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Elliott Dunstan

  • Home
  • Contact
  • About Me
    • Publications
    • Books
  • Bell, Clock and Candle (Elessa)
    • The Nowhere Bird (Bell, Clock and Candle #1)
  • ALKIMIA FABLES
  • Behind the Curtain: “Bad” Mental Illness and the Danger of Visibility

    February 4th, 2021

    Over the last six months or so, as I write this, I’ve dealt with a number of attempted harassment campaigns. The majority of them, admittedly, didn’t go very far. I’m lucky in that respect – I don’t make a good target of outrage, I’m hard to get fired since I work for myself, and I’m Canadian and therefore somewhat out of reach for most doxxers. (Also, if delivery drivers can’t find my apartment, you certainly can’t.) The details of these incidents are besides the point; for some of them, admittedly, I may have been in the wrong, although I’m not sure any amount of ‘wrong’ makes harassment acceptable, and in all of the cases, I’m completely disinterested in poking them to start them up again.

    But in the wake of the most recent, I’ve been finding myself at a horrible, inevitable crossroads. On social media, up until now, I’ve been extremely open about my mental illness. I lock down during psychotic episodes just in case; I mass-delete tweets every now and again to help process paranoia; I tweet earnestly as an own-voices advocate for Borderline Personality Disorder and Narcissistic Personality Disorder. I’ve even challenged people in politics on their careless use of ‘narcissist’ as an insult, and frequently nudge mutuals not to use it, at least around me; and all of this has, at least until now, been fine to do so. I accepted the risk, but I also hadn’t had to reckon with it in any light beyond “well, I have some fandom history, but that’s in the past”. But in the last year, I broke what appears to be the magic number (3,000 followers) and now, when I make a controversial or bad tweet, or piss off the wrong person (frankly, that’s more common), there’s backlash. Sometimes, it’s just replies; often, I start getting DM requests that range from ‘sort of snippy’ to ‘violent threats’; more rarely, I get horrible stuff sent through my contact form on my website, intended to upset me. And most of this is… well, not fine. I’m more upset when I lose followers or mutuals who I’d thought I was on friendly terms with, since it feels like I’ve disappointed them or something of the sort.

    Yet, as I start really approaching the idea of an actual Career in writing and advocacy, I’m realizing how scared I am. Not of the harassment, exactly. But it feels less and less safe to admit that I’m mentally ill, because in the past, abusers have had a field day with that. Psychosis must mean I’m making things up, after all; and “everybody knows” narcissists are the real abusers, so I must be lying if I say I’m the victim of something, especially if I’m too angry about it. And abusers are bad enough on their own – but what if somebody with 5, 10, 20k followers crafts that narrative on me? It was bad enough in fandom, but now I’m building something I want to last me a lifetime. It feels like I’m juggling hot coal, and it’s only a matter of time before it burns me.

    It’s a ridiculous expectation, obviously, for me to decide to shut down my mental health advocacy. First of all, while some people can hide their mental health and keep it private, I’m not sure I can. I can fake it to some degree, but one bipolar episode and access to Twitter later, I’m fucked! And that’s without accounting for the fact that PTSD, NPD, BPD – all of these affect how I approach people, how I criticize things, how I write… If I tried to retroactively hide these, even if I could pass for allistic (I absolutely cannot. Want proof? Ask me about Fullmetal Alchemist and watch me try to keep my mouth shut.) I would just look worse, not better – because then, well, I’m just the erratic weirdo who shuts down emotionally in between jags of mad, Joker-like laughter. Perhaps not quite that bad, but I’m having a very sore night and it sometimes feels like that from the inside. But secondly… I shouldn’t have to. One of the biggest barriers in mental health work is shame, and that’s exactly what the issue is here. “Bad” mental illnesses are so frequently shut down and hidden away, with the experts on them all being outsiders with outsider perspectives and outsider treatment. I know that even in being open about the effects of psychosis, of narcissistic collapse, of BPD splitting and bipolar mania, I am doing good work.

