There’s nothing I love writing more than a good blow up. When two people clearly have something they’re trying to work out, but they’re talking past each other, too caught up in their own bullshit to see the forest for the trees, too unaware of the subconscious thoughts and fears that are driving their own behavior. How will they eventually come to understand each other? Will they? So much potential to go different ways.
Why Third-Party Analysts Sometimes Mistake JADE for Escalation
If you've spent any time in discussions of toxic dynamics — whether the antagonist in question is a family member, an ex, a bullying coworker, a bad boss, a nosy neighbour, a "Karen" customer, or an online interlocutor — you've probably encountered the acronym JADE: Justify, Argue, Defend, Explain. The standard advice is well-rehearsed: don't JADE with antagonists. Don't try to justify your choices, don't argue your case, don't defend yourself against bad-faith characterizations, don't explain your reasoning in the hope that clearer articulation will produce understanding. The reasoning behind this advice is solid. Antagonists aren't operating in good faith, so the usual tools of good-faith communication don't work on them. Justifying invites further interrogation. Arguing legitimizes the frame. Defending concedes that there was something to defend against. Explaining gives them more material to twist. The more you JADE, the more rope you hand them.
That much is well-trodden ground. What's discussed less often, and what I want to focus on here, is a particular downstream consequence of JADEing that makes the dynamic even harder to escape: when a third party reads the textual record of an exchange, JADE often looks indistinguishable from escalation.
This is a real problem, and it deserves more attention than it gets.
The grammar of analytical reading
When a neutral observer — a friend you show the screenshots to, a family member you describe the argument to, a coworker reviewing the email thread, an HR rep reading the Slack history, or even an AI chatbot you ask "what do you think of this exchange" — approaches a transcript, they typically read it in what we might call analytical mode. Analytical mode treats every utterance as a tactical move in a debate. It reads for who said what, who responded with what, who reached further, who deployed bigger concepts.
Inside analytical mode, JADE and escalation look identical. Both produce the same textual artifact: someone saying more, reaching further, invoking larger principles, getting more articulate or more impassioned as the exchange continues. The analyst can't see the difference between someone trying harder to be understood and someone trying harder to win. From the outside, both look like "increasing intensity."
But the interior of these moves is completely different. JADE has a specific interior: it's the experience of feeling unheard and assuming that clearer articulation will fix that. Escalation has a different interior: it's wanting to dominate, hurt, or score points. They produce similar text but they come from opposite places. The analytical eye, by design, can't see interiors. It only sees the page.
The composure asymmetry
There's a second, related problem. Antagonists tend to perform composure. They say less. They deploy short jabs, status moves, mockery economically delivered, and exits framed as dismissals ("I'm done with this conversation," "this is hysterical," "wow, okay"). The earnest party, by contrast, says more — because they're trying. They're working to be understood. They reach for additional framings when the first one doesn't land.
On a transcript, "said less" reads as composure. "Said more" reads as agitation. The person performing detachment looks above-it-all. The person actually engaging looks like they lost their cool. The analytical reader rewards the performance of calm over the substance of engagement.
This means that the textual record is structurally biased in favour of antagonists. They know this, often implicitly. It's part of why they perform the way they do — they're banking on the fact that any third-party review will favour the party who said less and looked less invested. "I was just having a laugh, look how worked up they got." The medium itself does work for them.
Why reaching for stronger framings backfires on the page
There's a particularly painful version of this trap. When the earnest party is trying to articulate something about ethics, principle, or proportionality, they often reach for stronger moral language to make their point land. They invoke larger concepts — fairness, harm, freedom, authoritarianism, dignity — because they're trying to gesture at why the antagonist's behaviour is wrong, not just that it's annoying.
But on the page, reaching for stronger moral language reads as disproportion. The analyst plucks out the strongest comparison and grades it as overreach. "You compared X to Y? That's hysterical." The disproportion isn't actually in the engager's view — it's a function of how hard they're working to be heard against someone who refuses to hear. But the textual record can't show that distinction. It just shows the comparison, sitting there, looking immoderate.
