The Eeyore and the Piglet

Content Warning: I open up about my own mental illnesses, including suicidal ideation 

Introduction

My main vessel for libations (of the non-adult variety) at home has been a really great Eeyore mug I got in I want to say high school or college from the Disney Store. It's yellow-orange, and features a cute picture of Eeyore smiling, surrounded by white flowers. I had two of them, and as far as I'm aware, my mom still has the purple one, in the same shape, with the same gloss, but a different picture of Eeyore, at her house, and I use it when I visit. I'm using said yellow-orange mug as I write this, having just snacked on a bunch of Cheez-Its (extra toasty, of course) and in need of some hydration.

Eeyore and Piglet were always tied for first place in my heart in the Winnie the Pooh Pantheon when I was a kid. And while I know it's been proven that A.A. Milne didn't intentionally write these characters (and all the others) as having mental illnesses, as I got older, I realized I liked, no, cared for these two specific ones so much because I would see them struggle- watch Eeyore try so hard to be happy, watch Piglet worry and obsess over the multitude of possibilities due to a single decision or occurrence; I would see this, and think, to put it in modern terms,

"It me."

Seeing what looked like depression in Eeyore and anxiety in Piglet was sometimes hard, sometimes cathartic, but always real for me. I didn't know what these things were until I was older, and it wasn't until three years ago I was officially diagnosed with either, but I think I've felt this way my whole life, or at least once I was past the bobbing toddler phase.

(And before I stray too far from Winnie the Pooh, I want to reiterate that yes, I get that Milne didn't mean to depict a bunch of DSM-certified stuff in his characters. BUT. I also want to emphasize that if you ever want to find out how to be close to someone with any of the various disorders that can be seen in the characters, just read the books or watch any of the series or movies, because everyone is always supportive, accepting, understanding, and unquestioning of the others' worth in the world of Winnie the Pooh, in any incarnation. When I have kids someday, they're going to be one of the staples in our household in order to teach kindness and love.)

Part One: The Eeyore In Me, Otherwise Known As Depression

A friend of mine posted a link about chronic suicidal ideation yesterday, and it spoke to me, too. I don't think my feelings are quite as "strong" (in the sense as persistent) as that of the author, but I do remember when they were, not too long ago. For a long time, I would waffle around from actively wishing it would end to thinking it would be easier to quit to wondering what the point was to thinking everyone around me would be better off if I was out of the way. Thinking of this last one in the opposite direction, much like the author in that piece above, was what always brought me back from the darkest times, the times I came closest to acting on anything.

I haven't felt that way consistently in a few years. But I see myself falling closer to where I was when it started, sometimes feeling the lesser extent of all of it for a little, and it frightens me somewhat. I have a plan, but can't act on it because of work stuff  (therapy requires, y'know, time in an office, and I have no way to consistently have that, but I have a PCP that can prescribe meds, at the very least). But before I continue here, if you're someone that knows me personally, know I'm okay and not in any danger, just like that author. I have a good support network, both near and far, and it isn't my person I'm frightened for, but rather my heart and habits, my general emotional well-being and overall state of mind. I'm frightened because I thought I had moved past those feelings, and I see myself getting closer to them on a consistent basis again.

Right now, I have a lot to be grateful for, reasons to be "happy." I have a roof over my head, an amazing boyfriend that loves me better than I ever thought I deserved, two awesome cats, tons of board games, internet, food, transportation, the aforementioned support network, a stable job (and another one that while it's retail and the schedule changes, I feel as loved and supported by everyone there as if I was family, and I'm not exaggerating- I genuinely tell my boss, "I love you," as we hug goodbye every time (if she doesn't say it first)), and I'm in a program that will get me into the disability field in one of the most on-the-ground ways, as a special ed teacher.

That doesn't mean it's easy. Honestly, I don't think my life is more stressful than average. But I struggle. I can't play a friggin' card game without bursting into tears on a bad day (true story; in response, that great boyfriend checked in with me and when I said, "I'm just having a hard time just being happy," he didn't miss a beat. He's good like that, and I'm lucky like that). I have to actively fight against crying every waking moment some days, because it hurts so much.

Some days, I can hold it in, keep it together, and if I'm lucky, I'll feel a little better the next day- enough that it isn't so hard, at least. But others, it goes more like this:

Thank you, Nathan Pile, for making such
delightful comics. 

Seriously, raise your hand if ever you've been on the struggle bus all day and keeping your cool, when something as innocuous as your gorram pen falls out of your hand and rolls under the fridge and you start ugly-crying so hard someone would think your cat died. I have days like that. Lots.

But that's not the whole of it. See, what I think gets missed a lot in talks about depression is also just that straight inability to enjoy things, especially things that normally would bring joy. It isn't always feelings of sadness or pain, but more like a lack of feeling that goes beyond neutrality. An active hole inside, a vortex you can on some level perceive sucking your emotions out. It can lead to a sort of indifference, a "whatever" feeling, inability to give a damn about anything. A weird, not-quite-passive indifference to everything. (And I think what happens to some of us is this indifference to the things around us can lead to indifference to life itself, and the aforementioned suicidal thoughts.)

There are days where I feel like a ghost, like I'm made of air and mist and could walk through the wall or float through the floor downstairs to the parking lot of my second-story apartment. And not in some fancy, magical, "I'm lighter than aaaaaair!" way. No, as in I feel insubstantial, and that's about as much as I can "feel" at all. I go through whatever motions need going through, if there are any, but those are the days I'm most likely to binge a whole season of something on Netflix if I don't have to work; if there's anything else I should be doing (laundry, grocery shopping, calling my mom or a friend I've been playing phone tag with), it ain't happenin'. 

And let me reiterate: It isn't like it actively hurts on days like this. I'm not on the verge of tears at all- the opposite, really. In fact, even though I'm pretty prone to crying on the regular, days like this, stuff that would normally get the waterworks going (like a poignant moment in the show I'm binging) don't do more than maybe make my eyes get a little hot. And dude, I'm The Gal That Cries. I am. But on days like these (I've come to call them, aptly, my "ghost days," in my headcanon about my life), I pretty much can't. 

