Precious and Fragile Things

[MASSIVE TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR CHILD SEXUAL ABUSE AND DOMESTIC VIOLENCE] Either scroll past this or click on the links with severe caution.

There is a sixteen year-old boy on Tumblr who calls himself a pedophile and admits he's sexually attracted to children, and people who respond to this with understandable revulsion and tell him to go away are the mean ones because, oh my god, he doesn't abuse children! He has no intention of ever acting on his attraction so why are we vilifying him?

And then he showed up to respond to a comment I made on sf_drama so he could defend a comic depicting one woman savagely beating another and calling her a c**t as "funny." All because she said she hated lolicon (and the comic itself was made in response to what is legitimate criticism of the inherent creepiness of lolicon as it sexualizes children; fictional children, yes, but children all the same). And, as you can see from the links it goes downhill from there.

And full disclosure here, I am more unhappy about a sixteen year old able to live in a world where he can be fucking supported for having a sexual attraction to children than I am about the entire argument I had with him over the comic. Maybe some of that has to do with something that happened to me when I was five fucking years old with a boy who wasn't all that much younger than Mr. Draven. (And fuck him for soiling a name from a movie I actually like.)

But I'm totally sure Mr. Draven will hold to his promise never to touch a child because we all know pedophiles are the most honest and trustworthy people on the planet. (Fuck yes, that's sarcasm.)

Courtesy of a "I can't hear the point flying over my head" post made in ffrantsrants. In her tirade against supposed homophobia (in which she completely ignored those offended by fetishization of homosexual relationships, or incest, or the use of underaged characters as valid reasons for not liking certain types of slash fanfic), she managed to produce this little gem:

And if you are one, it's high time you either came out of the closet, or realize that your religious beliefs are completely and utterly ridiculous and that any retard can tell you that the Universe was created by the Big Bang and Jesus was probably schizophrenic, and even if he was sane when he preached he preached that everyone should be treated as equals, NOT that Gays are sinful and will burn in hell.

I completely missed the use of retard in my first read-through because my eyes saw the Shizophrenic jab first, but I did produce this less-than-polite response that will probably never be read because I was comment 153 as of this posting:

...Jesus was probably schizophrenic, and even if he was sane when he preached he preached that everyone should be treated as equals, NOT that Gays are sinful and will burn in hell.

It's all well and good to try and bash a religion that's being used by certain people to take away rights/keep everyone from achieving equality (not exactly fair, but whatever), but you don't fucking need to use mental illness as an insult. You insult everyone who has a mental illness and/or anyone who loves someone with a mental illness. You can choose not to be a bigot, you can't choose to change your brain chemistry so your mental illness magically goes away. Fuck your ableism. More to the point, fuck you and this entire shitty missing-the-point post.

Go read up on fetishizing of homosexuality (and yes, that includes femslash too), or realize that a lot of popular slash involves incest (Sam/Dean, Fred/George, etc.), which understandably creeps a lot of people out. Also, some slash fiction centers around characters under the age of consent and even though they're fictional, it's a squick for some readers.

It's too fucking early for this bullshit.

Having mental illness =/= Being a bigoted asshole.

You can read what's happened here. Basically, I must think anyone who plays a bad guy is bad, and I must have forgotten there are those with mental illness who are violent. I shouldn't pretend otherwise even though I never said such a thing never happened, nor did I ever say anywhere in there that you can't play whatever the hell you want to be or that people were horrible for playing murderers. (Hello, someone ask me about Selene sometime. She's a fucking monster in that regard.)

Bottom line: Basing a character on a real person who committed real atrocities against real people has the potential to be way more offensive than making up a character out of whole cloth. Names carry baggage and color perceptions and just because you think it's fine to role-play a real-life Nazi for fun doesn't mean the rest of the role-play world is going to agree with you or not think you're being a douchecanoe.

And I'm done with people who want to think I'm being wholly unreasonable and unfair and BAAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWWWW!