This is one of the cruellest mechanisms in the whole dynamic. The harder you work to be understood, the worse you look to anyone reading later.
The closing-move problem
Here's another piece that gets lost in analytical readings: closing moves are nearly invisible on the page.
In a healthy exchange, there's often a moment where one party signals they've gotten what they came for. "Okay, that makes sense." "Alright, fair enough." "That's all I needed to know." These are closing moves — attempts to wrap up the exchange amicably. In a healthy exchange, the other party accepts the close and the conversation ends.
With antagonists, closing moves get refused. The antagonist won't let the exchange end on the engager's terms, because the engager being satisfied breaks the antagonist's script. So the antagonist reopens the conversation, often with mockery or a new tangent. From that point on, every subsequent reply from the engager isn't a continuation of the original argument — it's an attempt to re-close a door that keeps being reopened.
But on the page, "trying to re-close" looks identical to "continuing to argue." The analyst sees turn N of M and counts it as one more round of debate. They don't notice that turn N was supposed to be the last turn, and that everything after it exists only because one party refused to let the exchange end.
This is why exchanges with antagonists often have a strange shape: the engager tries to leave amicably, gets pulled back in, tries to leave again, gets pulled back in again, and finally — sometimes after many rounds — gives up or gets visibly frustrated. The analyst reading later sees only the final frustration and concludes that the engager was the unreasonable one. They miss the entire pattern of attempted exits.
Why all of this matters
The reason the don't-JADE advice is so important isn't just that JADE doesn't work on antagonists in the moment. It's that the textual record of JADEing will be used against you — by the antagonist themselves, by mutual acquaintances, by HR, by family courts, by anyone who later reads the exchange in analytical mode. The transcript is rigged against the person who showed up genuinely. The medium favours performance over engagement, brevity over articulation, dismissal over reaching.
This is a hard thing to internalize, because it runs against the intuition that "if I just explain clearly enough, anyone reading this will see what really happened." They won't. Not in analytical mode. They'll see the surface shape — increasing intensity, stronger comparisons, more words from you and fewer from them — and they'll draw the conclusion that surface shape suggests.
The protection against this isn't better JADEing. It's not JADEing at all. It's recognizing that the moment you start trying to be understood by someone who's committed to misunderstanding you, you're producing a record that will read as your fault no matter how careful you are with your words.
A note for anyone carrying an old exchange
If you've been sitting with a transcript of an old conflict — an email thread, a comment exchange, a chat log — and part of what's kept it raw is the worry that "anyone who read this would side with them," I want to name something directly: that worry is often well-founded, and it's not because you were wrong. It's because the textual record of any exchange with an antagonist is biased against the person who engaged in good faith. A casual analytical reader probably would read it the way you fear. But that's a flaw in casual analytical reading, not a verdict on you.
The reader who sees you as the unreasonable one is missing the interior — what you were doing, what you were responding to, what you were trying to close, what kept being reopened. The interior is where the truth of the exchange lives. The page can't show it. That's the limit of the medium, not a fact about you.
— suggested by Claude 4.7 Opus (Anthropic) in conversation
every time i tell myself that my conclusion of 'i did nothing wrong' is maladaptive ego-protecting, i slap myself gently on the wrist and remind myself I am grounded in my decision to disagree.
I am not people pleasing today.
I do not have to be liked, or correct, in order to disagree.
This is not a knee jerk reaction.
This is days worth of considered thoughtful reflection.
They can be mad at me, they can tell people whatever they want about me.
Lewis comes to welcome the dark interludes which provide a brief reprieve from the parade of fake-Arthur-memories. The cold, empty silence is preferable to the increasingly dour scenes depicting the day-to-day struggles of fake-Arthur and fake-Vivi as they fail at dealing with fake-Lewis’s death. Not that either of them know about his death. Arthur doesn’t remember the cliff or the body snatcher, thinking fake-Lewis is alive and lost somewhere. Vivi doesn’t remember him at all. He’s been erased completely from her mind, leaving her confused and Arthur distraught. Lewis has no idea how long he’s spent watching them struggle. The scenes come and go at varying lengths and changing levels of detail. He must have lived through several weeks’ worth of fake-memories now. Months of Arthur’s life flit by, broken up into chunks.