This is my reality.

Part Two: The Piglet In Me, Otherwise Known as Anxiety

Misconception: "Having anxiety means you worry about literally everything." While it's true, some people can have anxiety that is severe enough that yes, it fits this description and thus becomes debilitating, not every case looks like that. Let me explain, with an example.

I always have to have at least six tubes of Burt's Bees beeswax lip balm in my possession, while not necessarily on my person, at a given time. I keep one in my car, one in my purse, one beside the bed, one in the living room by my usual seat on the couch/somewhere easily accessed in the living room, one for sticking in my pocket for during work, and a "spare" I keep on my dresser for "emergencies" (I honestly call it my "emergency" tube). That way, no matter where I am, I will always, always be able to whip out a tube of B'sBs and soothe my aching lips. Just the thought of needing one and not having access to one makes my heartbeat go up, it genuinely makes me nervous. While I recently switched to B'sBs about two years ago, before that it was mint Chapstick; and before that it was C.O. Bigelow's Rose Salve; and before that it was Carmex; and before that it was REGULAR Chapstick... It's something I did my best to hide from my parents, and granted, when I was a kid and didn't own my living space, I had fewer visible at a given time, but there was always something in my backpack, on my headboard, in the duffel bag I kept my Barbies in, in my desk at school (when I had a desk), and a floater I would put in my lunchbox (when I had one). I'd steal them from my dad, save change from when I was given money to do something with friends, even use birthday or Christmas money from relatives to buy them for myself without my parents knowing. I knew it was weird all along, but I was in Las Vegas, where it was reeeeeeeeeally dry, and so I needed something, right? 

And while this may sound a little obsessive-compulsive, it's the closest I've ever been, so it's not that. I keep so many tubes/pots/whatever around because I'm afraid of my lips hurting too much. I don't have a bunch of tubes because I need a specific one for a specific place or something, it's purely for the "preparedness" angle. I want to be prepared so I can avoid my lips getting too dry. I have a high tolerance for pain, usually, but my lips are the one part of my body I don't tolerate it and actively try to prevent it by having such a huge arsenal. I pretty much always have a headache, and I don't take anything for it until I reach a certain threshold; but the moment my lips start to tingle, I'm all about that lip balm.

This is the most extreme-on-paper example I have. Writing about it, I feel kind of nuts. But I've figured out how to not worry about my lips: just have a shit-ton of lip balm lying around and fuggedduboudit. 

I have my own social anxieties, but I wouldn't say I have "social anxiety" in the way you're thinking. I'm fine meeting new people, provided I have some context or reason to; I freak out over things, with people I already know, like, "What if I picked the wrong restaurant?" "What if he doesn't really think I'm beautiful?" "What if she's only laughing because she feels sorry for me?" "Does he/she hate me?" I worry about upsetting people, being misunderstood, seeming clingy, seeming aloof, sounding dumb, sounding elitist...

A lot of it comes down to "I just want errbody to like me." With the people I'm closest to, like aforementioned Awesome Boyfriend, I'm terrified of doing something to change how they feel about me. On our first date, over two years ago now, I was more at ease talking to him than I am some nights in our apartment. It's almost like a reverse-typical-social-anxiety thing: The more I know you/you know me, the more worried I am about what you think of me, how I come across, etc. 

And of course, I worry about things, too. From how shitty other drivers are (somewhat reasonable) to how evenly I chop an onion (pretty unreasonable), I can get caught up in fretting and stressing over things that are part of a regular person's life. 

Like right now, Awesome Boyfriend has confirmation a package was delivered to the leasing office like ten minutes after I left it, and we have a package slip from our mailbox from earlier that day saying said leasing office should have it (it didn't when I went). He's not worried about it, but who has two thumbs and is terrified the board games he ordered are lost/stolen/etc?

And there's a part of me that knows it's probably fine, that it's safe in the leasing office and it'll be there in the morning when Awesome Boyfriend goes to retrieve it. But I. Can't. Help. It.

But I'm sitting here now, writing this thing. I made dinner (frozen burritos, but still, I fuckin' ate, aight?), I'll go to bed soon, and I probably won't have any more problems sleeping than usual. So it's not debilitating, and so no, I wouldn't say I have severe anxiety, but I have enough of it that ridiculous stuff like if the super old Forever stamps I have are still good, nevermind the whole "Forever" part, makes my stomach plummet to my ankles.

This is also my life.

Part Three: So What?

This doesn't mean I'm "miserable" in the sense that I don't ever experience happiness or joy. I've ruminated on what "happiness" means to me before. I still believe it, that happiness isn't a constant, and sometimes we have to make our own joy, seek out and find ways to experience happiness, since it won't last on its own. So I try. So fucking hard sometimes. And there are days where I've tried hard enough that it worked, I sort of made myself believe it, if you will.

I'm not saying I think depression can be "overcome" with the "right state of mind" or some ableist bullshit like that. Fuck your walks through the woods and your yoga.

What I mean is that, sometimes, I can find some light in the dark, and that's worth living for, too. 

As uncomfortable as my life may be sometimes, it's still my life, and I'm going to keep on living it, to the best of my ability.

"The things that make me different are the things that make me me." Quoth Piglet.

Fin.

This is Halloween

I've talked about holidays I used to love that now are at the very least a little uncomfortable for me before. But one holiday that never got ruined for me is Halloween.

I remember a Halloween from when my little sister had just been born, before our brother was, where Mom was Raggedy Anne and Dad was Frankenstein's monster. It sticks out for me because Dad had a very Frankenstein's monster-esque scar on his forehead from tripping and hitting his head on my little sister's bassinet, and Mom was just so damned cute with the little red dot on her nose and the red wig. I don't even remember what anybody else was, but we all went trick-or-treating and then went home and listened to a record of "scary" stories for kids before bed. It was just a really, really great night.