Update: Because there's now more to the story, I'm unlocking this and making another public post with more bits of assholery.

This...thing was just posted in rp_discuss (LiveJournal community) and I responded, but it's so over the top and so goddamned offensive that I couldn't not share the fail.

I am wanting to make an Ilse Koch type character. You know, that freak from the 40s that had Holocaust victims killed because she liked their tattoos? (Or shrunk their heads, or make human skin lampshades, list goes on.) I want to enter her into a mental hospital as a mental patient. Possibly criminally insane.

But I don't want to sound insensitive to minorities that were affected by the holocaust. Can I still do this, but at the same time, not be an insensitive duchebag?

*twitch*

My response:

Can I still do this, but at the same time, not be an insensitive duchebag [sic]?

I'm gonna say no, and not just for the Holocaust, but people who have mental illnesses as well are likely to be offended (speaking as one such person, yes, it sounds very offensive).

Really, just...why?

I'm going to say this once: Violence and mental illness are not mutually exclusive. You can have a mental illness and never committ a single act of violence just as you can be violent and not have a mental illness. Sometimes an asshole is just an asshole, okay?

I'm not saying you can't ever portray someone who has a mental illness or who is traumatized by events that happen during role-play. I'm saying there's a line and shit like this? Yeah, it's waaaaaaaay over it.

Bottom line is, if you have to ask if it's offensive, chances are pretty high that it is indeed offensive.

What's included in quotes is not attributed to any single individual. I have heard these arguments made time and time again from more people than I care to count, and the problems with such statements are discussed on a variety of feminist and progressive blogs. You are quite welcome to disagree with me, to dismiss me, whatever, but again, this is my life and my opinions will not change because I've experienced this and I've spent a lifetime learning so much about this. This is something I'm passionate about, but at the same time it's difficult for me to discuss without becoming emotionally involved, so chances are I'm not going to engage in debate much over this. I'm putting this out there not to argue, but to offer my experience and to maybe help others understand why just getting help isn't as cut and dried as doing. In short, I've said my piece with this and the following posts and I'm done for the night, perhaps for a long time. I won't fight anymore than this.

Over on another Social Network Far, Far Away, there's been talk about finding happiness/being happy and whether or not this is a choice people can actively make. In other words, do people choose to be miserable and/or ignore opportunities for happiness?

When the subject came up, it wasn't in a mental illness/mental health context, but it's honestly hard for me to view this question outside of that context because I dealt with so much bullshit surrounding this question. (However, I think even in the absence of mental illness I can't say that people actively choose misery over happiness, I really can't.) I wish I had a nickel for every time I heard, "You need to smile more," "You need to just cheer up," "Listen to happier music," "Eat peanut butter" (true story), "Just think happier thoughts/Be more positive," "Say positive things in front of a mirror," etc. I wish there was a stadium big enough for everyone who thinks this about Depression and other mental illness so that I could sit there and scream into a microphone over and over that IT'S. NOT. THAT. EASY.

I'm not sure what's more depressing: That people believe this stuff or that I actively tried doing all those things hoping it would work, that I could be Fixed (as if I'm some piece of machinery that's in need of repair) or Cured(TM). If it really was a question of just thinking more positively or putting on a happy face, there'd be a whole lot of therapist/psychiatrists out of work and I'd have been the Queen of Happy-Land in high school. If I'd had a choice between contemplating suicide, feeling hopeless to the point that I couldn't stop crying, or feeling happy or at least comfortable with my life, I'd have chosen the latter in a heartbeat.

