortunately, involve a ton of driving and even more walking around, two things Steve really doesn’t think he’s up for today.

It’s taken him a long time to get to the point where he can admit that he might not be able to do things, that he just needs to rest, but he hasn’t quite been able to shake the feeling of frustration and guilt that often comes with it.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says again, squeezing Eddie’s hand. “Today is a really bad day, I just– I don’t think I can be up that much.”

Eddie bites his lip. “Maybe we could just, like, take a lot of breaks? Or– no,” he backpedals, shaking his head. “Sorry, no, that’s stupid, I’m being stupid.”

“Not stupid,” Steve sighs (though he genuinely doubts the accessibility of most of the haunted attractions they’d been planning to visit, now that he thinks on it). “I’m really sorry, Eddie.”

Eddie shakes his head again, visibly packing away his disappointment. “No apologies, it’s not your fault.” He squeezes Steve’s hand, so gentle that Steve feels like he might crack. “Do you need anything?”

“Maybe some ibuprofen?” Steve asks.

“Consider it done,” Eddie swears, melodramatic and serious as he places his free hand over his heart.

Steve offers him a wan smile and watches him go.

It takes a little more effort than he’d care to admit to get himself upright against the pillows, slow and achy as he’s feeling, and he drifts for a bit until Eddie comes back, announcing himself with the thunk of a water glass on the bedside table.

Eddie’s not only brought ibuprofen and water, but a plate of toast. When Steve inspects it more closely after taking the pills, he sees that Eddie’s spread the slices over with peanut butter—an easy way to get a little protein in when Steve may not be feeling up to eating much—and he feels a little like crying for reasons entirely unrelated to exhaustion.

He swallows back the desire to apologize again; making Eddie spend the day comforting him isn’t going to make things better. Instead, he asks, “Do you think maybe Dustin and the guys would want to go with you?”

“Nah, they’re spending the day working on their costumes,” Eddie says with a shrug.

“Oh.” Steve chews thoughtfully on a piece of toast. “Maybe you could go do that, instead? I know you still have work to do on yours, so–”

“Steve, I’m not going to abandon you when you’re feeling like shit,” Eddie cuts in, apparently a little baffled by Steve’s attempts to find him a new activity for the day.

“I’m probably just going to sleep. Not very exciting.” Steve shakes his head. “I just don’t want to completely wreck your day, you know?”

Eddie frowns. “My day isn’t wrecked. Am I a little disappointed we can’t go out like we planned? Sure.” He shrugs. “But I’m not, like, upset with you over it. Shit happens, baby.” Gently, Eddie brushes Steve’s messy bangs back and presses a kiss to his forehead. “Eat your toast, let the meds kick in, take a nap, and don’t worry about it. Hopefully, you’ll feel a little better after that.”

Steve isn’t sure what to say to that, isn’t sure how to express that he wouldn’t blame Eddie for being upset, even though he’s glad he’s not, and so he decides to just do as he’s told. He eats his toast, insists on taking his own plate to the kitchen so he can at least say he’d gotten up that morning, and then finds himself back in bed shortly after that, already dozing off.

When he wakes a few hours later, he can’t quite say he feels better, but he doesn’t feel worse, and sometimes that’s a win in itself. He can hear Eddie puttering around in the kitchen when he gets up to use the bathroom, and when he pokes his head in on the way back to the bedroom, Eddie seems more animated than he had when Steve had laid down again that morning.

“Hey.” Eddie grins when he looks up from their tiny dining table—which appears be strewn with… snacks?—to see Steve in the doorway. “How’re you feeling?”

“Eh.” Steve tilts his head to the side a bit in a sort of shrug. “What’s all this?”

“While you were napping, I had an idea,” Eddie says. “You feel up to moving to the couch?”

“Sure. You gonna tell me why?” Steve asks, craning his neck to try to see around Eddie.

Eddie shoos him out of the doorway and back down the hall. “You’ll see in a minute. Get your shit and get comfy, I’ll meet you out there.”

Uncertain about what he’s meant to be getting comfy for, Steve settles on changing into a fresh set of pajamas (it’s hardly as good as a shower, but it makes him feel a little cleaner, all the same) and bringing out a blanket and extra pillow.

The smell of popcorn hits him the moment he exits the bedroom, and he finds Eddie in the living room, busying himself with something on the coffee table. There is, in fact, a bowl of popcorn, accompanied by a few bags of candy and a stack of movies.

“Tada!” Eddie turns and throws his arms up like a showman when Steve shuffles into the room.

“Movie night?” Steve asks, then glances at the clock. “Uh– movie day?”

“Yeah! I figured if we weren’t going out, we’d have to get our cheap scares some other way, so I ran out and got a few things. Check it out.” Eddie holds up the movie cases for Steve’s inspection.

There’s a whole slew of selections: Fright Night, Dawn of the Dead, The Evil Dead, Psycho, Nightmare on Elm Street – Eddie had gone all out.

“You pick,” Steve insists, turning the cases back at Eddie. “This was your idea, after all.”

Eddie spends a long few moments humming in indecision before popping Psycho into the player (“We should start with a classic”) and then ushers Steve towards the couch.

“Go ahead and stretch out, if you want,” he says, and Steve shoots him a skeptical look.

“Where are you going to sit?”

Eddie pulls a throw pillow from the stack on the couch and tosses it on the floor between the couch and the coffee table. “Boom.”

Steve maintains his skepticism. He isn’t the only one with chronic pain, after all; maybe Eddie’s never announces itself quite as dramatically, but his scars give him trouble sometimes, and his back, if nothing else, won’t thank him for spending an entire afternoon on the floor.

“I’ll be fine for, like, one movie,” Eddie insists. “Lie down already.”

Rolling his eyes, Steve does as he’s told, arranging himself on the couch until he’s about as comfortable as he’s going to get, and waits for Eddie to do the same.

“Your Raisinets, you weirdo,” Eddie says as he passes the box of Steve’s preferred movie-going candy back over his shoulder.

“I don’t have to defend my life choices to a man currently combining popcorn and candy corn,” Steve retorts.

Eddie doesn’t even pause his snack crimes, shaking the bowl of popcorn a little to get the candy corn to mix in. “As a mutual friend would say: try before you deny,” Eddie replies sagely. “Besides, it’s festive.”

“Uh huh,” Steve hums, watching as the opening scene plays out. When Eddie finally settles, leaning back against the couch, Steve lays a hand over his shoulder, stroking a thumb against his chest. “Hey.” He waits for Eddie to turn, then takes a moment to defy the screaming of his muscles and bends to press a quick kiss to Eddie’s lips. “Thank you.”

Eddie’s answering smile is immediate. “Anytime.”

And Steve doesn’t doubt that he means it.

[cripplecharacters]

How should you write/draw burn survivors? I know this isn't a drawing blog but I don't know of one that I could ask this question to.

Hello!

I'm not a burn survivor myself, so I'll mostly talk about facial differences/visible disability in general and link some stuff made by burn survivors.

First thing, I think it's important to remember that being a burn survivor changes a lot of things - not only appearance. Very important part is the psychological one, but I'm not a burn survivor so I will just let the resources linked below speak.

From the physical aspect, burns can also come with: chronic pain, limited range of motion due to scarring, tightened skin, problems with regulating temperature, itching, skin irritation, and even different nutritional needs during the initial healing process.