I don't remember when, but it wasn't long before Halloween became another holiday Dad kind of took charge of, and he had this whole, methodical process to it.

September: Start thinking about costumes. He'd sporadically stop one of us kids and say, "Know what you wanna be for Halloween yet?" as we were doing something mundane like getting a snack or going to the bathroom (I remember one time he did this and I really had to pee). Eventually, Mom and my older sis stopped going, and Dad and I stopped dressing up, so the focus became what the two young-uns were going to do. My little brother was Buzz Lightyear at least twice (I feel like it was more, though), in this exact costume, inflatable wings and all:

First week of October: Buy a bunch of pumpkin carving books and kits, almost always from Pumpkin Masters. Then he would take them to work with him illicitly make a bunch of copies of every pattern. After long enough, we had so many pumpkin saws and those little pokey-things that they filled a whole gallon-sized Ziplock, and so many patterns that they filled a whole filing box. So, y'know, this eventually evolved into "get the box with all of the pumpkin shit out of the garage and start looking through the mountain of patterns." We would also put up our decorations. Nothing too outrageous, but we had a respectable amount of stuff outside to show we were a Halloween Family, if you know what I mean.

Second week of October: Buy the costumes. I only remember one year where we waited until within a week of Halloween; Dad was usually super on top of it, even when I was in high school and most of everything else was starting to crumble. This was also the week we needed to finalize our picks for the pumpkin patterns we wanted to carve, as well. I specifically picked the skull pattern in the background in this shot from Hocus Pocus at least twice simply because it was in that shot and that movie is everything:

Third week of October: Buy candy and pumpkins. The candy and pumpkins were almost always retrieved on the same trip to the grocery store, but what's special (to me) about this is Dad would bring a copy of every pattern being carved that year, and he and I would take turns being the one to hold a potential pumpkin and the person laying a pattern on it to see if it would fit nicely. Once I got older and stronger, he'd hand me a few of the patterns and let me find some by myself while he did likewise, but we always double-checked each other's matches to make sure. If we needed more tea lights, he'd get them at this time, too.

Within a week of Halloween: Carve the pumpkins and bake the seeds. This was always a Big Thing. Dad would spread newspaper on the table and do all of the hollowing out himself; I sometimes helped him wash the seeds clean, but he always seasoned them himself. When I was a teenager, I suggested he make some chili pepper ones for himself and cinnamon-sugar ones for everybody, and that year was particularly great- things were starting to go downhill, but it made him genuinely happy to see how much everyone liked the sweet ones, and it made me really happy to see how much he liked the spicy ones. 

Halloween: Go trick-or-treating. Like I said before, the lineup kind of changed, but towards the end of my time living at home, when I was in high school and it was me and Dad taking the young-uns around, it felt special. Dad was more his old self on Halloween, and even though he didn't need me there with them, I insisted on going because I was covetous of that temporary change in him- I wasn't about to miss a chance to spend time with the Dad of the Year from my youth, so I went under the auspices of "helping out" with the young-uns. I think he knew that, too, because we'd sometimes walk holding hands and he'd hug me in a way he hadn't since I was younger than the young-uns. It hurts to remember, but in a good way.

There was one time where an older gentleman in the neighborhood, a widower, noticed me standing more at the back of the walkway up to the door and shouted, "One for Mom, too!" and tossed a bag of the little pumpkin-shaped pretzels he was giving out to me. I caught it, mortified, as Dad, who had gone up to the door with the young-uns, laughed and said, "Oh, no, that's Gab, remember? One of the older girls!" But he called me "Mom" the rest of the time we were out that night, and I lost track of how many times I pushed and punched him for it. 

I think that was my junior year of high school.

Then I went to college. As I write this, I realize I've never thought to ask how much of that faded away, and when. I'm sure it did. But since I was never home for any Halloweens after high school, in my own head canon, Halloween never changed. 

So I think that's why it became my favorite holiday as an adult. I've been rather transient because of school and moving around, so I haven't really been able to come up with my own traditions, but in a perfect world, I'd build off of what we did when I was a kid. I would carve a pumpkin, bake the seeds, and have a costume. But I would also decorate the shit out of wherever I live, since I know Dad would have loved that, and the idea of that makes me super happy and excited. I'm talking, like, flashing lights and animatronics and motion-sensors everywhere. The analogy I use is similar to the one about fireworks and Christmas displays. I would have the absolute scariest, coolest mothereffing house on the block- but I would have at least one cutsie thing to try to keep the littler, more easily frightened kids at ease. And if I could afford it, I would rotate through a few different setups/have enough stuff that it wouldn't be the same within two or three years. Props like this, that look kinda cheesy up close, but from farther out would be creepy af:

Or stuff like this; I'm a huge fan of these light effects that look like ghosts and stuff- it's really awesome what people have come up with the past couple years, and I bet my dad would have loved this crap:

Holy cow, and how fun would it be to go from a Nightmare theme for October

I'd be way more elaborate and get, like, creepy trees and stuff
from a Halloween store, but this is the gist

to something like this for December

I would just love to be able to do that. 

I know none of this house decor stuff will ever happen. I want to be a special ed teacher, and I live in Seattleish where COLA is ridiculous; there's no way I'll be able to afford this much stuff, let alone the house I would need to do it. But it's nice to dream, and to think of how proud my dad would be of me if I pulled it off.

More plausibly, when I eventually have kids, I would, of course, take them in my own costume every year, and if their dad was with me, leave candy out with a note about the honor's system and such. And I'd stay in costume once we got home so that I could give candy out to kiddoes, dressed up in whatever. I particularly like the idea of bonding with kids over their costumes, like, "I was that when I was a kid!" or, "Look, we're both superheroes!"