    I can’t help but think about how so many social work and non-profit employees burn out in periods countable in months instead of years. Online advocacy is difficult in different ways, but the burnout is so, so powerful – and some of it is from that creeping fear, the waiting for people who should be on your side to find a reason to turn on you. It’s such an acknowledged problem that Kai Cheng Thom has an entire essay on it in her book I Hope We Choose Love. (In fact, multiple touch on it; it’s a good book, you should read it.) It’s all the worse for the fact that I want to and that I try to be open to good-faith criticism, but I’m autistic enough to have a hard time telling when somebody’s lying to me, and paranoid enough that once I start thinking somebody is, I’ll believe that everybody is. It’s all the harder with low empathy; while one might think that “low empathy” (not compassion; empathy is simply the automatic ability to step into somebody’s shoes) would make this easier, it instead leaves me drowning all the more, just as lost on the motives or emotions of my supposed “in-groups” as “out-groups” and unable to extend trust to people who think they should automatically have it. And not automatically giving people trust just because they’re in the Right Group isn’t a bad idea… but it makes for a very lonely existence when it’s most of how people function.

    I doubt I’ll have any easy answers to any of this. Do I be less open now that I have a wider audience, or does the wider audience mean the openness is better? Do I have to share less information to be less vulnerable, or do I just have to change how I share it? Do I have to trust less, or trust more, or use whisper networks, or not use them? Most of what I get from other people with “bigger” (again, over 3k + political/sociological or fandom based) accounts is “fuck having a big account”, which while very indicative of a problem, isn’t very helpful! And truthfully, I don’t really know how to be Less. I’m certain that I’d run into less trouble if I ran a strictly professional account, perhaps one that didn’t gush over FMA every few days or have increasingly ridiculous display names about rabbits, and only posted updates. I’d also be all the more lonely, and have even less support – and so would the people who message me thanking me for saying things like “narcissists aren’t abusers” or “psychosis is not always Obvious” (the bar is on the fucking floor, huh?). I suppose most of what I can really do is ask others to be aware of this. The more marginalizations that somebody is carrying, the more directions they’re bracing for danger from. It’s not about being more or less oppressed – I hate it when people frame it that way – but it means that the impact can come from so many more places. A white cis gay man who’s able-bodied and sane only needs to worry about homophobia; the impact with which that hits him may still kill him! But he only needs to look in one direction. Someone like me, with transness, Jewishness, mental illness, aroace identity, “bad survivorship”, deafness – some of the damage comes literally just from how much I have to arch my neck to make sure I can see the next impact coming. And so when somebody just… stops doing activism, stops posting threads, stops being able to help, it’s because we have finally just. Collapsed.

    I don’t want to reach that point, and I’m going to try reposition myself how I can so I don’t have to. But look out for your friends. Don’t fall for callout posts or harassment campaigns. And, look, hey. Do some of the work. Post about NPD, advocate for better treatment for us, because man, I have to deal with psychotic episodes and also the bullshit about being psychotic. That seem fair to you? I could use a hand.

    If you like my posts or reviews, I have a Patreon over here! The lowest tier gets you early access to columns and exclusive blog/update posts.

  • 1.12 – Avery – Capitol After Midnight

    February 1st, 2021

    Song: blind (CRi Remix) by Jean-Michel Blais

    second meeting ˑ an urban quietude ˑ remember this

    I found Willow for the second time overdosing outside of Maverick’s bar. She wasn’t dying – not yet, anyway – and for a lot of people, they probably would have walked by, not thinking to check on the way her eyes were moving, the twitches that shook her arms, the sweat running down her forehead even in the middle of a cold early-April night.

    Most people would have ignored it. But from the smallest of tendrils, the fastest glimpse of the book of her mind, I could already tell that she was in trouble. MDMA is one of those drugs that promises bliss, and it delivers, but it’s far too easy to try prolong it past the lifetime that it offers.