...
A conversation with Vivi, trying and failing to convince her that the other-Lewis had existed at all.
“Lewis…you know, Lewis. Please remember.”
“I’m sorry, I blanked out for a second there…what were you saying?”
“Nothing. It’s nothing…”
“Oh shit…I was...how long was I out for this time?”
“An hour...You were gone for an hour.”
“I’m sorry Arthur.”
“Don’t worry about it. Was my fault…Mentioned something I shouldn’t have.”
Fights with Lance when the older man attempts to intervene and stop Arthur’s increasingly destructive behaviour.
“This behaviour isn’t healthy.”
“What am I supposed to do!”
“Maybe, stop and actually think about this…”
“Lewis is out there somewhere, and you want me to just give up!”
Hours spend online and in police stations trying to convince people to look for the other-Lewis.
“Kid. You’re friend is listed as missing. We have alerts out in the neighbouring states and so far there’s been no word. Search parties, caving experts, were combing those old mine shafts for six days after you came in. There was nothing there.”
“Something happened there...something bad...if you would just...”
“The cave is just a regular cave. Those old mines are old mines. Nothing weird or spooky about them, just very easy to get lost in. There’s nothing more to be done so go home, eat a hot meal, get some sleep. If your friend shows up you’ll be one of the first to know. ”
...
It’s like watching a highlight real, only nothing about these memories is a highlight. He’s almost sure the fake-memories are selected and purposefully skewed towards negative experiences. Surely, even if this were real-it’s not real, it can’t be real-Arthur’s life wouldn’t be this bad without Lewis there.
When the darkness falls away, transitioning into another memory, Lewis wants to yell out in frustration.
…
…
…
Lewis’s eyes open of their own accord and he’s looking out at the world, experiencing life from his friend’s perspective.
…
…
This memory starts with Arthur staring as a door handle, hesitating to pull it open. Lewis recognises it of course, he’s seen this door serval times, scattered in amongst the most recent lot of fake-memories. It’s the door to Vivi and Arthur’s apartment in Milton, faded green in colour and rusted around the hinges.
Arthur lets out a long breath which tranistions into a yawn, fiddling around with a set of keys with his one, good arm. Lewis tries not to worry when his friend drops the keys to the ground, hand slightly shakier than usual. Arthur probably hasn’t been sleeping properly. Not-sleeping is a running theme for this fake-memory-Arthur.
When the door does finally swing open, it is to reveal an irate Vivi. She is blocking the flat’s narrow entryway, her hands on her hips, expression creased into a scowl.
“In what universe does ‘I’ll be back early’ mean 11:30 pm?”
Arthur winces. Lewis can’t see his expression but his friend is probably grimacing. Most memories that feature both Vivi and Arthur involved an argument of some sort. Another form of torture for him no doubt. Seeing them struggle to come to terms with his disappearance was always a painful viewing experience. Lewis braces himself for some sort of emotionally charged argument, wishing he had the power to intervein. These fake-memories are some of the hardest to sit through.
“A lot of the guys in the lab work late hours.”
Vivi looks unimpressed, “And I suppose they’re all recovering from a recent amputation as well are they?”
“It’s been four months …It’s healed plenty.”
Lewis feels the echo sensation of pain as Arthur drops his bag to the floor, freeing up his remaining arm. Arthur lying to Vivi about his wellbeing is another common theme in these fake-memories. Vivi knows it too, Lewis can already see the tension in her shoulders.
“I’m fine,” Arthur tries to reassure, skirting around Vivi, avoiding eye contact. “The prototype for the new arm is almost done, we’re just waiting on the guys in programming to double-check some of the coding….”
“This new arm isn’t going to be worth much if you’re too exhausted to do anything with it.” Vivi interrupts angrily, following Arthur as he slinks past the small kitchen towards bedrooms at the back of the apartment.