And if I don't have kids, I would at least attend, if not host a party with spooky music and a costume contest and dry ice in the fake cauldron with the punch; if I hosted, for sure there would be spooky board games like Betrayal at the House on the Hill and Elder Sign* and stuff. Hell, maybe we'd watch Hocus Pocus or Nightmare Before Christmas and have a drinking game of it, too. 

What's also made getting anything of my own really going nigh impossible is I've been working retail for so damned long, even while in school, that this is the first Halloween in years that I can remember where I won't be working for at least the start of the evening. I did get to hand out candy to like four kids a few years ago, but they had been stragglers, kids at the end, since I had been working earlier and got home after sunset. But anyway, I've been so busy lately with a thing that had me in the hospital a few times (I'm fine, nothing even remotely life-threatening, just SUPER annoying) and working two jobs and school, I haven't had the time to get any decorations, a pumpkin, not even candy. And it disappoints me. Like this is my one chance in so many years, and I've pretty much blown it.

Maybe I'll just get a couple mini pumpkins and some candy and put the former on the porch so kids know they can come up to our apartment and get the latter from me. Since I'm nowhere near ready to have kids (situationally- I want them, yeah, but I know I can't right now, not for some time), my best bet is to absorb what I can from the ones that would come to my door. But also, being in an apartment, I highly doubt more than one or two kids will show up, anyway. That makes me sad, too.  

So even though Halloween hasn't been ruined for me by family drama, it's certainly been disappointing, and I have no idea when I'll be able to actually make it better. But what I do know is as soon as I can, I will, and it's going to be amazeballs. Even if just for me. And that's worth smiling about.

*Not Arkham Horror. Fuck that game and its ridiculously complex rules and its nigh impossibility of actually winning. 

On Bravery

If you haven't read it yet, at least skim my last post, otherwise a lot of this will make  zero sense to you. 

I want to address something important. While I keep hearing that I'm "brave" and "strong" for leaving my ex, I want to speak as a victim about what all of this bravery is, and where it started.

I started out brave. Like I said last time, I knew abuse at an early age. And I came out on top, stayed a good person, even make efforts every day to be that way. Even when it's hard, I try to do the right thing, do right by others, and help decrease Worldsuck, as some* would say. And despite seeing some of the worst of people, even having that aimed at me directly, I continue, to this day, to usually by default expect and see the best from them. 

So I was brave for trying. I've been hurt every time I attempted at even a chance at love before. When I first met  the person I discussed in my last post, I had no intention of letting him in. I had big, thick walls up, with trebuchets and a moat with a big goddamn dragon. I've talked about this before. Obviously, that post was before I met him.

I took a leap of faith, like what I talked about there, when I let him in. I was scared as Hell, but I did it. Because I was brave enough to try again. And you know what? It felt good, at least for a while. I'm reminded of a line from The Nightmare Before Christmas, "Well what the heck, I went and did my best, and my God I really tasted something swell. And for a moment, why I even touched the sky..." There were moments where I was flying, where I thought I'd die I was filled with such joy. I did feel safe, and loved, and beautiful. And I was happy. With myself for having taken a chance, with my situation, with him. And as I said in that last post, at least I was actually loved- I never doubted he loved me, which just made the bad parts hurt more. But I kept on, and hid it from the world, because of that love.

So I was brave in staying. It isn't just that I kept telling myself it (i.e. the abuse**) would never happen to me. I also cared for him, even in the middle of his worst outbursts. That Joan of Ark aspect of me... I know a part of me  wanted to help and save him. He didn't want to be saved, of course, but that didn't matter to me, not until I found my line again. I kept loving him, even though it was often hard. I hoped and prayed that maybe  my love for him would be enough, that he would see the damage he was doing to himself and us and me, and that he would then turn a new leaf, and we'd be happy more, I wouldn't be walking on eggshells.

But my love wasn't enough. I was a saint, but it wasn't enough. I comforted and forgave, but it wasn't enough. Belle was brave when she tamed the Beast; I was brave in trying, in holding him when he fell, in picking him up when he had finished crashing. I was brave for wiping his tears before my own. 

I was brave to start getting my own help. Therapy and mental health issues (not to mention medications for "head stuff") are so stigmatized, it's easy to feel like you're less of a person for going in and seeing a professional. I had known I needed help for a long time. I kept making excuses, but I eventually ran out of them when I was promoted to full time and thus had corporate benefits (as opposed to state). So I started going. And it was (and still is- my counselor is amazing) hard. It was brave for me to open up in that office. About the things that have been haunting me for years, say nothing of the relationship of focus, here. And as I said before, I was hoping I would eventually feel ready to get back in touch with my dad. I think a part of me also hoped that if my ex saw how much I was improving because I had and maintained a self-care plan that was working, he would want that  for himself, too. Naive, I know. 

And no, I wasn't stupid. I just hoped, because I believed in him. I wanted to, I needed to, otherwise what was the point of letting down those walls in the first place? I didn't want that risk I had taken to be for nothing.

I was brave to be as honest as I was with  the friend I talked about in the last post. I kept as much as I could hidden for a long time, but I know most, if not all, of my friends knew things weren't good with my partner and I. I was afraid to tell my friend what was going on, but I did it, trembling and crying. That's bravery. It's strength.

I was brave in telling the ex not to come home. In all of the time we had been together, during all of his tantrums, I had stood up to him maybe half a dozen times before, most of them being on behalf of my dog (because, as said, he would get unnecessarily and unwarentedly*** mean with her when he was grumpy). But I did it, I found my line, set it, and told him exactly what it was. It wasn't a request, I didn't downplay it (with something like, "I know this is going to be  hard/ I'm sorry but..." etc.). And it was so hard to do. My hands were trembling as I sent the text. And my chosen method being text may seem cowardly, but that I did it at all was huge. IS huge. And I knew that if I heard his voice, I would be weak and give in, lose that line, so I texted him. So sue me. That I told him an any way at all I didn't want to see him again that day was a HUGE act of bravery, yes. That's the main one everyone thinks about. But there's more.