There is also specific everyday care associated with burns - something you basically never see in fiction. That could be things like occupational therapy, physical therapy, skincare (like heavy moisturizing and scar massaging), wearing sunblock, wearing splints, or stretching to prevent contractures or tightness.

There are also different types of burns and they (unsurprisingly) differ from each other - for example, electrical burns have a much higher rate of amputation than any other type. Chemical burns can cause eye issues. A burn caused by a fire in a closed space might result in a brain injury due to the lack of oxygen. A much larger portion of people than you (probably) assume have survived burn injuries as small children, and if they were young enough they might not even remember the event at all, unlike older people who might be very affected by the trauma.

Experiences of a person with 80% body surface burns, a person with quadruple amputations from an electrical burn, a person with a facial burn, and a person burnt very recently will be different from someone who has a 5% body surface 2nd degree burn in a spot that’s usually hidden, who has lived with their burn for a decade - despite them all being burn survivors.

When it comes to more thorough research, I recommend going through Phoenix Society’s and Face Equality International’s websites to learn more about both real burn survivor’s perspectives, and face equality as a social justice topic. I think the 3rd link (see below) puts it very well when talking about burn survivors being represented in fiction:

“Most likely, these characters were not created by someone with lived experience. The result is an increasingly garbled game of telephone [...] To avoid contributing to this false narrative, embrace research as part of the process. Explore interviews, first-person accounts, and articles from reliable sources.”

I personally think that the links below should be mandatory reading for writing not only burn survivors, not only people with facial differences, but visibly disabled people in general - because the treatment we get is often so similar the advice still holds up just fine. And if you don't plan on writing any of these, you should still read them to see how prevalent of a problem ableism in media is.

Lise Deguire's Hey Hollywood - scars don't make you evil.

Face Equality International's International Media Standard on Disfigurement.

Niki Averton's Tips for Writing about Burn Survivors.

The main sentiment that you will read from basically any first-hand source is that if you're writing the burn survivor to be either:

evil (just throw the whole character away)

a guy with the "World's Saddest Most Tragic Backstory Ever and It's So Sad and Tragic" (because he revealed he has a scar)

a helpless victim who is there to be The Helpless Victim

...then you're already doing it wrong and need to make some major changes.

From our blog's reblogs and posts, you might want to look at tips for writing a visibly different/disabled character and tips on drawing people with facial differences. Neither are specific to burn survivors but cover the topic of visible disability and facial differences.

Now for tips on drawing burn survivors (that weren't included in the last link);

Reference real people. 99.9% drawings of burn survivors seem to go through the same "increasingly garbled game of telephone" that Niki Averton mentions with how burn survivors are written, in that the newer the drawing, the less in common it has with how real people with burns look like because people reference from each other and none of them ever think to actually check if their depiction is accurate. If you just google "burn survivor" you will very quickly notice that burn survivors don't have that damn red overlay layer put on top of their skin. It just doesn't look like that, and basic research (aka Google Images search) will tell you that - and still, people color a hand with bright red and think that's how it looks like (it doesn't).

In the same vein, maybe don't just draw an able-bodied person and then put some scarring on top (or maybe do exactly that. No burn scar and no burn survivor is the same, and there are people that fit what I just described... but hear me out for a second). Think about how scars interact with their features - do they have both of their ears? Do they still have all of their hair? Do they only have parts of their eyebrow? Do they have all of their fingers? Can they move the same as before their burn, or are their scars limiting their joints? How did their body react to the post-burn hypermetabolism? Lots to think about. Take into account what type and thickness of burns your character has.

Ditch the mask trope. Just ditch it. There's no need to cover your character's scar from the world unless you as the author think it requires to be hidden, is too scary to show, or other ableist trope that seems to always come up with drawings of visibly disabled people, especially burn survivors. The one exception I will mention is a transparent face orthosis/mask (TFO) that facial burn survivors might wear while awaiting a skin graft early after their injury. But as the name suggests, it's transparent and doesn't work for the "scary facial difference, better cover it up and only reveal it in some hyper dramatic scene!" trope because you can see right through it. (I will also mention that TFOs are a very modern thing. Your medieval burn survivor wouldn't be wearing one).

No "body horror", no "gore" tags or trigger warnings or whatever. That's a human being. If you feel the need to warn your followers before they see a disabled person existing, you're better off not drawing them.

Some last notes;

Throughout this ask I used the term "burn survivor" rather than "burn victim" because that is, to my knowledge, the general community preferred phrase. Individual opinions will differ (because no group is a monolith) but "burn survivor" is generally the safest term to use and probably the best if talking about a fictional character.

Similarly, I used "facial difference" rather than "disfigurement". Just as the above, opinions will differ on what is the best to use but I personally, as someone with facial asymmetry and a cranial nerve disorder, heavily prefer the term "facial difference" over "disfigurement". (I am in this case The Individual Opinion Differing because you can notice that in the links above, facial difference and disfigurement are used interchangeably. The general community uses both, some people have specific preferences. I'm some people). When talking about a fictional character, "facial difference", "visible difference" and "disfigurement" are all probably fine. Just stay away from calling a person "deformed".

mod Sasza

[steviewashere]

My Mind's Got Legs, Running in Circles

Rating: Teen and Up CWs: Eddie Munson Has OCD, Eddie Munson Has ARFID (If you Squint), Compulsions (That Could be Viewed as Harmful/Self-Harm), Negative Self Talk, Internalized Ableism, Minor Panic Attack, Food Tags: Post-Canon, Established Relationship, Eddie Munson Whump, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Comfort, Good Boyfriend Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Takes Care of Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson Loves Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson Trusts Steve Harrington (Which I Feel is a Very Important Tag), Hopeful Ending, Happy Ending So, probably 90% of this is taken from personal experience—via my life the last seventeen years give or take. I wanted to divulge into the grittier, nastier parts of the whole inner-monologue, and a focus on Eddie having resulting effects from eating something he was unsure of, but I've been struggling a lot recently and just couldn't bring myself to write it. So I went with the sweeter, fluffier route. Maybe I'll come back to this version of Eddie, but as of right now, this is what I offer. Also on AO3 (locked, so make sure you have an account)

🍗—————🍗 He’s biting his tongue.

It’s just a plate of dinner. Dinner that Steve made him. Homemade and neat and hot for the taking. There’s just one problem with it. A big, fat problem.

Among the green beans and the warmed dinner roll and the steaming mashed potatoes, there’s a chicken breast the size of his fist. The chicken is dressed up with a crisp brown outside, flakes of pepper, and a light slathering of garlic sauce. In itself, the chicken isn’t the issue—not yet, at least. 

Eddie can’t muster the courage to take a bite because he didn’t watch Steve make it.

That’s been something with him his entire life.

He isn’t sure what really set it off. The dire need to always be in the center of the kitchen, or just outside of it, peering around the corner to see hands flip and toss and slather. It used to drive his dad insane. His six year old son hanging out at his knees, big eyes gazing unblinking at the skillet on the stovetop, tugging on pant legs when the meat was still a little pink.

Before it was just his dad in the picture, his mom used to sit by and teach him all about the cooking process. How to wash the cutting board, to avoid contamination. To always wash his hands, to avoid contamination. Use a different turner in the pan, to avoid contamination.

That word had always struck him like a firm backhand. He’d always been curious, too smart for his own good. And his mom had dictionaries, so he soon learned what it meant. To be contaminated. The contamination that was always talked about, though, was to prevent getting sick. “You always hate being sick, Ed,” she used to tell him, “so make sure to be super duper safe with your food. Okay sunshine?”

