of abuse

somewhere, in a better gotham, the joker was born a woman, with eyes like candy apples, smooth skin. babysoft. 

in the gotham we know, the joker fell into a pit of toxic waste and turned green with envy. in this gotham, the better one, the joker is a tall, thin lady walking down the street. “smile, pretty” follows in her footsteps. when she stands at open mic laughter nights, she’s heckled from the crowd. they won’t smile for her but they resent her frown. 

her mother says that her best feature is her body. the joker spends hours staring in mirrors. picturing a trophy-wife kind of life. smile, pretty. smile pretty. smile. pretty. she’s sixteen the first time she tapes her lips up, just to see if she can teach her skin to learn the shape better. your teeth are your best feature. in the wild, smiling is a sign of fear.

she’s twenty and lives alone with her dog and tries to be okay with that. another night where she’s losing money on transportation, but she goes to the open mic anyway. the guy before her talks about airline food. she gets on the stage and immediately booed. and it’s years like this, in a pattern, in the weave of her passion, so that every night is thrown beer bottles and shouting and comments that make her sick to her stomach and being told she’s nothing special and being told women aren’t funny and being told her voice is shrill and ugly and being told when she’s too animated that she’s crazy and being told when she’s too stiff that she’s boring and being asked out by every single sleeze in the zip code and being shouted at when she says no and the neverending tumble of it because maybe tomorrow will be better, maybe tomorrow will be better, maybe tomorrow

he comes up on stage with her and soaks her shirt in beer. now that’s a show! the man calls. he gets cheers. she doesn’t cry, just walks out the back door before doing something stupid. the manager pats her on the head while she leaves. it’s okay, darling. he looks her over. i don’t get it. a body like yours? you should be an exotic dancer. comedy isn’t for everybody. you’re not funny, sweetie.

she’s not funny. not funny. not funny. the words turn alarm bells. the one thing she’s supposed to be talented at. the one thing she loves is just to make people laugh. and she’s not even funny.

hey you know what’s kind of funny? the way it feels at the bottom. how flat everything turns. how unreal. she skims like a rock. your body is your best feature. she tries again on monday. “you know what’s funny? i thought about murder the other day”. don’t we all, sweetie. on the bus, come home with me. on the street, why aren’t you smiling.

maybe some people are born close to the camel’s back, maybe some people have just always been looking for the straw. it’s too much in either direction. she goes home and smears makeup on her skin. tears her hair off. dyes it green, a shock, to match her eyes and spite and envy at men who can tell the same jokes and get laughter for it where she gets nothing and nothing and nothing, where she is pushed off of stages, where she is mocked.

well, isn’t it her turn to do the mocking.

in this story, in this better gotham where vigilante is sometimes good, sometimes a few letters from villain: who will stop her? in this life, when harley walks in, the two are different, best friends, sugar-on-pie because isn’t it true the world has it out for women. in this life, when harley shows up with hyenas, the joker thinks about the wild and the laws of it and says, “oh, of course, let them in”. in this life the violence has a name. 

and nobody says it without laughing.

I wonder how much of that classic sense of, “I can have high expectations for how other people are treated, but view myself as trash,” comes from getting a lot of one’s basic lessons in love and empathy from books instead of peers

Like, I had almost no friends as a child, so I sat alone at recess, not playing with other children or being treated as worthwhile or interesting. The part of my brain that was supposed to encode my own personal experiences of being loved and treated well grew cobwebs while I was around other kids. So I brought library books out onto the playground with me.

Books saved me—books taught me that there were worthwhile friendships out there, and what they were like. I could tell when the characters deserved better. Books were like an author bottling up love and attention for me so I could open it up when I needed it. So I was kept entertained and learned what they looked like for other people.

But that didn’t change my own circumstances. Reading about someone being comforted when they were sad was very different than feeling someone else’s arms around me when I was crying. No matter how fiercely I wanted my life to be like the books I read, it wasn’t.

So I learned: There is a reality of love and care for other people, and there is a reality of loneliness and sorrow for me.

So no wonder I had a double standard for a lot of things in my life. My education in love was strictly bifurcated, and the important dividing line was whether a scenario included me, personally.

If true, this has all kinds of implications when it comes to treating the lonely love-starved bookworm, so I wonder.

honestly that whole reddit thread with parents saying they never wanted their kids reminds me of that time when autism speaks was making that movie and they interviewed an autism mom and she said that she considered driving off of a bridge with her autistic daughter in it while the daughter was in the room

people are disgusting

It was nice while it lasted.

Abuse is when

You apologize for something but someone is still doing the exact same thing to you just to piss you off and when you complain about it they say “that’s how I felt!!!” As if you didn’t already apologize

anonymous asked:

Is it weird/bad that I let my partner call me by my deadname? He hates change and even though nobody knows me by my dead name but him and my family. I allow him to use my deadname to prevent setting him off. But is that bad or weird or anything...? He knows my name but doesn’t call me it just my dead name

Lee says:

I don’t think it’s bad to allow certain people to use your deadname for any reason (I allow my littlest cousin to use mine) but I do find it concerning that you can’t ask him to use your deadname without setting him off. I’m on the spectrum myself, so I know what it’s like to be uncomfortable with change, but if it’s something important to my partner like their name, I’d be willing to try to switch to using it.

If “setting him off” means he becomes verbally or physically abusive, then the links below might help.


Conceal, don’t feel: The Nope I Don’t Feel Anything Sniff

1.14 vs. 1.21

I’ve never really weighed in on the debate regarding whether or not John physically abused Dean, but I did notice something interesting today while watching Dean getting emotional over watching John going to meet Meg, and his likely death, in 1.21 (the second gif). Dean asks him not to do anything stupid and then clams up while John says his goodbyes and hands over the Colt in the symbolic it’s your fight now scene.  Dean unable (or unwilling) to put a voice to what he’s feeling, the little sniff and locked jaw an indication of his overwhelming emotions. As I watched I knew I’d seen it before and yep, right there in the first gif is the scene in 1.14 when Sam says what a good thing it was that John wasn’t physically abusive like psychic Max’s dad. Same sniff, same locked jaw. Some strong emotion that Dean can’t voice. All things considered, it’s an interesting parallel.