Lewis feels her grabs the back of Arthur’s shirts, pulling the other up short.
“I said I’m fin….wait.”
Vivi drags Arthur to the narrow kitchen bench just big enough to fit two bar-chairs, ignoring his objections.
“Sit.” She orders, stopping over to the frig, pulling out a bowl and thrusting it into the microwave. The hum of the microwave makes the following quiet twice as uncomfortable. Even Lewis feels it.
Arthur clears his throat to speak and is cut off when the microwave lets off a loud ping.
Vivi all but slams the streaming bowl down in front of Arthur.
“You really don’t have to…” Arthur tries.
“Oh yeah? What did you eat for dinner?”
Silence.
“Lunch?”
“…”
“Because I only know you ate breakfast because I was there for it.”
More silence hangs between them.
“Eat.” She instructs and glares until Arthur picks up the spoon. Lewis can feel Arthur shift in awkward discomfort as he starts eating. After living through so many of these fake-memories, Lewis is becoming an Arthur body language expert.
“How was work?” Arthur breaks the silence, glancing at Vivi. She is sitting with her arms crossed, still upset, still annoyed. Lewis can read the worry fuelling her frustration clear as day.
Her expression clears as she deliberately puts the issue of Arthur arriving late to one side, “Work was good. Duet is a real character but they’re nice and super knowledgeable when it comes to the occult and other supernatural stuff. They’re helping me research memory-related curses and whatnot. The first person, apart from you, who doesn’t think I’m crazy. So that’s a plus.”
“When my arm is fixed, we can hit the road and follow up on any leads you hear,” Arthur murmurs between mouthfuls and Lewis wishes he could face-palm because that is the exact wrong thing to say. Not for the first time, Lewis longs to be physically present so he can smooth over the sudden tension which spikes in the room. “Or we could go before that…I mean…I don’t really need two arms.”
“It’s not urgent or anything,” Vivi responds with the forced cheer of someone holding back on speaking their mind. “I bleary notice that the memories are gone most days. Your arm is more important.”
“Don’t say that,” Arthur stops eating to frown.
“Don’t say what? That I’m fine postponing the search for my memories for however long it takes you to get better?”
“That’s not…what I mean is that your memories are important.”
Vivi’s expression hardens, becoming terse, “Not more important than your health.”
Arthur tenses.
“My missing memories can wait,” She insists. “I’ve been doing fine without them. Especially now we live here and not in Tempo. I haven’t had a blackout since we moved.”
“It’s not just that…” Arthur retorts, frustrated.
“Then what.” Vivi snaps, almost yelling now, “Do you hear yourself speak? ‘I don’t really need two arms,’…are you kidding me! What could possibly be more important than your health.”
“You know I can’t tell you.”
Vivi lets out a long, frustrated breath, standing. “You promised, when we moved closer to the hospital labs, you promised that you’d make an effort to actually look after yourself.”
Arthur doesn’t respond as Vivi continues. “When your arm is finished. When you look like an actual person and not a zombie. When we don’t have to have this conversation every day. Then we’ll go searching.”
The bar stool squeaks on the floor as Vivi pushes it back, “I’m going to bed. I’ve got work early tomorrow. You should sleep as well…when you’ve finished.”
A long silence stretches between his two friends, all the heat gone from the argument. Lewis can’t see Vivi anymore, Arthur’s vision is now fixed on his spoon which is resting on the lip of the bowl.
“I would tell you everything…if I could…” Arthur doesn’t look up. His voice is strained.
Vivi pauses in the doorway. “I know.” She sounds tired. Lewis’s heart aches. “That doesn’t change anything.”
Arthur flinches.
A sigh and Vivi adds, “I better not find you awake in an hour because I’m going to set my alarm to check.”
“What?” Arthur finally looks up. “You can’t do that.”
“I can and will.”
“…but you just said you have work in the morning.”
“If you’re not gonna sleep then I’m not gonna sleep.”
“But….”