He made habits of it. Washing his hands between each step. Then washing them when even a droplet of sauce stained his index finger. Scrubbing away the raw chicken strands on his cutting board, scrubbing harder because he swore there was a piece, just one more piece, there’s a piece and there’s a piece and—he did it until his hands were lobster red from the hot water. And the hot water was good for killing bacteria, so washing his hands became excruciating, but safe. He was always prepared with three or more turners lined up on clean paper towels at the stove. Dish washing liquid on hand.

Another thing that really stood out, and it only stood out once he got real fucking sick, was the part where food sometimes is just served bad. With little or no control over it.

There had been one time—one time—where he went out for breakfast at the local diner. His mom sitting across from him in the booth, their plates saturated with syrup, cheesy eggs on the side. He’d eaten all he had because it had tasted fine, tasted good, tasted perfect. It was safe and it was good and his mom was there smiling at him all sweet, the lights weren’t too bright and the table wasn’t sticky like he hated and the waitress was real pretty.

But then he started puking. And once he started, he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t keep down water, couldn’t muster the appetite for something as bland as toast. His mom got sick, too. There had been the scary hospital with the too bright lights and too many smells, the doctors who talked too loud and the nurses who pressed too hard on his tender head. An egg recall—he didn’t know what that meant, he got too curious again, and then—

Eddie Munson stopped eating eggs.

And since eggs came from chickens…

Eddie Munson stopped eating chickens.

And when he stopped eating chicken, his mom got concerned.

So he ate it for her, learned to like it again little by very little. He still doesn’t like it, still doesn’t enjoy it, but he can keep it down at least. But if the eggs made him sick, then the chicken could, too. If the chicken was pink, even the slightest bit, then he couldn’t eat it.

Couldn’t eat the chicken, couldn’t eat the egg. Couldn’t because his brain wouldn’t allow him to; not some written rule in an uncovered handbook; not a dictation from some government practice; not the conspiracy theorist that used to live up the road. No. It was his own brain.

And what if other animals could make him sick?

Beef couldn’t be pink. Pork couldn’t be tender. Milk couldn’t be past the expiration day by even a minute after midnight. Cheese can’t be moldy, no matter how much his mom said blue cheese was delicious.

Then, things spiraled. Really started to spiral.

Bread was made of animal product. And bread could get moldy. If one piece was bad, then the whole loaf was bad. “Oh, baby, you can just cut the bad parts off,” his mom would say, “it’ll be alright. Plus, saves Mommy money, too.” But the bread was bad. The bread was really bad.

There were bad foods. There were good foods.

The cons list was longer than the pros.

He was skinnier than a string bean, even when he went through puberty. He insisted on packing his own school lunch, even if it cost him more. He insisted on skipping Home EC because he didn’t trust the other students to truly follow safety guidelines. He insisted on watching when Wayne cooked, when Hopper invited him over for a barbecue after Spring Break, when Mrs. Henderson had him over for Christmas.

And he usually watches Steve, too. Steve knows that, at least Eddie believes he does—because he should, shouldn’t he? They’ve been dating for a little over a year now, been friends a while longer. He himself knows that Steve will let him cook if he needs to, but Eddie trusts Steve for the most part. Can trust him to make food, under a gaze of course. But Steve has told him that he doesn’t mind, enjoys the company.

But chicken.

He’s biting his tongue. Even as he cuts through the left side of the breast, slow and meticulous. If it’s too messy of a cut, he won’t be able to see the inside. If he can’t see the inside, he can’t judge the color. No say of what the color is, then he isn’t sure about putting it in his mouth.

Steve’s across from him, already dabbing away at sauce on his lips, teeth grinding against each other as he chews. Eddie is still cutting the meat.

“Y’alright?” Steve asks him around his mouthful.

Eddie briefly glances up. “I’m fine,” he shorts. The knife finally makes contact with his plate, screeching against the porcelain. His fork piercing the freed slab, holding it up close to his face, under the light in Steve’s dining room. The only plus side of this house is the lighting, bright and shiny and perfect for Eddie to use. Usually.

He spins the fork.

It’s pink, a part of him notes, it’s still pink don’t put it in your—No, see, it’s white, that same part says, it’s white right there. It’ll be white everywhere, Steve made it.

Steve cuts his own food again, takes another hearty bite.

Eddie turns the fork once more.

But what if it’s just this one piece that’s perfect? What if Steve didn’t cook the rest of it long enough? He audibly takes a deep breath, his chest filling with it, stomach flipping. Eddie scrapes the piece off his fork, knife dictating it to one side of his plate, and he begins to cut up the rest of the chicken.

“Was that piece not”—

“I’m just checking,” Eddie rushes out. His wrists work faster through the next piece. Turning it. Pink. Next piece. Faster. Flipping it. Pinker. He rests his forearms against the table, wrists going limp over his plate, face tilted towards the ceiling as his eyes close and he breathes again.

Distantly, he calculates the rattling of his chair from his leg bouncing. The tick of the clock. Steve’s chewing. And chewing and chewing and—

He picks up the first piece of chicken and inspects it again, cutting it into smaller, more individual chunks.

What if Steve purposefully didn’t cook it right? What if he’s mad at you for something and this is how he shows it? What if he took the only good piece? What if he didn’t wash the turners and the cutting board and the—

“Ed?” Steve calls out to him. “Do you want me to check, baby?”

Eddie minutely shakes his head. Mumbles, “No, I got it. Don’t worry about it.”

Did he wash his hands? What if he didn’t wash his hands before washing the green beans? And the rolls? Did he heat them up in the same pan as the chicken? The mashed potatoes, do they have chicken in them? The chicken is touching your mashed potatoes right now. The pink chicken is touching your fresh mashed potatoes. Keep cutting the chicken, it’s hard to see if it’s white. What if it isn’t white at all? The chicken is touching your mashed—

He chucks the utensils down onto the table. Hands flying up to cover his eyes, fingers tensing into his hairline. His legs jitter under the table, stomach backflipping into his ribcage, mouth drooling like he’s nauseous. The heels of his palms press hard into his eye sockets, hard enough he can’t see anything aside from the brown-black that exists there. And his breaths wheeze out of him, shaky and unsure.

The rolls could be moldy. Did you check to see if they were moldy? What if Steve cut off the moldy parts? Mold rolls and pink chicken, he must be really mad at you. You did something. The chicken is probably touching your mashed potatoes still, don’t eat the potatoes. The potatoes could’ve been moldy, you didn’t see the potatoes Steve used. What if it’s all moldy? Steve is eating it, though. Steve is eating it. Steve is eating the moldy food and the undercooked chicken. Steve is going to get sick. He’s going to get sick. You’re going to get sick. Steve is eating it and eating it and he doesn’t know, he can’t see it like you can. You’re crazy, you’re just being crazy. It’s moldy. All of it is moldy. It’s raw. The chicken is raw and it’s touching your potatoes. They’re touching. Steve is eating it. Steve is eating the chicken. Steve is eating it. He’s going to get sick. You’re dramatic, just crazy. You’re being crazy. He can’t see it like you can. He’s eating it. You’re crazy. Crazy, you’re just—

“I can’t,” Eddie chokes out, words clogged in congestion and sniffles. “‘M sorry, Steve. ‘M sorry, I’m so sorry,” he weeps softly. The sanctuary of his palms is the only retreat he has from this mild breakdown, tears wetting his hands. Over his caught breathing, he can distantly make out the sounds of Steve setting down his utensils, scooting his chair to Eddie’s side of the table, setting himself in close and warm. “I’m sorry,” he hiccups, “Steve”—

“Shhh,” Steve whispers, “Ed, it’s alright, I promise. It’s alright, baby.”