I was brave somewhere in the middle there, when he was at the house the second night to get more stuff. At that point, I was still thinking it would be a break. And I was brave in two big ways then. First, when he was saying goodbye to my dog. It was like my heart was breaking again, as if it was possible, watching him kneel there as she gingerly licked his chin. She knew something was wrong, and the way his voice cracked... She's my kid, and he was her Daddy. It was as if I was getting a divorce, and my child was saying goodbye. Involuntarily, I jerked a little bit toward them. In a flash, I saw myself throwing my arms around both and having that be the end of the episode. But I didn't. I grabbed the counter, squeezed it so tight that my hands and forearms were sore the next day, and I didn't move. That was brave.

And then, as he hugged me goodbye, he said, "I've fucked up big time," I said, "Yep, you did. Now fix  it." I was brave for saying that. SO fucking brave. The older me would have taken some of the blame off of him, "No, honey, it's my fault, too, it's not just you." But it WAS all just him. And I knew he wanted that, wanted me to absolve him, at least partially, right there, because that's what I always did. But the difference this time was I saw it for what it was: manipulation. And I was brave for standing my ground in the face of it. It was hard, it hurt like Hell, but he left. No matter how badly I wanted to say it was okay, I didn't, and that's bravery. 

I was brave in finally saying the word "abuse" out loud. I didn't even mean to say it, it just came out, flowed naturally with where I was going when I was on the phone with him. And it clicked. It made sense. It gave me the momentum to be firmer. I was brave in standing by that, too, because of course, while he didn't say much to it then (it was the first day that happeend), he had all sorts of nasty comebacks  later about how I was overdramatizing it, how that wasn't what he was doing, he says  and does those things in anger, that's not abuse. But it is, it was, so I didn't back down, and that was brave. He was yelling at me while I was on the phone with him in my counselor's office (I really wouldn't have survived this without her, too), and I was brave for not letting him gaslight me, change the topic, change the goal posts during that conversation shouting match. 

And I've been brave for not asking his mom (whom I've needed to have some contact with for logistical reasons) or brother (still good friends with him and his girlfriend) where he is, if he's okay. Do I worry for and about him still? Absolutely. But I can't let myself go down that path. And the braver, stronger part of me is protecting the other side of me while she heals. 

But I want to clarify something, too.

I didn't stay out of weakness. I don't think anyone has even remotely implied that, except possibly me, maybe, here and in person. Because while in the middle of being emotionally and psychologically beaten down by my significant other, I became a better version of myself. I improved, against those odds. I do owe a lot of that to getting professional help, but as she told me, she's only helping me tap the resources I already have within me. So little did he know, even as he was wearing me down, I was building up. If that isn't strength, I don't know what is.

Also, it wasn't weakness, the falling for him, falling into his net. Like I said, it was brave to try. Letting someone in, even if that person does end up hurting you (like all the rest, in my case) is brave.

Bravery can mean trying to save something because you thought it was worth it. And yes, it's admitting that thing isn't worth it anymore, giving it its proper name, and letting it go.
Love always comes with a risk. I took it. It got me down, but...

I'm getting better each day, like I said, but I'm not  brave enough to try again yet. I will, sooner or later. I still want a family of my own. I mean, my dog is great and all, but I want a husband and kids and the whole nine yards. Call me a traditionalist, but, well, there it is. 

And it's already brave for me to think about that future. I know I'm not ready to try for it again, no, but even being able to consider it again, in the face of what just happened to me, is brave. And someday, I still want to believe, that bravery will pay off, and I'll get what I want. I know I'm worth it, I know I deserve it, and for fuck's sake, I HAVE EARNED THE SHIT OUT OF A GOOD LIFE. Amirite?

You, right now.

So it'll happen. I'm still swimming through all of the emotions. But I'll take that brave step and open those gates again. 




*Nerdfighters, aw yeah!

**And again, let me say, I was never deliberately physically harmed. Sometimes intimidated, but he never hit me, pulled my hair, nothing like that.

***Totally just made that word up, yo.

Whitewashing Wizards: Thoughts on JKR's New Promo Stuff

I've had a lot of people either PM or tag me openly on Facebook about the new bits from J.K. Rowling on Pottermore. I was asked for myriad reasons, no doubt. Of course, because I love anything Harry Potter, but because of that along with the fact that I'm a known advocate for indigenous rights in my social circles. Search the tag "indigenous rights" at the bottom, here, and you'll get some blog posts that at least have a large chunk about something related to the topic, if not are entirely about it. And the big hullubulloo about the supplemental materials released as promotion for the upcoming film, Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them,  has centered around... well, how crappy the blurbs apparently are, apparently. I saw the "trailer" for them, and at that point, knew I needed to read the things before making a decision. 

Since it shows an indigenous man in a loincloth (groan) turn  into an eagle (groan), and mentions "skinwalkers," I figured there would be  a lot to dissect. Now I did read Dr. Adriene Keene's response to the trailer, but after that, I avoided any other "reviews" of any of the stuff to keep myself as fresh as possible. (Note: It's no coincidence she and I were both a little annoyed about the mostly-naked dude and the eagle- both are rather stereotypical, overused tropes about indigenous people; according to popular culture, all Native American men run around with only their front junk hidden, and we're all into eagles, eagles, eagles! (I even once had a white person try to posit to me that having the bald eagle as our national bird is somehow a homage to Native American culture....)).

So anyway, I've finally read the things. A few times. Because they're bloody short- seriously, just a few pages in MSWord, I would think. So, lovelies, here are my thoughts, and they aren't specific to the indigenous thing, either, because of a few things, like my feminist nature and my knowledge of American cultural history, my understandings about human nature, and... my basic reading comprehension skills.

I know I get snarky sometimes here. I would just have you read Dr. Keene's last paragraph before the comments in the piece I already linked; she uses one of my favorite quotes from Anita Sarkeesian, my biggest girl-crush ever. I love the Harry Potter universe; doesn't mean I can't acknowledge its flaws. And be a little funny in the process. 