“Just the way it’s gotta be apparently,” Vivi finishes, strolling out of the room, leaving Arthur- and, through him, Lewis- to stare after her.
Arthur slumps, “God…damnit…” rubbing his eyes. There’s no anger to the word.
No matter how many times he’s seen Arthur and Vivi argue in the weeks and months following his counterpart’s death, it never got any easier. They were both too stubborn for their own good. Arthur’s got a quiet, methodical stubbornness about him while Vivi is loud and abrasive. Mix that with emotional stress and an obvious concern for one another and the result was a whole load of tension. Lewis knows Arthur has low self-esteem and tendency to beat himself up and blame himself for stuff that definitely wasn’t his fault, but he’s never seen him this bad. It never seemed like that big a deal when both him and Vivi had been around to help. Vivi too, he’s never see her so stressed and angry at seemingly everything. Or maybe Lewis doesn’t know Vivi or Arthur as well as he thought he did.
There is movement in the corner of the room and Lewis notices Mystery for the first time. The not-a-dog had been lying in the corner.
“What.”
Mystery just cocks his head to the side.
“I know you can understand me,” Arthur mutters, shifting with discomfort. Mystery doesn’t speak or do much of anything, trotting out of the room after Vivi. Not too surprising. Another trend in these illusions was that Mystery tended to just sit and watch.
Sometimes, Lewis wonders if he just imagined the whole ‘giant fox’ thing. His memories for the car park confrontation are fuzzy, he’d been in a lot of pain at the time and probably suffering a bit of blood loss. He’s lived through so many of these memories that the real would seams so far away. Then he remembers those shinning teeth biting into him, and very real physical pain. That was real.
The real world was still out there.
None of these memories were real. He had almost forgotten.
“I’m not crazy,” Arthur murmurs, eyeing the dog uneasily before turning back to finish what’s left in his bowl. Lewis can’t read Arthur’s thoughts, but he suspects that his friend might be having similar doubts about Mystery’s true identity as well.
“I’ll find you, Lewis…”
For a second, Lewis thinks Arthur is addressing him directly before remembering that that’s impossible. This fake-memory-Arthur is addressing the ghost of a best friend he doesn’t know is dead. Lewis is only a passenger, watching life through Arthur’s eyes, invisible and stranded.
“I’ll find you …no matter what it takes. I’ll find you. And everything will go back to normal…”
…
…
…
The memory fades, darkening and Lewis is once again back in the dark.
...
...
...
“DAMNIT!”
He slams both fists into the ground, watching the darkness ripple under the impact. His yell doesn’t echo, swallowed by the nothing.
“Damnit…DAMNIT…DAMN IT ALL!”
Feelings of frustration and anger smother his hurt and sorrow. He growls, smashing his fist into the ground again. If this were the real world, he’d have to worry about bruising his knuckles or breaking his fingers. The void offers little in the way of resistance.
“I GET IT, ALL RIGHT! They’re miserable…they’re struggling…I get the point!”
Nothing responds to his shouting. He’s alone. He shouts again, screaming into the void. He’s stopped questioning the motive behind what he was seeing long ago. They were illusions masquerading as his friend’s memories. Designed to hurt him as much as you can hurt a person without touching them.
“Just stop already!” He rages. Nothing responds.
Fury, white-hot, is better than the creeping sadness threatening to drown him. Sure, being angry about things had never worked well for him in the past. He’d been a very angry child and it was only thanks to his adopted patents and then Vivi and Arthur that he’d put the unpleasant emotion behind him.
None of that mattered here. Here, in the dark, the anger is his only defence against the green bastard’s torture.
Lewis regrets not punching the asshole when he had the chance. He wishes he’d done a lot of things differently. Lewis continues yelling right up until the dark once again fades into another memory.
..