Blearily, he looks up from his hands, the wood of the dining table. “I can’t—It’s—I can’t eat it, Steve, I can’t do it. I don’t know…”

Steve keeps his hands to himself, twisted nervously in his lap. His eyes are calm, but there’s a gentle crease between his eyebrows—the sure sign of concern. “Is there something I can do to help,” he asks in a hushed voice, “maybe I can check your chicken for you?”

He sniffs, darting his eyes to the plate. “Um…I…I”—underneath the table, his legs begin to jitter again, erratic and upset—“did you wash your hands? No…no you, I trust you, I swear, but I don’t know if you did and I didn’t see you when you were cooking and I just”—

Without moving his hands, Steve gets in a tad closer, leaning against the edge of the table. There’s a softness in Steve’s stare, that concern from earlier mingling with care. Voice quiet, “I’ll go wash my hands right now, Eds. And I’ll come back with a new knife and fork and I’ll check the inside of your chicken. Is there anything else I can do for you right now?”

“No,” he murmurs, “no…not yet.”

The chair creaks as Steve moves, quick and nimble to the kitchen. Distantly, the sink turns on, the soap dispenser pumps, and then the water is obstructed by his hands. He begins a countdown from one hundred twenty in his brain, each number careful to the heart of his metronome. They’ve done a dance like this before. One hundred fifteen. If Steve finishes up too early, Eddie will call out for him to start over. One hundred ten. And the number will restart in his brain, two minutes and counting. Just as he did for himself as a little boy, lobster hands and tears in his eyes, the lemon scent of hand soap stark and true to his nostrils. The sink is still on, though. So far, so good. Eighty-five. Steve’s getting better at it now. A part of Eddie is worried that he’s caught on, that he’s well aware of the weird timer inside of Eddie, trembling and counting, ticking like a bomb. The other part knows that Steve is just being considerate, taking care the way he needs to, the way that’s asked of him. That he takes care of his people, would lay down and die right now if Eddie asked him to. Seventy. Not that he would. He loves Steve too much for that. Sixty-three. He loves Steve a whole hell of a lot, how his brain works, how he manages to just meld to the course. Nobody has ever taken the time to learn the odd intricacies of his brain, has ever taken note of how he cuts his food, the way he grills until things are burnt, hands washing until they turn white by pressing with his fingertips. Forty-seven. Something wriggles in him, pesky and ugly, growling alive that Steve will get tired of this dance. The steps. That he’d realize that Eddie really is just a nuthouse. A basket case. The crazy person that everybody’s warned him about.

His inner dialogue is intense. Needy. A monster of a beast. It’s got fangs and claws and leeches where it can—always. Knows what food shouldn’t look like, an amalgamation born for Eddie’s eyes, the trick of light, the glisten of his fork against the white flesh insides of his chicken. Twenty-six. He wishes that this part of him would hide, dissipate, maybe even die altogether. Lord knows it would save him the time, the energy. That he’d appear healthier, fuller in his flesh, his skin no longer dull or pale. He’d be alive and well, make it through his day with not a care in the world. He could be…a little bit more normal. Fifteen.

That’s just his conscious, though. Steve tells him that everybody is weird. Odd.

Unfortunately, Eddie doesn’t believe him most of the time. Not everybody sees the world he does. Steve sure doesn’t. No matter how much he claims to love Eddie—not that there’s really any doubt just how much—he’ll never understand what it’s like to be him, to live in his skin, to have a constant slew of thoughts that interrogate him until he crashes and burns, asleep and restless for a few hours.

Zero.

Steve comes back into the dining room, his hands still glistening from the water, a new set of utensils in his grip. He settles down in his chair again, drags Eddie’s plate close to him, and sets himself up for the slice and dice.

“Okay,” he murmurs, “how about you watch me cut the chicken, Eds. Anything you think I’m doing wrong, or maybe you need me to check again, I want you to tell me. I want you to tell me to stop, to look over again, or tell me what you need.” Steve’s eyes are on him again, aflame and caring. “Anything at all, Eds, I want you to tell me. Okay?”

Silently, Eddie merely nods in understanding. And then, no further words, Steve begins cutting the chicken into smaller pieces. Every few chunks, he stops to scan each and every piece. Holding them directly to the overhead light as if he’s interrogating them, ready to slap them silly if they say one thing out of line. When he’s satisfied and Eddie doesn’t speak up, Steve sets the chicken back down and moves on.

For the most part, Eddie’s satisfied with how Steve goes about this. He’s not doing anything wrong, not really. Maybe going a bit too quick with a couple pieces. But he reminds himself, intently, that he trusts Steve. He trusts Steve wholly—trusted him with his life at one point, this isn’t anything different. Maybe a lot less intense and a whole lot silly, but Steve treats it as if he’s putting pressure on wounds, as if he’s gearing to lock his elbows and perform CPR.

But then—

“Wait wait wait,” Eddie rushes. Steve stops, just as he said he would. “That one”—he keeps the urgent tone in his voice, no matter how much he wants to squash it—“that one looks pink. It’s wrong, Steve. I can’t—that…that one is bad.” Humiliatingly, the burn of tears is fresh behind his eyes, his lids tight and heavy at the same time, he’s exhausted from it.

Instead of arguing or protesting, Steve simply looks at it again. Rotating it slowly, meticulously. Holds it to the light. Squints. Then, he clicks his tongue. “It’s not pink,” he decides, “but it’s definitely off-white. Maybe that part is a little dry, so the meat doesn’t look as fresh.” He scrapes the piece off the fork, setting it isolated on the edge of the plate. “Do you want to eat it still? Try it again?”

Eddie sucks in a slow breath. Eyes set to the plate, that one dumb chunk of chicken. His pulse rabbits against his throat. Legs ready to twist off his hips and go running for the hills. Wishes that the floor would open up and swallow him whole. Bones and all. “I don’t…I don’t know, Steve. I don’t know, I don’t know,” he mutters, frantic.

Steve gives him a sympathetic nod. “Okay,” he murmurs once more, “then let me lay out some choices, okay? That way, you can just pick whatever is best for you. And…and if none of them work, then you can tell me what to do.”

“Okay.”

“Option one: I can put your food back in a clean pan and heat it up again, you can watch me do it the entire time”—Eddie soaks that up, but shakes his head. Steve’s own food will go cold if he does that.—“option two: I can completely throw out the chicken, reheat the rest of your meal in the microwave and that can be your dinner.”

“The chicken touched my mashed potatoes,” Eddie mumbles, “I can’t eat them.”

Steve, patient as ever, nods again. “The last thing I can think of, then, is that I can heat up one of your safe frozen dinners. There’s beef stroganoff, chicken tenders with macaroni and cheese, sirloin steak with green beans, and…I think there’s one more of the spaghetti and meatballs. Does any of that sound good to you, baby?”

“Mmm…the chicken tenders sound good. Can you heat those up for me, please?”

