one of the most relatable and useful things someone once said to me is that what saved her from her own ideation was the knowledge that suicide is always an option.
And this runs counter to what is very often told, and I’m certainly not saying that that narrative is wrong. There are people that absolutely need to hear that suicide is Never an option.
But when you’ve been in those particular trenches for so long, the old sayings start to wear thin.
So what this person talked about was, the knowledge that she could theoretically always kill herself made it easier to postpone. Sure she could have killed herself this morning, but then she wouldn’t be out getting coffee with her friend. And she can always do it tonight.
But maybe tonight doesn’t work either because what she wants more than to be dead is to be warm in bed. So she’ll sleep on it. Maybe next week after seeing her friend’s musical.
And maybe that musical gives her the strength she needs to hold out for a bit longer, to scrape just a bit more joy from the world.
And maybe in two months it comes back, and she can’t do it anymore. But well, two months ago wasn’t the only time, she can always do it next month. Might as well wait for spring, the flowers are only just starting to come out.
So hey, maybe you could kill yourself. But you’re a long time dead with not a lot to do, so might as well scrape some more joy and excitement and interest and disappointment and music and grief and community and warmth from this world while you’re in it.
There’s always the possibility of something around the corner. Be curious and stay safe loves <3 (love heart.)
Recently, I was standing outside my son’s classroom waiting to talk to his teacher. I stood on one side of the hallway, not even close to the center. At some point, a man came walking along. I was standing right in his path, but the hallway was empty, so I logically expected him to swerve around me. Instead he kept walking right toward me, got to me, and stopped, as if waiting for me to get out of his way. I didn’t; I just smiled politely at him. He finally walked around me, clearly annoyed that I hadn’t leapt out of his manly path.
Now I’m wishing I’d leapt aside, taken off my jacket and laid it on the floor before him, then bowed deeply and said, “My Liege!”
I also work at a college campus. I smack shoulders sometimes, but I find that if I stare straight ahead and follow the advice below, people get the heck out of the way.
Honestly this post changed how I carry myself when walking alone in public, or in a situation where I’m the one leading. People definitely move for the murder gaze.
Confirmed. I once had to rush back inside a convention hall as the con was closing in order to a retrieve a sick friend’s medication, and I didn’t understand why people in the crowd were jumping out of my way (literally—one guy vaulted a table) until I realized I was dressed as the Winter Soldier and doing the Murder Walk because that’s just how I walk in those boots. I got the meds, got out, and made a mental note.
I repeated the experiment later, wearing the boots but otherwise my usual clothing and mimicking the expression I thought I’d had at that moment. People parted like I was Charlton Heston.
I now wear that style of boots whenever possible. I recently had a man do a double-take as I walked by and ask me, politely, where I had served because I “looked like a soldier.” I’m not current or former military. I was wearing a flowy purple peasant top and looked as un-soldierlike as possible.
Moral of the story: wear comfortable shoes, square your shoulders, and walk like you’ve been sent to murder Captain America.
IT’S BACK!!!!!! I was searching for this to show my daughter the other day and couldn’t find it. I’m so glad IT’S BACK!! I will always reblog the Murder Strut!!
In case you were wondering, yes you can do this in a wheelchair. Same look in your eyes and let ‘em know you will run them down. Just picture yourself in a sports car accelerating towards someone with the intention of flattening them.
If there’s anything more satisfying than watching Abled men leap out of my way when they realize I’m not moving for them, I can’t think of it atm.
Last year I started designing a series of Coat of Arms, themed in the spirit of Pride Month and using different mythological creatures as heraldic animals. I now aim to turn these designs into wearable pins and will be running a Kickstarter in Julyto fund this endeavor!
In addition to these 5 designs I wish to be able to crowdfund enough to be able to also manufacture the following pins and identities:
I have found a very trustworthy local manufacturer, who has already shown the quality of their craftsmanship with the first batch of test pins I received, just look at the detail they were able to produce!
Since I try to support local manufacturers, which produce pins with fair wages and are more ethical than outside of Europe, the pins are more expensive to create than through the usual pipeline via Asia.
I therefore seek to crowdfund the expenses since they would be more than I can afford. If you are interested and look forward to support this little endeavor, please follow the link below to sign up for a mailing list. People who signed up on the email list and pledged during the campaign will receive an exclusive sticker set by the end of a successful launch consisting of the following designs:
SIGN UP ON OUR PRELAUNCH WAITING LIST TO GET THESE LITTLE GUYS FOR FREE
Our Kickstarter Prelaunch Page:
A collection of Pride themed Coat of Arms Enamel Pins. Rally your friends, choose your crest and celebrate with PRIDE.
During September the same year I turned 14, I had some sort of mental health crisis, no one knows what caused it, not even me, but for seven days, from one Saturday to the next, I became progressively worse. On the first day, I woke up severely depressed, and as the day went by, I got worse and worse, and when I woke up the next day, I woke up feeling doubly worse, this continued until I couldn't take it anymore and took matters into my own hands at roughly 3am, I took 40 pills and went to bed, I woke up 5 hours later miraculously no longer feeling depressed, and called an ambulance for myself. I can't remember how long I was in the actual hospital for, but eventually, someone asked me if I would prefer out patient treatment or in patient treatment, I chose in patient treatment, and a few days later I was sent in an ambulance to the closest children's psych ward.