Contradictions

I want to start out by noting a STUPIDLY HUGE contradiction in the "narrative" being presented, here. We know from the original books, and it's reiterated here, that witches and wizards can be born into non-magical families. "[European magical folks deciding not to relocate to America] meant a far higher percentage of No-Maj-born witches and wizards in the New World than elsewhere. While these witches and wizards often went on to marry and found their own all-magical families, the pure-blood ideology that has dogged much of Europe's magical history has gained far less traction in America." But then... there's a whole bloody section named after a law that makes it illegal for magic and non-magic people to associate. "Rappaport's Law," is what it's called. Ok? So... how does that work? Wizards aren't as obsessed with pure-bloodedness in America, but it's illegal for them to be around non-wizarding folks? What happens to the witches and wizards born into non-magical families? Are they forced to give up any family they used to know, or are those relations "limited to those necessary to perform daily activities"? This "Rappaport's Law" thing makes zero sense; a law like that would lead to lots of inbreeding in the American wizarding community. I could see it leading to witches and wizards becoming "Scourers," the mercenaries of wizarding blood that went after their own kind (and proportedly spearheaded the Salem Witch Trials), not see it going over well. And it's reiterated that the law is in full force into the 20th Century, so I'm kind of at a loss. I can only guess that Rowling was trying to present American wizards and witches as a bit more forward-thinking when it comes to "blood," but then forgot about it for the sake of something important for the movie.

But this is entirely ignoring race relations in the US. And this really needs its own section, so I'll table that for a moment.

Second contradiction: And this has more to do with the mythos created in the original books being messed with. Aside from the atrocious "No-Maj" (oh wow... Americans are dumb, yeah, but would they really come up with something that ridiculously awful?). Rowling goes into a lot of specifics about the four wand-makers in the United States and notes how three of the four always used the same core for their wands. But part of what made Olivander's wands so good was their diversity; one could argue that it wasn't really that his wands were better per se (although I'm sure yeah, his were pretty good in their own right), but that, as he said, the wands picked their users, so his vast supply that was so wide in range was able to cater to a wider range of customers, getting them a "better wand," relative to if they were presented with a bunch of wands that were more alike than different. Because it was presented as if every aspect of the wand matters: length, weight, core, wood. So this bit in the stuff about America confuses me. Do American witches and wizards know what kind of wand they want before going to the appropriate maker? Or do they go from shop to shop, sticking with the wand that does the whole "WHOOSH!" thing Harry experienced? 

The wand thing also really hits hard at the white-washing going on, so this will also be tabled until later. 

Third. The name  of the gorram organisation running the wizarding government in the U.S. itself shouldn't be what it is. The Magical Congress of the United States (MACUSA) was founded in 1693. And sure, Rowling acknowledges that this was "around a century" before the U.S. government was formed. But that's the catch: Until the American Revolution, 80+ years after MACUSA's founding, the "states" weren't "states," but rather colonies. They wouldn't have been "United States" in 1693. Like... She's British, how can she get that one wrong? 

Now okay, maybe they changed the name after the American Revolution? But that's not how it's presented, so.... yeah...

Fourth, and somewhat minor, the two presidents of MACUSA that get named are both women. Again, I feel like this is more Rowling trying to show the wizarding community as "progressive," but this kind of flies in the face of human history- or at least European and WHITE, which again, must be tabled. But suffice it to say, I find it more difficult to believe that at a time when women weren't even allowed to read writ large, wizards would have one as the first president of their organization. I like the idea, but I just find that brick way too hard to swallow. 

Muggle-Gate

Yeah, I ain't entertaining the idea of this "No-Maj" thing. So I'm calling the incident that led to Rappaport's Law "Muggle-Gate." Because that's how I do.

So this whole thing is basically a sex scandal involving the daughter of an Important Wizard and a Muggle descendant of some Scourers. Dorcus, who I am going to assume is a squib (a person from a wizarding family with a low aptitude in magic), is presented as a shallow prat. But I have to say, if she had done badly at the wizarding school, Ilvermorny, she was probably ostracized and an embarrassment to her prestigious family, so it's understandable if she fell back on what society at that time would tell her was important: her femininity. Her looks seem to be the only good quality she has, from what we're told- she focuses on her hair (and partying) before the scandal, and has only "a mirror and her parrot [as] her dearest companions" once she gets out of prison, and she's described as being "as dim as she was pretty." So she gets duped into sharing secrets with a Muggle Scourer that plays on her weakness- I'm adding a lot  into here, but I would guess part of the "courting" involved her telling him about how poorly it went at Ilvermorny, so he would know her confidence was low and she was vulnerable. A little flattery here, a question there... The man, Bartholomew, is never described very negatively- descriptions about his beliefs are presented, and those are obviously supposed to be bad, but he is never criticized directly or even seems as blatantly judged as Dorcus;  her name even is said to be equivocal to "nitwit" in the U.S. wizarding world centuries later. She's "dim," but there isn't a single adjective used about him. What about "sneaky" or "duplicitous" or "underhanded" or "rapscallion"?

This whole thing feeds into the misogynistic structures Western society and culture is/are built upon. The idea that it's a woman's fault there's evil in the world (Pandora, Eve). How there are so many insults that are feminine, but none that are strictly masculine in the English language. The idea that a law about segregation started because a woman fell for a man  with duplicitous goals is so fucked up I can't even. Not only is it ridiculously... bland... and overdone, but yeah. It's sexist on premise. Why did it have to be that? Why couldn't it be any of a number of other things? Here, Rowling, I have a few for you, on the fly, that are far less insulting to your own gorram gender:

1) A sibling of a witch or wizard born into a non-wizarding family turned on their magical family member. (This would also, perhaps, lend itself to explaining how the fuck magical kids in non-magical families lived... because as I said before, this law makes no sense.) Like how Petunia obviously resented Lily- take that further and turn it into a huge thing. Super drama points if maybe the angry sibling didn't realize it would lead to murder and goes down trying to save some wizards.