A gentle kiss is pressed to Eddie’s left temple, sticky and warm. “Of course,” Steve speaks softly, “let me take care of this chicken and I’ll come right out with the other food in a minute, okay?” Nodding against Steve’s mouth, Eddie breathes a small sigh.

At least it wasn’t pink, he’s able to find relief in, Steve can still eat his chicken.

He watches from his spot at the table. Steve scraping the food into the garbage, setting the dirtied plate and utensils into the sink, washing his hands again, and popping that frozen meal into the microwave. His body stays stationed in front of the microwave, watching with a cocked hip and his arms crossed over his chest. There’s a low little string of hums that Steve’s emanating, gentle as they carry themself to Eddie’s ears.

Soon enough, Steve comes back to the dining room, sets the fresh food in front of Eddie, and places himself back at his own plate.

“Thank you,” Eddie says softly—that same wash of relief flowing through him, his empty stomach no longer flipping, but instead rumbling for the new food. It’s not five star dining. It’s not Steve’s homemade meals, but it’s enough for now. It has to be.

“No problem,” Steve says around a mouthful, “I’ve gotta make sure you’re getting something good in your body. Wouldn’t make you just sit there and suffer.”

“I don’t—you don’t understand. You didn’t have to do any of this, really. Honestly, I wouldn’t hold it against you if you made me sit here and swallow down those potatoes. I should’ve, I know. But you…god, Steve. You take care of me in a way I haven’t fully grasped.”

Gently, Steve sets his fork down on his plate with a small clatter. “Babe,” he coos, a bit sad if Eddie picks up on it. He looks up from his chicken tenders. Steve’s tender in his own way. “I don’t fully understand what happens in your head, I probably never will, but I will always—always—make sure you’re taken care of. That you have a hot meal, food that you will definitely eat, and that it’s as fulfilling as it can possibly be. Nothing will change that. Nothing at all.” Steve sets his hand on the surface of the table, skyward so that Eddie grasps to it—he does, even after a few tentative seconds. His thumb traces over the back of Eddie’s hand, rubbing soothingly over his knuckles. “I should’ve waited a bit to make dinner,” Steve says lowly, almost admitting, “I know that you like being able to watch me cook.”

“Yeah, but—I shouldn’t have to”—

“But you do,” Steve points out carefully. “You do and I know that. Even if I sat here and told you every ingredient I used, the fact that I washed every single dish before using it again, and I washed my hands between each step—even if I did that—you wouldn’t feel comfortable. You thought it was pink in the middle. And even though it wasn’t, you still didn’t trust it, and that’s fine. And, if it was pink, I’d want you to tell me.

“You deserve the safety of good food. I’ll do anything to give that to you, I promise.”

Eddie, aside himself, sniffles. His lips wobble. Cheeks heat. “Thank you,” he keens, “really, Steve, thank you.”

Steve squeezes his hand. “Thank you for trusting me,” he whispers, “I’m glad you trust me enough to let me in. To let me help.”

“Even though I mucked up your dinner plans?”

A tug. He looks up from where his eyes wandered. Steve’s stare is intense, but not intimidating. “You didn’t muck up anything, Eddie baby. I have my food. You have the food you know you’re safe with. We’re eating dinner together, holding hands, talking. Nothing would ruin this, what we have.” He leans against the table again, closing the distance between them. Murmurs, “I love your brain. I love your concern. I love your worry. I love that you trust me, that you can reach out to me for help. I love you, Eddie. Nobody else, nothing else.

“You are safe with me, always. Always.”

Eddie lets out a watery laugh. “I know,” he whispers, “nobody else I’d rather fall in love with, Steve, I swear.” He sniffles again, wipes the end of his nose with the back of his hand, and sighs—squeezing Steve’s hand in the process. “You’re gonna make me cry into my chicken tenders, though.”

Steve chuckles. “Sorry,” he sheepishly murmurs. “I just needed you to know all that.”

“I love you, Steve. Thank you for taking care of me.”

There are warm smiles on their faces as Steve finally pulls away. He sighs something completely lovesick—Eddie knows already that he’s a goner. “Now that we’ve basically expressed undying love,” Steve says, “how about we eat and bitch about our days, huh? I’ve got some store bought cookie dough we can make for dessert, if you wanna watch and entertain me.”

“I’d love to. No place I’d rather be, Stevie.”

There’s a million other things that will try and tear him down. Food and stomach turning feelings and the constant stream of numbing self dialogue. But right here? Laughing afterwards? He is safe. For now, he is safe.

And, at the end of the day, after all that—

Being safe is all that matters.

🍗—————🍗 My little taglist for this one <3 : @ilovecupcakesandtea

[darum1]

Eito’s disorder is really interesting to talk about. A lot of it is dependent on what people personally get out of it, and that personal spin makes it honestly kinda hard to talk about without getting feelings involved.

Like, my own struggles with chronic pain lead me to a more “I’d eradicate it if I could” mentality that I see reflected in Eito that I vibe with. But I see others that find that kind of thinking bad because they view it more along the lines of something to accept and accommodate rather than seek to get rid of. Think of the broad ways we talk about mental illness vs neurodivergence. And because those avenues of thinking are based in lived experience usually, it’s hard to “argue” with an interpretation without it seeming personal.

In reality, there usually isn’t a straight up cure and so the accommodation route is more realistic in that sense. But idk, I don’t necessarily think it’s ableist or internalized ableism on Eito’s part that he wants his disorder gone either. It’s a very close to home feeling. It’s the age old “normalcy is a construct designed around productivity and the status quo but also id still have chronic pain in an ‘ideal utopia’ that I’d still probably want gone.” predicament. But that’s still a reading of his disorder very much influenced by my own life.

So I don’t begrudge or even disagree with other readings that are different. As I said, I just find it all very interesting.

[narrativelysignificantturtleduck]

something that makes sokka extremely adhd relatable is that he's constantly looking for his Thing, the one Thing he's good at or useful for that makes up for any failings or flaws or ways he just can't measure up to others. at the beginning of the show he defines himself by being the oldest boy in the village & best warrior, but then he gets his ass kicked by zuko and suki and sees aang's raw power and he can't exactly think fighting is his special skill anymore. but he still thinks he has to be defined by fighting ('man of the house' daddy issues) so he calls himself the guy with the boomerang bc that's turned out to be his most useful and versatile and unique weapon, the one that other people can't outclass him at (after all, it's his most successful attack in his fight with zuko). when he loses it in "avatar day" he explicitly says it's like losing a key part of his identity and the moment katara goes "hey you're good at solving mysteries" he's like "yeah! i'm a detective! that's my new thing! and gets a new set of objects to signify it ("i believe in the power of stuff"). but detective sokka doesn't last bc throughout the entire episode he and katara are pretty equally matched in detective skills and he gets his boomerang back anyway. failed experiment.

and throughout all of this, he's figured out that people find his insistance on getting them fed & his grumpy comments funny and so he begins defining himself as the meat and sarcasm guy, and when he's a tough spot in "bitter work", bargaining with the universe to get him help, he offers that up as all he's got to give. it's obviously a Joke that he immediately asks for meat after telling the universe he'll give it up but it's also pretty indicative of how much he clings to these identities. it's all he's got (he thinks), of COURSE he can't actually give it up. they stuck that boy in a hole for 22 minutes and it revealed so much about how he sees himself.