NOTE: Resurrecting this fic in anticipation for a possible new video maybe? One can only dream. Sorry if it reads slightly different, i’m a bit rusty.
i saw some p well handled discourse once where
person A had an opinion on something to do w transmisogyny
person B says thats not a valid opinion
person A defends themself and also mentions being trans
person B backtracks and is like “oh well its okæ if you’re trans”
person A is like ? i think opinions should generally be considered independently from the identities of the person who holds them
and i think about that post a lot. like. obviously being non binary gives me additional insight into the ~non-binary experience, but I don’t think that actually should mean people have to give me a free pass if i say something offensive. most trans meds are trans people, and i don’t really think their trans-ness validates their opinions at all.
the position with the best logical conclusion as far as i see it is that opinions should be evaluated semi-independently of the person who holds them.
also ? internalized [oppression]ism exists; there are many men i would rather talk about feminism with than women because there are many women with enough internalized misogyny to prevent them from accurately reflecting on whether a certain opinion/product/action is misogynistic.
i remember defending BLM in high school and having 1 of the 2 black kids in my grade tell me that BLM is violent and unhelpful. i think i just stopped talking, which was probably the best course of action in an in-person, interpersonal scenario. but situations like this come into play online all the time. how can we best respond when instead of just shutting up, we have the option of continuing the conversation elsewhere ?
of course the “semi-” in “semi-independently” is the tricky and iffy part, and i don’t really know at what point i want to delineate. certainly all members of X marginalized group have meaningful contributions to that groups’ cultural narrative; ie, have a valuable answer to “what does it mean to be X” even if the answer is “be faithful to my husband and dutiful to my children and the Lord.”
alright so I've actually been reading more the past couple months and I'm reading this book about holding grudges. to keep it short I really like reading this book. there's this anecdote about the author's brother's wife gifting the author a painting. the author stowed it away when she moved into a new house and hadn't unpacked yet by the time her brother and his wife were coming to visit. the brother texted the author asking if she could put the painting up otherwise his wife would get upset. they had a little exchange because the author would be busy the whole day, and her brother poked her to do it. I read this specific excerpt and my mind went fucking spinning. pulling this out of context—I want to share even still:
A strange, hot, prickly feeling started to spread across my skin, all over my body. I rang Ted before I could chicken out of doing what I was, in that moment, angry enough to want to do.
"Can I ask you something?" I said when he answered. "Instead of pestering me to do something that I've told you I don't have time to do today, and that I shouldn't have to do today, why don't you go and pester Laura? Why don't you text her and say, 'Hey, Laura, if we go round to Sophie's new house tonight and she hasn't yet put your painting up because most of her possessions are still in boxes, I don't want you to give me or her a hard time about that, okay?'"
"I can't say that to her," Ted told me.
"Why not?" I asked. "You could say, 'Look, you know Sophie loves that painting. She's just been too busy to unpack, and that's the only reason it's still in a box. Don't take it personally or get upset about it, because that would be daft.' Or, if you're too scared to say that to her, I could say it!"
"No, please don't say anything," said Ted nervously.
"All right, I won't," I said. "But, in the future, please don't try to emotionally blackmail me into doing something you have no right to pressure me into doing, just because you're too scared to confront the person whose attitude and behavior need to change. Don't threaten me with Laura's anger or disappointment either. If you're going to put effort into trying to resolve a potential problem, direct your efforts toward the person who would be the unreasonable cause of the potential trouble—Laura, in other words. Not me. If you want to be emotionally blackmailed by her, that's up to you, but don't try to pass it on to me."
like as I was reading this I felt ADRENALINE. calling somebody in the moment of anger! making demands! my favorite part, the part I like the MOST, is that she uses severe language (emotionally blackmail) to his face. like I have really averse reactions to severe language like this. part because I'm rewiring conflict-avoidant behavioral programming from growing up in middle-class USian polite society; part because I'm really dissatisfied in and annoyed at our cultural language to describe interpersonal conflict. so I'm usually more suspicious than I want to be. and still, I get even MORE bothered when I try to describe my anger and I'm going in all these roundabout, near passive-aggressive fucking circles like, "I felt like, really disrespected and uncertain and, like, I just would like to be spoken to in this way." when I could ALSO say, "fuck you! don't do that to me! I don't like that! enough!"