2) A Scourer born with just enough magic to squeak by infiltrated the wizarding community and spearheaded some kind of massacre. Like maybe they were a kid sent as an insider to Ilvermorny, and they let in a pack of Scourer adults, and then a bunch of students were killed overnight or poisoned or something. Or they went to Ilvermorny and paraded as a cool person and ran for office in MACUSA and fucked it up from inside like HYDRA did S.H.I.E.LD. Or maybe a team of kids are set up by their Scouring families to do it so it really is more like HYDRA- they scatter themselves all over MACUSA and somehow get revealed.

3) A kid witch or wizard (gender doesn't matter, just sayin') from a magical family is best friends with a kid at school or around town or on the next farm or whatever that, unbeknownst to them, comes from a Scourer family. Scourer kid's family figures it out and kills the wizarding kid and their family after gaining their trust. Or just the kid, so the wizarding parents go after the  Scouerers with backup from MACUSA and it's decided Rappaport's Law is the only way to prevent something like that happening again. 

4) A witch or wizard turns Scourer and willfully gives away the secrets Bartholomew got out of the unwitting Dorcus. I could see this in visual form, the wording of Rappaport's Law being recited (by  Rappaport herself, probably) as the traitor is being executed and signs are being put up in wizarding taverns and stuff.

Needless to say, I doubt Hermione would be pleased with that whole thing. 

Whitewashing: Wording

I'm starting with the smaller quibble. I appreciated that the opening paragraph of the first blurb was about how European and African (no Asian?) magickers knew about American ones before colonisation. The trouble is, Rowling still calls North America "the New World" four times after denouncing the idea that the western hemisphere was "new" at all! I know that "what would become the United States" is a lot, but this specific contradiction is very subtle white-washing. The little phrase "New World" obliterates the rich histories of the myriad Native American peoples on the western continent by implying the only perspective of any importance is that of settlers and colonisers, of white conquerors and thieves. The "New World" was new to them, not to the people already living there; calling it the "New  World" devalues the very existence of indigenous people. 

Whitewashing: Segregation... and Slavery?

I almost think Rowling invoked the Rappaport's Law thing as allegory for segregation in the United States. It  kind of works, but as I said before, it falls apart because of the fact that magical kids pop up in non-magical families all the time. Black babies aren't born into white families without notice (i.e.  someone needed to have an affair to make a mixed baby; magical babies appear like magic) (baddum-SWISH!). Honestly, I had thought the "mudblood" stuff had covered the race thing, and this stuff shows up now. So what leads to it ending? I mean, do they have their own Civil Rights Movement? And what would that look like? Because sure, I do think it's a violation off basic Human and Civil rights to dictate whom you can be friends or lovers with, but magical people aren't being prevented from doing anything else. THEY CAN STILL DRINK, FOR FUCK'S SAKE. Not that alcohol is the most important right, but  the only way I could see a "movement" like that being at all successful is if they frame it in the language of love and togetherness. I mean, if American wizarding families are anything like British ones, they'd probably be around only magical people a lot of time by default, anyways, not as a result of any malicious governmental restriction.

And another reason I can't quite buy that it's intentionally parallel to real segregation is that the closest to any mention of slavery is the "trafficking" of bodies practiced by the Scourers. But it was mentioned that African magical people knew about North American ones, so... Were African wizards traded in the slave trade? Is magic how some slaves escaped? Did MACUSA take an official stance on slavery? Probably not... House elves are definitely slaves. Remember this guy?

So were wizarding folks on the Confederate side during the Civil War? The lack of discussion of slavery is itself a type of white-washing, in the sense that this extremely dark portion of U.S. history isn't brought up. When giving the "history" of something that was happening at least alongside something so horrific, said horrific thing needs mentioning. And hashing out. Which relates to genocide against indigenous people, but....

Whitewashing: Pan-Indianism

I'm going to go out on a limb here and assert that when asked about the basis of the legends about skinwalkers, your average Joe Schmoe would probably say it's a "Native American" or "Indian" thing. I don't even remember  where I heard it as a younger version of myself, but I've known that it's specific to Navajo culture, though, and for some time. And while I do not presume to know more than that, I do know it's not "Native American," as it's presented in these little blurbs. This is the same bullshit that goes with the loincloth and the eagle I brought up before, because the loincloth and eagle speak to archetypes of indigenous people that are rampant in popular culture. 

The Skinwalkers are presented as "Native American," and any magic that came from North America itself is always discussed in blanket terms, attributed to the "Native American wizarding community." As such, without actually saying it overtly, the message is that every single tribe practiced magic the same way. That every tribe used the exact same plants and herbs in the exact same ways, transfigured in the exact same ways, etc. That the indigenous people of North America were all one people, with one distinct culture, one history, one experience.

This relates to why Tonto was so problematic. It's the idea that some sort of "Pan-Native American" culture is a thing. It manifests itself in movies like The Lone Ranger or even Wayne's World 2, in costumes, in the broken language used by indigenous people on TV and in film. It's much like  how white people talk  about "Africa" when they really mean "Eritrea" or "Kenya" or "South Sudan," but will delineate European countries without hesitation. It's dehumanizing. It paints a generic streak that blends  and meshes all of the rich, beautiful, unique histories and  cultures of all of the different, individual indigenous cultures spattered throughout the Americas. 

Whitewashing: Noble Savages and Cultural Appropriation

I'm going to kind of dart around the writings here, starting with the idea that "the Native American wizarding population" was "generally welcoming and protective of their European brethren" when European wizards wanted to flee Europe and "hide out" with the natives in the "New World" (see  what I did there?). So these white people would apparate over to American soil to hang with the natives, and then what? Did they "go native," as they say? It's a good thing  all of the indigenous people were so bloody nice, eh? I'm not saying I would have preferred Rowling painting a picture of nothing but hostile relations and blood because the indigenous people were out to kill anybody, but it also speaks lowly of her understanding of them as strong people to think they would just take in any random  white person that came a-knocking, especially after a few decades of dealing with the lies and deception of white people. It couldn't have taken long for word to spread among tribes that white people couldn't be trusted, and if British witches  and wizards are still at least marginally loyal to Mother England, why assume indigenous witches and wizards in North America wouldn't be loyal to their own tribes? Yet another brick I can't swallow: I just can't buy into the notion that all indigenous witches and wizards would be so open to letting white witches and wizards become members of their tribes. 