at some point (likely around "the library" when he takes initiative to come up with a fire nation invasion plan) he also becomes the plan guy, the idea guy, and the gaang find themselves looking to him for leadership. this is perhaps the closest to fully encompassing sokka that any of his "[blank] guy" labels get, since coming up with plans involves planning when and how to fight (boomerang guy) & how to get everyone fed (meat), and people not following his plans is a major source of frustration (sarcasm).

this all culminates in "sokka's master", where the show finally names the underlying insecurity driving this quest - that he's a nonbender. katara being the last waterbender meant she was in danger and that keeping her safe was top priority, and even though hakoda and kya wouldn't have played favorites sokka probably felt a little like the unfavorite child for not being special like her. he lacks an ability, and believes his life has less value bc of it. almost like somebody with a disability and internalized ableism

(interesting, one of the people who most consistently mocks sokka for being a nonbender is toph, early on. toph has a lot of internalized ableism herself, a fear of vulnerability bc she doesn't want to perceived as weak like her parents thought she was. her bending is her disability aid, the thing that allows her to be stronger than people think, so she dismisses a nonbender until she learns better.)

piandao's response to sokka's lack of self-worth is not to train him to be great at one thing, but to introduce him to a variety of different arts, show him that his value lies not in having any one skill but in his capacity to learn and grow. there's no single thing that makes him worthy. it isn't even the combination of all of them that makes him worthy. he simply is worthy.

and i don't know if this is a unique narrative in fiction or anything but it really means a lot to me that sokka doesn't have One Thing that "makes up" for him not being a bender. he's of course extremely skilled and prodigious at many things he does in the show but there's no one savant talent that "justifies" him being in the group and i feel like so many disability narratives - especially for kids - go that route and i really appreciate that atla doesn't and simply says people are valuable because they are valuable, not because of their special abilities

[dandylovesturtles]

Sidelined AU Info Post

Alright, I guess we're doing this

CWs: mentions of internalized ableism, struggles with mental health

Timeline:

all of S1 is the same as in canon up until End Game

however, after Splinter turns over the helmet to Draxum, Draxum does not put on the armor, but chooses to put Leo inside instead, realizing that whoever goes in will probably have something horrible happen to them. that's detailed in this fic

unlike Draxum, who gets spit out of the armor immediately, Leo ends up trapped inside. from Leo's perspective, he is only vaguely aware of what's happening outside (it's a bit sunken place-ish, with him seeing snatches of events like through a grainy television), and he has only small amounts of influence over what the armor does

once Feral Shredder is on the loose, he pretty immediately starts destroying the Hidden City. Draxum realizes that he has inadvertently released a great evil on his people, the exact opposite of what he wanted, and he turns to the Hamatos to help him stop it. obviously they don't want to work with Draxum, but they have to get Leo back so they take the help

it takes them two days, during which the Shredder moves up to start terrorizing New York as well, but eventually they get him subdued. I'm not 100% on what goes down yet or whether Big Mama gets involved (I'm leaning toward not), but Leo fighting from the inside is a big help

Leo is removed from the armor and is in really bad physical shape; meanwhile the Shredder is subdued for now. in the immediate aftermath, the Foot Clan manages to get ahold of the Shredder and take off with him

he's too weak to do anything immediately but he is very much a Looming Threat the family is aware of

Draxum leaves for awhile at this point because none of them want him around and seeing Leo in the aftermath did wake him up to "oh yeah that's just a kid and I did that to him," also he's feeling real bad about that whole "accidentally almost destroying the yokai and also maybe the world" thing

meanwhile, Leo is severely weakened, but there's not anything that the family can do to hasten his recovery. they can only get him hooked up to an IV for fluids and nutrients and wait

it takes Leo a few days to become fully lucid again; during that time he tries to fight anyone around him off or sometimes pushes his family away to "protect" them

eventually Leo does regain lucidity, he tells everyone he's fine but he's Super Depressed. he's also lost his mystic powers completely.

Splinter also retreats a bit at this point, because he feels guilt for handing the helmet over to Draxum instead of trying to find a different way to rescue his boys, which isn't a great thing for him to do but his mental health is also not doing very well (someone get these guys some therapy)

in the meantime the bros and April manage the best they can, they all have different approaches but I'll go into detail about that in the next section

there's no treatment for Leo's condition outside the most boring one: time, exercise, and diet. unsurprisingly he hates this

Healing Bad Times abound, as shown in this fic

eventually the boys have to go out on a mission again. Leo, feeling useless, listens in on the comms from the lair, and ends up catching something the other boys' missed, meaning he's able to save them from a trap or something idk exactly what the point is he makes himself useful

this opens up a new path for Leo, one his brothers very heavily encourage

with a new goal in mind, Leo starts taking a lot better care of himself, actually following his physical therapy routine, spending time gaining new skills, and accepting help in the form of mobility aids. his physical and mental health both start making big improvements

this also helps his dad's mental health, everyone is doing better even if things aren't perfect

Donnie builds Leo a command center modeled after the bridge of Jupiter Jim's ship, he absolutely loves it. whenever the boys+April are on missions, Leo is in his command center helping from the background

eventually Leo has gotten to the point where he has enough strength for day to day life most of the time, he still isn't fighting baddies on rooftops but he can get to a store and back without collapsing on a good day and that's pretty good!

the Foot Clan has been a much bigger threat in this version of S2 and it's clear they're up to something big

of course right when Leo is starting to feel stable and happy again, that's when they launch their final attack

a lot of the finale events go down similarly to how they do in canon, minus Battle Nexus New York. they get Karai back but then she dies, Shredder destroys their home (including Leo's command center :c ), everything is Bad

Leo gets his mystic powers back the same way his brothers do, though he needs a little bit of an extra helping nudge from April/Karai, since he didn't think that was a thing he could still do

everyone getting their mystic powers is emotional but it's especially emotional for Leo. he didn't even know what ninpo was before today, but he knew after the Shredder it was like some part of his soul got locked away, and now that he can feel it again he finally feels whole

it gives him a burst of adrenaline so he can participate in the fight, though he doesn't do much of the actual battling, instead getting his bros where they need to be for the big hits (I mean this is basically what he does anyway haha)

it takes Donnie exactly .02 seconds to figure out how to use his own mystic powers to support Leo physically so that helps

after this, Leo becomes a more constant part of the team in the field, though he still primarily works as support and only gets into direct fights when he feels like he has to

instead of being made leader like in canon, Leo and Raph become co-leaders. Leo's own leadership abilities have improved massively, but Raph has more experience in the field, so having the two of them working together means they cover each other's blind spots, and the division of labor is less stressful for both of them

since Leo's already been through his character development and this tension is gone the movie events play out totally differently but I haven't gotten that far yet lol. I'm sure the apocalypse still happens somehow, though, I'd hate to lose Casey Jr

happy ending whooo

Relationships

Raph

Raph feels a lot of guilt about what happened to Leo; he was supposed to protect his little brothers and he didn't, and now one of them has permanent physical disabilities as a result. add to that it was Raph's idea to be heroes in the first place and yeah... he's not doing great

because of this guilt, Raph's instinct is to essentially baby Leo - he wants to take care of his every need as soon as it arises. this makes Leo feel stifled and infantilized, and drives a wedge in their relationship (the same one Raph is driving between himself and Mikey, in fact)

his and Donnie's distinctly different approaches to the situation also mean that they get into arguments often and can't really deal with being around each other, leaving Raph feeling isolated at the start (and thus pouring more attention and effort into Leo, which compounds the problem)