    Willow’s mind was a mess. Half-blissed out, half-panic, ranting about angels and demons and martyrdom, and laced through all of it, do I want to die or not I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know.

    I put my unlit cigarette away. I’d been here dropping off a fare – pure chance, really – and recognized the striking blonde of her hair. Poor thing. I’d pulled enough (discreetly, and with no shortage of guilt) from her head the last time we’d run into each other for me to know exactly who she was.

    I squatted down in front of her. “Hey. Can you hear me?”

    “Mm.”

    “I’ll take that as a yes. Do you remember me?”

    “Mm. S-sorta.” Then she looked up at me, and wrinkled her nose. “Oh. Anglerfish boy.”

    “Not a boy.” Beat. “Anglerfish?”

    She just shook her head, lost in something that I couldn’t see. “…Thirsty.”

    I touched her arm. She was burning up. “Yeah, looks like you’ve ODed.”

    “Fuck. Again. Alright.”

    Again? I sighed, trying not to feel frustrated that my attempted intervention last time had just ended up back here. People took… patience.

    No, not that simple, or that trite. Trauma took patience. One of the upsides of our powers – the one that Will and I shared, among others – was that I knew, immediately, that she had been through hell. What kind of hell, only the newspaper stories and the lightning-fast images scrolling through her brain could tell me.

    Still, I wasn’t really anybody. I was a dumbass twenty-five year old with a taxi and powers that I’d only started learning to accept.

    “C’mon. Up, you.” If she hadn’t been a trans girl, or on drugs, I probably would have called the paramedics. Instead, I was gonna have to get creative.

    “My name’s Willow.”

    “I know, dear.” I managed to get one of her arms around her shoulder; the other hung by her side, fingers tensing and relaxing. “I’ve got a bottle of water in the car. C’mon.”

    She grinned, eyes hazy over the bags underneath. “If you’re try’na fuck me there are easier ways.”

    “Haha. Afraid not.”

    Once I got her into my car, though, I slumped over the steering wheel, trying to decide where I was going to take her.

    Ixchel was never going to let me hear the end of it.

    —

    The drive was quiet, especially here in the dead of the night. I loved Ottawa at night. It was a strange, silent place; like most government towns, it shuts down at ten pm, and it was well past two in the morning. In cities like Toronto or my old home Montreal, the lights would be on all through the night. Here, the tall statues of downtown, the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, the monuments and centurion buildings loomed over the empty streets, unchanging faces watching over those few who weren’t in bed where they belonged. Grant talked about liminal spaces a lot; the crossing-places from one state or world to another. Ottawa felt like a whole metropolis built on top of their intersections. A place to raise a family. A place to grow up. And somewhere in the middle, people like me.

    I glanced over at Willow. The water had helped, although when she’d begged for more, I’d had to say no. It was way too easy to overdo it – more people died from overdrinking than they did anything else with ecstasy, really. She wasn’t totally unconscious; I knew that much from the way her finger was tapping along to The Creatures.

    This is not the type of music I expected you to listen to.

    I couldn’t help but smile as her voice appeared in my head. I’d wondered if she was going to use that trick. From the sounds of what I could pick up, she was a ridiculously strong Sulfur; the type of mindreader who can’t avoid listening to the heads of others. I’ve always considered myself lucky to be less sensitive than that. Still, strength in one area doesn’t always mean strength in another. Why do you say that?

    I don’t know. Beat. Actually, scratch that, I think that was a dumb response.

    I fought another – exasperated – laugh, and stopped myself from saying, with no shortage of sarcasm, that plenty of Black people liked goth music. But a moment later, I saw the embarrassed flush on her face. She really was powerful.

    I just think it’s neat. I like music that does something interesting with the tenets of the genre, you know? Goth rock and goth metal pull in elements from everywhere – folk instruments, operatic vocals, punk riffs. And the Creatures are one of the foundational groups for goth rock, whether you believe me or not.