And how long did this "friendly" exchange last? How many indigenous people had to die before the tribes finally stopped letting any ol' white "mage" in? 

Whitewashing: Wands and Wizarding Indian Boarding School

And the way wands were discussed just  really, really bothered me. The implication with all of that stuff  about wands was  that indigenous people were "primitive" and it took white people's intervention to "civilise" them. Like they had all this  power and potential, and had had it for centuries on their own, but they didn't tap into it "properly" until the white people showed them how via the use of a wand. And it gives no room for the idea that maybe indigenous people didn't need  wands because they weren't doing with their magic the stupid shit white people do with their own. The wands are presented in a way indicating they're the "right" way to go, like they were "necessary" or something, as if there is even a "right" or "necessary" way in the first place.

Importantly, the one time any individual tribe is mentioned is in relation to wand-making. Shikoba Wolfe is presented as of Choctaw descent and one of the best wandmakers in the US. I see this as an indigenous person getting caught up in European capitalism that has to sell artifacts of cultural value to white people to subsist. A bunch of white people buying his wands because of the "intricate carvings" and thinking they're cool, like the hipsters wearing feathers in their hair and silver necklaces shaped like feathers with turquoise beads. This man's culture was Europeanized, to the point he made a living selling the thing the Europeans forced on his ancestors. 

Because then... then it gets mentioned that wands are required at Ilvermorny. So if students were required to use wands at wizarding school, that means indigenous kids were forced to practice magic like white people. In other words, their culture was being forcibly removed by an institution masked as a place of "learning." You know what that reminds me of?

That's Stewart Indian School. I've mentioned them before- they closed THE YEAR I WAS BORN, and it was one of countless "schools" around the country where indigenous students were taught, essentially, how to be white. And by "taught," I mean "forced." Here's another:

This one is Tulalip Indian School, in the very state I live in now, Washington.

As a small aside: I was staying at Stewart Indian School with my Girls State group the summer before my senior year in high school, at the very time the fourth Harry Potter book came out; long story short, our campsight  had to be evacuated, and this was the closest place that could accommodate a big group like ours. I remember freaking out because I was afraid Barnes N Noble would sell my copy of The Goblet of Fire that I had reserved because the release date was during the trip; I was at first more concerned about that book than the fact that I was staying in a former institution of cultural genocide. Once I realized what was going on, I had a mini-meltdown. 

Without realising it, by making so many passing assertions about wands and indigenous people in her blurbs about history in North America, Rowling is presenting the wizarding world as being equally culpable in committing cultural genocide against the Native American tribes in North America. Say the tribe used the magic as part of their religious belief- well, once they got to Ilvermorny, that would be (sometimes literally) beaten out of them, since British and French witches and wizards have no spiritual basis for magic- it's all fact and experimentation. It's not faith; it's the coldest kind of science.

And I say "coldest kind of science"  because I think there's plenty of space in science for faith- lots of our most groundbreaking scientists were people of faith. Magic, as it's presented in the first books, isn't about belief, really (although a case could be made for how a Patronus works). 

And what if the indigenous kids brought a different way of using herbs that could be found in both places? Either one of two things would happen. Either 1) They would be admonished for doing it as their ancestors taught them; or 2) They would be taught it in the classroom by a white teacher that's presenting it as if white people had come up with that method, and then would be admonished if they tried to point out it came from the indigenous people. And if they had another way of doing something, it would be taken away from them at Ilvermorny.

There's no mention of the persecution and relocation of indigenous people in any of the blurbs. And that is the entire basis for which white people settled this damn continent. Even if it was witches and wizards mostly riding the coat-tails of the Muggles, by not stopping the atrocities, they were party and privy to them. 

Closing Thoughts and Disclaimer

I think one HUGE qualifier to remember is that, again, this is  just a few pages of text. A vast number of the things wrong here stem from how there isn't enough information to answer the questions brought up by the information that exists. It's a lot of errors of omission. However, I do have to say, the things that were specific even seemed to be problematic, too- Mugglegate, wands, Skinwalkers, etc. I would like to give Rowling the benefit of the doubt and have faith that, were she to write a full History of Magic in North America, it would give a lot of meat to the skeleton we have. And I suspect that anything specific in the blurbs is important to the upcoming film. Unfortunately, most of the issues with these bits won't be answered by the movie- I mean, for one thing, only one person seems to be of color, and while she may play a part in discussing slavery  and stuff, unless she's supposed to be of indigenous and slave ancestry, it will leave most holes empty. 

And it's obvious that this stuff was all slapped together in a few hasty  sittings. Was there an American publicist involved? Probably not. If there was, it was probably a stodgy white dude that doesn't ever think about race or gender issues. That probably thinks of his ancestors as "native." Or maybe everyone was so hurried in getting this done, their main concern was getting the bits needed as specific promo for the movie out and they didn't even stop to think about anything else regarding the pieces.

But understand, I harbor no ill thoughts or feelings toward JK Rowling. I'm disappointed, sure, but I don't think in any way she intended to be hurtful or offensive, and I would believe that she didn't realize a lot of this even could be problematic because she's from a country with a very different history. It was, honestly, a kind of naivete on  her part. I can forgive that. I haven't seen anything about her apologizing or explaining what happened (and how it went so bloody wrong), which  sucks. But I would forgive her if she owned responsibility.

Sigh. Not really sure how to end this. Here's a picture of a unicorn puking up a rainbow.