Raph dealing with his own guilt and trying to find the balance between helping Leo while also respecting his need for independence, boundaries, and dignity is a big part of his journey in the AU, and it also improves his relationship with Mikey and Donnie as he gets better at those skills

Donnie

Donnie is not dealing well with the fact that there's nothing to fix. they can only be patient and work incrementally to improve Leo's condition

he distracts himself by putting all his energy into making the lair accessible for Leo, building him mobility aids and doing everything he can to help

he also has a hard time understanding why Leo won't do the things that will help him (at first), because doesn't he just want things to go back to normal? doesn't he want to help himself? why won't he just do what he obviously has to do, Donnie does not understand

Leo is deep in denial at first, and he feels like he breaks down and starts doing physical therapy and using mobility aids and doing basically any of the things that will help him, that means it's not going to magically get better, it's going to take time and effort and it will probably never be fixed, just improved, and he hates that so much he's choosing to treat this like a temporary cold or flu that will blow over any day now

Donnie doesn't understand that so he takes Leo's refusal as a rejection and animosity abounds!

breakdowns and admissions of feelings will eventually happen

Donnie and Leo together come to grips with the idea that there is no fixing this and there is no return to how things were before but they can work toward a new normal that's just as good

Mikey

this one is a little bit too big for Dr. Delicate Touch and Dr. Feelings

Mikey tries, but he is just a kid, and with their dad emotionally retreating too there's just too many feelings for him to deal with on his own

he's gonna play family therapist until he breaks

he's frustrated because he can see what each of his brothers need to do to feel better but they just! won't! they won't do it, and he doesn't know how to make them

he's really stressed

it's Mikey that realizes that Leo needs goals to work toward to get himself motivated to take care of himself, and it's Mikey who pushes the hardest for Leo's new role in the team

sometimes Mikey will challenge Leo to something silly, like who can make the most throws of a paper ball into a trash can, just to push Leo into exercising

he finds other little ways to help the others too, but he still can't solve the big problems on his own

meltdown ensues

Mikey has to learn to take care of himself, too, while the others have to learn they can't lean so hard on him for all their emotional problems

April

the only one holding on around here. it helps that she doesn't actually have to live in the powderkeg

takes a rationally minded approach to all these problems, kind of functioning like family therapist along with Mikey but in a healthier and more controlled way

helps get them resources from above ground

Leo opens up the most about his feelings about his physical condition to her first, because she strikes the best balance between being a sympathetic ear without coddling him

she's also stressed, but she has an outside support network so she's handling it better

Splinter

fully blames himself for what happened to Leo and has a hard time getting over it

depression in full swing

it means he can't easily get out of bed to help his kids, but then he feels bad because he isn't helping them, which worsens the depression, which makes it hard to get out of bed... a vicious cycle

when Leo starts working on his condition he gets a pact out of his dad that they will both work on being healthier together

maybe they manage to find an actual therapist eventually idk lol

either way, Splinter and Leo grumpily sitting over their plate of broccoli and then Leo says "bet I can eat more pieces than you" and it's on son

he's trying his best

Leo's Condition

Leo came out of the armor severely dehydrated and malnourished, even more so than any person should realistically be after two days; just keeping him from dying of the dehydration was the most immediate struggle

the main issue is that Leo's life force, mystic abilities included, were basically sucked out, leaving his body catastrophically physically weak

his muscle mass can come back with time and diet

the bigger problems are the bone density and chronic fatigue. while Leo can improve these, they'll never be back to where they were before the Dark Armor

his reduced bone density means he has to be careful doing anything physical because the chance he can break a bone is much higher than average, and he stands to suffer more from that break than the average person

he'll eventually get to where he can go through his day-to-day life just fine most days, and can even do some of the physical things he enjoyed before, he just has to be careful and know his limits. he'll never be pulling the 1440 off the halfpipe again, but he can still skateboard as long as he's careful.

even when recovered (as much as he can be), he has bad days and days when the fatigue is really strong. how Leo feels on a bad day is up in the air; sometimes he's at peace with it and generally cheerful, happy to be around his family even if he spends most of the time in his chair or on the couch dozing in and out. other days the depression rears its ugly head and he can get a bit nasty and bitter again. his family is much more patient with him on days like that than he is with himself.

in the beginning Leo also has brain fog and sensitivity to light and sound. these clear up over time, especially once Leo starts making more effort to exercise his brain. he starts reading a lot more and doing puzzles, especially things like sudoku and word puzzles, which helps a lot. thankfully these changes aren't permanent

his inner ears were also damaged a bit, this also heals up largely on its own, sometimes he still has difficulties hearing his brothers if they're whispering or far away but it's not so bad he needs assistance

Leo's Devices

Wheelchair

this is obviously the one Donnie had the most fun building and it shows. this baby is tricked out. Leo also likes to suggest improvements often, some for actual functionality but many just because he thinks it would be cool (like neon lights on the spokes)

it is blue obviously. do you even need me to tell you that?

it's fully electronic but Leo can also wheel it around freely if he wishes. Leo likes to wheel himself when he has the energy because it's good exercise he doesn't have to go out of his way for and he just likes feeling like he's moving himself under his own power. but when he's not feeling up to it he just drives it with the electronic controls instead

it has handles that extend and retract. being allowed to touch the handles is a major sign of Leo's trust and initially it's only for his bros + April + Splinter. Leo hates being moved when he doesn't actually ask to be moved, and he also hates being tipped backwards so his fam knows not to do it even as a joke (and it's so heavy that tipping him is kind of hard, anyway). someone touching the handles or messing around with them without permission gets you immediate backlash from protective siblings

that said Leo has them extended often so he can hang things off them, even though Donnie constantly gripes that that is not their intended purpose!

Sr Hueso is another person who gets handle-touching-privileges pretty fast, and he's also the one Leo asks to move him most often because he thinks it's really funny. he hams it up every time. Hueso is exasperated but does it anyway

(if Hueso adds a few extra wheelchair-accessible tables to Run of the Mill no one has to know)

the chair can also be moved by S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. this is mostly just for emergency situations, or times when the chair is somewhere Leo is not. Shelldon is a very good boy who does not move the chair without Leo's permission.

it has a billion storage spaces and little hidey holes and it can sync with Leo's phone to play music and it also has a charge port for his phone and yeah basically anything Leo and Donnie can come up with goes into this thing. it's a behemoth

Donnie also made Leo a lighter-weight chair with fewer features that he most often uses when he's good using his walker/cane/braces but wants to clear a larger distance first, and eventually Donnie makes him an athletic wheelchair so he can play games like wheelchair basketball

Walker

the walker is also blue but there's nothing particularly special about it

Leo hates using it because it feels like an old person thing. even if realistically he knows there are plenty of reasons people use them, including his own situation, culture is culture and it makes him feel bad no matter what rationality states

so basically once he doesn't have to use it he doesn't

as they all get more comfortable with Leo's situation and he starts openly using humor to cope, jokes about Leo's chair and cane become pretty commonplace in the fam (all good-natured of course). they know the walker is too much of a sore spot though, and poking fun at it is the fastest way to get Leo to do something stupid, so no one does. it's better to just pretend it's not there

Crutches/Canes

he eventually ends up with a variety of these, with different levels of support depending on what he's needing on a given day.

some of the canes are more fashionable than others. this is important to him.