( Read more... )

I've been quiet, I know. Truth be told, I'm having some serious anxiety issues that cropped up seemingly out of nowhere. Last night Sam had to put in some serious Supportive and Cuddly Boyfriend hours for which I'm thankful and can't really express how amazing he is and how much it meant to me. But really, I'll talk about the mental health stuff later, under a filter, because as much as I know I shouldn't be ashamed of something I can't really control, I still get embarrassed and feel like a failure to know that after everything, shit like this still happens. Granted, a hell of a lot has happened since the last time I really fell apart and broke down; however, that doesn't change the fact that it feels like I'm admitting defeat and that I'm not strong enough to be a "normal" person, whatever the fuck that means.

Ahem, yeah, I'll talk about it later under a filter if I can without upsetting myself all over again. I did cry last night, which sounds bad until you consider crying, no matter how little, is something I rarely do despite the fact that I know sometimes you just need a good cry. I do feel better today, which is a good thing considering I have to be social tonight.

So. Tonight.

I have mentioned that in addition to being an amazing chef, Sam's dad plays guitar and is in a band, haven't I? Oh, and that they've got a gig tonight for New Year's Eve? Well, he does and they do, and I get to go tonight along with Sam and his mother. In fact, I get to be there for the set up since I'm catching a ride with Sam's mom to the place (Sam's housesitting for a co-worker and will be meeting me there). I'm looking forward to it. As far as music goes, I guess you could say they do some of their own original folk music plus covers of songs by the Beatles, Pink Floyd, etc. (Sam's dad is a Beatle maniac and I've had the pleasure of hearing him play his guitar and sing "Here Comes the Sun" while hanging out at Sam's house over the summer, and yes the man can sing as well as he cooks. He also sang "Light Up My Room" by Barenaked Ladies, which I hope one day he'll actually record somehow so I can post it. Okay, enough of my tangent about the awesomeness that is my boyfriend's family.)

Given my anxiety levels, the idea of being in a restaurant/bar makes me a little fearful of panic attacks and/or general freak-outs. However, I have been in this place previously so it's a familar location (I know where entrances, exits, and bathrooms are), and Sam's mother will be there and she has the same general unease about crowds that I do, so even if she won't know that I'm in something of a bad spot right now, she will understand if I start getting on edge. Sam will be there too and probably other people I've met before. Also -- and this is meant to be funny and not indicative of anything -- I won't be driving, so I can imbibe alcohol of some sort while I'm there, which will be hilarious because these days I'm a lightweight since I drink once per year. Also, I prefer liquor and that tends to give me heartburn since I no longer have the digestive system of a twenty year-old. I'll probably have a martini or a glass or two of wine and then I'll be pleasantly buzzed. I hope. Then again, I might chicken out of drinking anything at all, who knows?

As for the kiddo, he gets to go hang out with Sam's youngest sister and her boyfriend at the local gaming store. They'll be playing some D&D, maybe, and various other games. There will be kids of all ages there, so he'll fit in and I know he likes the shop and he loves Sam's sister, so it's a win all around. He also has his shiny new Nintendo DS from Santa he can play. He'll spend the night at Sam's house while Sam and I go back to his coworker's house who he's house and pet-sitting for until Tuesday. (Yes, he did clear it with them before inviting me over.) Sasha will be staying overnight at Sam's parents' place too.

And, oh yeah, at midnight I turn 30. Woo, three decades. Tomorrow, Sam's parents' are having a little party. Really, it's supposed to be because we didn't get to have Christmas together and this is sort of a make-up Christmas dinner, but they're also making it about my birthday too. I kind of wish they wouldn't because I'm weird and don't think that A) people should be throwing me any sort of celebration no matter how small, and B) in spite of a couple of good years, I still have an overwhelmingly bad track record with birthdays, so I fear something going wrong. Then again, I have been promised good finger foods and CAKE, so maybe it'll be okay.

So, Happy New Year to my friends' list, and Happy Birthday to me.

[Trigger Warning: Talk of suicide]

I've been reading some Sylvia Plath poems in between reading her journals (and yes, Sam, I'm reading Brust too). The poems that center around her struggle with depression and mental illness truly resonate within me. I keep thinking "These are the words I would write were I able to write poetry and were greatly more articulate." Not that I could ever be on Plath's level, but I would at least share her sadness and frustration with the lack of control over her own thoughts and emotions.