For whatever reason, I was placed in the wheelchair accessible room, this room was huge, big enough that you could fit at least 2 queen sized beds and a row of 4 cribs and still walk between them, the only furniture was a twin bed with two drawers underneath, a small night stand, and a heavy but soft roundish seat that would only move by pushing it, they were all crammed into one corner. It had 3 windows, one in the door, one showing the communal area, and one showing the outside world, they all had working blinds, aside from the quilt on the bed, everything was a stark white, the quilt was a bright cherry red, even the light was bright white. The nurses and doctors also wore white, we patients were free to wear our own clothing. I remember seeing other patients rooms through open doors and blinds, they were less than half the size, they had desks and wardrobes and the same heavy roundish seats, the desks and wardrobes were a light wood colour, oak, I think, or at least meant to imitate oak. There was no way to tell time in anyone's rooms or in the common area, no clocks and no calendars.
There were rules in place about how we could interact with each other so everyone would be safe, no touching, no talking about why you were there, no giving someone personal information. I understand these, I know they were put in place so that other patients weren't triggered, so that if they were dangerous you would be safe once you were both discharged, but the way these were enforced was strict, even accidentally brushing against someone was too much, or standing too close, you couldn't even tell someone "I went to X with my family during the school holidays", we were scared to even tell each other what our favourite colour was, knowing that if the wrong person overheard us, we'd be sent to isolation for 24 hours. One boy I met was sent to isolation because he called the place a psych ward in front of a nurse we called Kit-Kat.
Among every other former psych ward patient I've met, whether they went to the same one I did or a different one, when they found out where I was sent, they were worried, they asked about how I was treated, because everyone who has been a patient there has left worse off than when they entered. Personally, I left with a deep fear of large open bright white rooms, the inability to handle another person touching me, and violent nightmares, and the beginning of me having hallucinations.
Before I was admitted, I was okay with people hugging me, after I was discharged, if someone touched me, I would scratch the area I was touched until I bled, would practically throw myself into the shower to clean myself, wash my hands over and over again, I started wearing clothing that hid my skin, because that was the only way I felt I could prevent anyone from touching me, it has been many years, and I am only just now, in my 20s, learning to let people touch me again, let my friends and family hug and high five me.
After I was discharged, I started having the same violent dream, I would be in a town square, the buildings were all several floors tall, all made out of a bright white stone, and so was the ground, there was a large fountain in the centre, also made of the same stone, at the start of the dream, there would be dozens upon dozens of people, they looked like shadows given a human form, no discernible features, just darkness, by the end of the dream, everyone would be dead, their blood turning everything red. I had never had a violent dream before being admitted, but I had the same dream for months afterwards.
Shortly after I was discharged, I began having auditory hallucinations, of a woman screaming and church bells ringing, the woman never said anything in her screams, but they were screams of pain, like someone being murdered.
After being a patient there, I felt like I was constantly being watched, like someone could always see my exact movements and know what I was thinking, I was absolutely terrified of the world around me. I still am.
I wasn't even a patient for that long, not even a month, but the time I spent there fucked me up. I, and every patient there, was a child, and we were all treated as non-human. I completely lost my sense of self after being there because of how psychologically damaging it was, I had a favourite colour before I entered, favourite foods, there was music I loved, but when I left, I was not capable of having a favourite anything, and it has only been in the last year that I have begun to rediscover my interests, but some days I still feel disconnected from the world.
What do you mean “chat” is now referring to ChatGPT and not twitch chat? What? What? What the fuck? No?
When I address chat I am speaking to a presumed Greek chorus of real human people shitposting on their lunch break, not a machine that devours lakes to covert electricity into slop.
$50,000 immediately dropped into my bank account wouldn't improve EVERYTHING but boy it sure would be a grand, sexy little start to a good, happy life path, don't you think
for everyone in the notes lamenting that this guy is poisonous: they are not! they're just pretty :) since they're a glass frog, their major defense mechanism is being translucent and hiding their blood while they sleep so they look extra translucent and blend in with leaves <3
Fuck hostile architecture, I want unhostile architecture. I want benches to be designed to be as easy as possible to sleep on. I want little places for pigeons to nest to be purposefully put on buildings. I want people designing public spaces to think about what they'd be like to skateboard on. I want "Please loiter" signs. I want people to be kind. I want...
Over 90% of parents of visibly intersex children opt for cosmetic surgery on their infants.
The ones that don't experience medical violence then, likely experience it as a teenager.
I didn't.
I am very rare in that I did not experience medical violence.
Why? Because I learned what intersexuality was as a young age, and I actively fought against what doctors wanted to do to me. All the way down to legal research on what medical care minors can be forced into. I remember walking into that doctor's appointment with the state law written down that proved that if I did not consent they could not do surgery.
That is why intersex activism is important. It saved me and it will save more.
Ocean's Den @ultrastormy-ocean - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