Leo pretty much always has one of these on hand just in case, even on days where he feels alright to walk on his own

he is not afraid to bonk a brother with a cane or crutch but he does so knowing they are free to retaliate

Leg Braces

Leo doesn't need these every day but they're a pretty standard part of his wardrobe at this point

they start out plain but get increasingly elaborately decorated as time goes on because he, Donnie, and Mikey can't help themselves

like the walker, the braces are in the "don't make fun of" zone, though Leo is happy to get positive comments about them and doesn't really need their presence ignored

Other Mobility Aids

Leo has a variety of things to help with his loss of grip strength, difficulties bending over, tremors, etc. all of them are either made by Donnie or ethically "acquired" by April

he drives everyone crazy by leaving them in random places and then forgetting where they are. Donnie starts installing locator tags on everything they give Leo

jokes about these are fine, Leo makes them often himself and has silly names for all of them (this also drives Donnie crazy)

[jules-ln]

Tbh I find it very funny that people are doing the whole "let men characters be manly" with Viktor in JayVik fanart

Like

There's a fair criticism about fandom taking two characters in a ship that canonically have similar body types and making one of them very feminine and tiny and the other big with lots of muscles

But Jayce and Viktor... They just look like that in canon lmao

I mean look at Viktor when he's in his jesus form. he let his hair grow, he literally uses something very similar to a dress, his puppets and his Herald form all have body types that emphasized their hips and shoulder making their waist look very tiny and

Ok, queer men don't need to present feminine but Viktor IS choosing to present more traditionally feminine than masculine; that's a decision the character is doing in the text

It's not something made up by the fans

So this whole "stop making Viktor feminine" is weird to me because, buddy, pal, friend, Viktor is the one making himself look more feminine?

And I think this is part of like a more recent trend in fandom where people are tying to fit characters back into the hetero normative roles of their gender; because it's definitely not the first time I've seen it happen

Like chill guys, men can be feminine and that's ok?

And If you want to see it in a more within the text kind of way

It's curious that he only started presenting more feminine after the hexcore changed his body

Because Viktor it's a character that has internalized ableism (this probably comes from the fact that the writers had a subconscious bias, though I think this is a waaay more complex subject than for just a tumblr post lmao) and he sees his disabilities as something to fix, so he probably didn't feel comfortable in his old body

So as soon as he was in a body he found himself more comfortable in, he started to change his gender expression from fairly traditionally masculine to more feminine; honestly it is very possible that Viktor always wanted to express himself in a more feminine way to begin with, but never felt safe to do so

Mind you, like I know that queerphobia isn't supposed to exist in this universe (and I have a lot of thoughts about that), but I can't help but also think that maybe the fact that he's a disabled Zaunite in Piltover contributed to him wanted to blend in with society around him, so he avoided calling attention as much as he could that included not bending the gender norms (mind you this is me pulling a death of the author and creating my own meaning, I don't know if the characters designers actually thought about that)

Anyway, Have I mentioned that I love the headcanon of Viktor being trans? Lmao

[lifeafterpsychiatry]

I downloaded a dating app cause I don't really know anyone besides my family (im disabled and housebound). I thought that ive been doing better, but it's caused a lot of anxiety. not only do I have nothing to offer. but I also feel so guilty and disgusting for even looking for a relationship. It's not like religious guilt or anything, but most of my peers or friends when I was in school acted like the idea of my being desirable was repulsive and a joke. I feel like a creep and just idk like I don't deserve to take up anyone's time. I'm so desperately lonely but any time I attempt to make connections, I'm just plagued by intense self hatred and doubt. I know I should probably be talking this out with a professional but it's so hard to keep regular appointments when my health is sporadic

This is internalized ableism speaking. I get that it's hard to feel like a person when you don't get treated like one and can't live the kind of life you associate with adulthood, and I don't blame you for internalizing it. But you ARE a person. A person who has something to offer that only you can offer even if it doesn't fit into society's expectations and demands. A person whose desire for connection and love is natural and valid, not creepy. A person who has worth completely regardless of what you can and can't do. Nothing about your desire to date is wrong or disgusting. Nothing about downloading a dating app is predatory. There are ways to go about dating and approaching people that can be, but simply trying to date as a disabled person absolutely isn't. You're a person just like everyone else on there, even if it can be hard to feel confident in that

[apple-onigiri]

falls into your askbox all sillylike. The average person in ISATs universe has mental + physical barriers against excessive craft energy. In my headcanon, extensively pushing these barriers doesn't make them stronger, but instead just grates them down until one can't safely access their craft without risking exhaustion and sickness. Wish and time craft push against these barriers hard, almost completely shattering them depending on what you do with them. Post-canon, siffrin can't use their craft at all anymore at the threat of intense side effects. With his already-there internalized ableism, they are not gonna be nice to themself about this. [i may have yoinked this from a fic, but i dont remember the title </3]

guys someone just fell into my ask box?? (＃°Д°)! that's crazy!! help them up omg

but ooo, interesting idea. i do especially like the physical and mental blocks on craft overuse, kinda like your brain and body don't really allow you to pull your fingers back with your other hand enough to, y'know. break them. even though you probably have enough strength to do so

and yeahhhh siffrin would not take anything like that well At All, the party would have their work cut out for them in their attempts to reassure him he's not a burden ≡(▔﹏▔)≡

when it comes to pushing against those barriers... i do personally follow a belief of wish craft not being dangerous or harmful on its own unless it's overused, and time craft being the thing that exhausts siffrin the most (it is said to be impossible because it kills the user, the king and siffrin can only do with thanks to their wishes), and act 5 abolishing any self-preservation he had left with his desperation.

i think this because - considering the timeline - the island must've gotten [REDACTED] when siffrin was a child/teenager, and that means wish craft is something even kids know about and learn the rituals for, so it can't be that volatile if used the way you're meant to. also, on a less theoretical note, i don't want to make an element of siffrin's home culture something directly harmful because it'd be sad for them and for me, and for everyone, and :(

thank you for the ask!! i assume the other one worrying about if it came through was yours too, so don't worry - i was simply more offline yesterday and only now got to opening up my inbox o*(￣︶￣)/　

[joyful-soul-collector]

I’m probably reading too much into this, but it just occurred to me…

First CL says he sees Viktor as asexual, and now apparently he’s said some bullshit about Viktor having a ‘broken soul’…

And my aroace ass is over here like “what are you implying?” 🤔

Its probably nothing…

But like…

Eeesh.

Ngl I feel like those two things are probably separate, unrelated comments.

Him saying Viktor is ace is ignorant and borderline homophobic considering he said it because he didn't like that people shipped Jayce and Viktor. Ace Viktor headcanons aren't wrong, but saying a character is ace with the purpose of discouraging shipping with another character IS wrong

Him saying that Viktor has a broken soul is like. An observation lol, he DOES have a broken soul. It's possible he's saying the word "broken" in relation to the ace-ness CL has decided he has, or even maybe in relation to his disability?

But tbh I think he's talking about Viktor's character and personality and general feelings. Describing Viktor as having a broken soul is not really that far out there. The guy had so much internalized ableism he decided to "cure" the whole of piltover of flaws. There's definitely something broken in there. Not to mention all his trauma, that will break things in you for sure

If he IS saying Viktor is broken because of his decided ace-ness or his disability? Yeah that sucks. But they're separate comments and not something I see reason for alarm, since there's no evidence to say that's what he meant