One of the hardest things to deal with since therapy has been knowing when my brain is off-balance. I've taught myself to recognize the signs, to know whether I'm reacting to something from outside myself or something within my own head. I became something of an expert of examining all my emotions and rooting out their sources so that I never take my anger or sadness out on someone undeserving. I'm not perfect, and sometimes I hurl more abuse on myself, but it's far better than it was ten years ago. However, the one thing I will never ever get used to, or be able to get over is the feeling of not being in control of myself.

Even when heavily medicated, I still had the moments of profound and unexplained sadness, and while I have the ability to work through it most of the time, there are occasionally times in which I have no choice but to let it run its course. It's so hard to explain what it's like, to be sort of outside yourself. These days I'm able to at least tell someone near me what's happening and I explain "I just need a night's rest/A couple of days and I'll be fine again." I repeat that mantra to myself, and it keeps me from completely giving in to the despair, but sometimes I want to wail and scream. It's terrifying to feel it, and there's always the thought at the back of my head "What if this is the time I lose it for good? What if I don't come back?" And it's always there. The memory of the last time I was in a dark place is one I'll carry with me forever. I'll never forget what it was like to want to die, to constantly call myself a coward for being unable to take the pills, to put the knife to my wrist, or the gun to my head. It was always a war within myself. There was the rational side screaming "No, killing yourself isn't the answer," and the Depressed me whispering, "But it would end this pain." No matter how happy I am in life, no matter how good things are, the memories haunt me and the fear of winding up back there never truly abates.

It's funny how just having one chemical in your brain out of balance can destroy the self so completely, even for the shortest amount of time. I'm lucky that so far I've won the struggle with myself, and I'm extremely fortunate that I got the help I did when I did. I'm also fortunate to have friends and a lover who is willing to listen to me, who don't judge me for things beyond my control. Not everyone is so lucky as me, and reading Plath's words and knowing how her life ended, I can see clearly the path I could have taken. Though I never made an honest attempt to take my own life, I know Plath's story as intimately as my own if nothing else than because she understood. Even her darkest poems, the ones that speak frankly of suicide and the darkness in one's own head, comfort me. They comfort me not because I enjoy reliving those moments, but because I know I am not alone. I know that someone else lived through the pain, someone else wrote about it, and if there's one other person, then there must be more like me. There have to be more who understand.

I think I'll end this by sharing the poem that inspired this entry. It can be found here along with many others of Plath's poems as well as many, many other poets.

"Elm"
Sylvia Plath

I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root;
It is what you fear.
I do not fear it: I have been there.

Is it the sea you hear in me,
Its dissatisfactions?
Or the voice of nothing, that was you madness?

Love is a shadow.
How you lie and cry after it.
Listen: these are its hooves: it has gone off, like a horse.

All night I shall gallup thus, impetuously,
Till your head is a stone, your pillow a little turf,
Echoing, echoing.

Or shall I bring you the sound of poisons?
This is rain now, the big hush.
And this is the fruit of it: tin white, like arsenic.

I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets.
Scorched to the root
My red filaments burn and stand,a hand of wires.

Now I break up in pieces that fly about like clubs.
A wind of such violence
Will tolerate no bystanding: I must shriek.

The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me
Cruelly, being barren.
Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.

I let her go. I let her go
Diminished and flat, as after radical surgery.
How your bad dreams possess and endow me.

I am inhabited by a cry.
Nightly it flaps out
Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.

I am terrified by this dark thing
That sleeps in me;
All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.

Clouds pass and disperse.
Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables?
Is it for such I agitate my heart?

I am incapable of more knowledge.
What is this, this face
So murderous in its strangle of branches?—

Its snaky acids kiss.
It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults
That kill, that kill, that kill.