    Willow rolled her eyes, then pushed her head against the seat of the chair, turning her head towards me. “Great,” she rasped. “You’re a fucking nerd.”

    “Proudly. How are you feeling?”

    “Like God put me through a paper shredder.”

    I snorted. “Well, I’m glad you’re speaking. I’m taking you to get looked at.”

    Willow paled, and I took one hand off the steering wheel to put what I hoped was a comforting hand on her arm. “Not the hospital. I promise.”

    “…You know who I am. Don’t you.”

    “Within reasonable doubt, yes.”

    She went quiet, her throat apparently giving up on her as she switched back to mental communication. Please don’t tell anyone.

    “I won’t. I don’t particularly think it’s relevant beyond you preferring to stay away from hospitals and police stations. And I’m not stupid enough to show up at the police’s front door.”

    She cracked a smile at that one. Some white people don’t understand. Some have more of an idea than others. Thanks.

    “It’s no problem.” When I didn’t get a response, I realized she’d fallen asleep. I pressed my fingers gently to her wrist – her pulse was still a little too fast, but starting to come down.

    Sometimes it just works out that way. A single bottle of water bringing somebody just down to this side of survival. Drugs wearing off faster than they’re supposed to. No matter what, though, I was glad.

    <–1.11

  • 1.11 – Willow – Angelus

    February 1st, 2021

    Song: Stress by Justice

    willow loses three days of her life ˑ feat. mania’s sense of dramatic timing ˑ going into the light is harder than it sounds

    i feel the ascension like wing-flutters on my skin, gunpowder flashes behind my eyes, the sudden weight lifted from the titanium rods holding me together, and I am Ready I am Ready I am READY. i have been ready all this time and everything brightens once i know it –
    i feel the CALLING in my TEMPLES, holy WORSHIP repurposed, migraine TRANSCENDED into GLORY, and all it takes is getting just a little closer – closer, Closer, CLOSER
    There is no god
    There Is No God
    just the Bright and the voices of a thousand Thousand strangers unfolding and Unfolding
    There is no god
    There is no god
    only me and that is enough that is Enough except that
    nothing is enough.
    The only way back from the edge is to cross it.
    The only way back from the edge is to cross it.
    The only way back from the edge is to cross it
    Repeat and rinse and rewind and make it make sense and a s c e n d-

    I come back to life curled up on the bathroom tile
    with a mouth of batteries and an ecstasy-headache
    party pills and alcohol sweating out
    and mania dripping its last honey from my bloody fingertips.

    I come back to life and wish I hadn’t –
    because now I have to recall
    every thread that I- careless – dropped
    gather all my straying thoughts –
    remember who and what and why I am
    all the faces and ideals I’m not.

    I come back to life three days after the anglerfish
    with a phone number I don’t remember
    written in sharpie on the inside of my forearm

    in the shower –
    (I breathe in the steam and
    I am not reborn, I am not remade)
    I scrub and scrape it off
    I’m not ready to be saved.

    ANGELUS ANGELUS I COME WITH A MESSAGE FROM THE VOID AFTER ALL THINGS END, are you prepared for the infinite, when you end it
    will you be ready for nothing upon Nothing, or are you too much of a coward
    Angelus Angelus Gloria in Excelsis Deo, does it make you feel more alive to feel death upon your eyelashes, does it make you feel more worthy to know that there’s no judge, does it make you feel more stable to know that there’s no after, does it make you feel safer to know you’ll never see them again
    Angelus Angelus can you hear them calling you
    On the BAD DAYS on the GOOD DAYS
    On this day and every other
    Under every loose-leaf thought you hear there’s another and another
    This is your purgatory and your sin’s a broken crown
    you’ll only feel the thorns when at last we let you drown
    You’ll feel their bite and tear when you finally come on down
    You’ll bleed and grieve later – when your feet are on the ground

    I come back to life curled up on the bathroom tile
    with a mouth of batteries and an ecstasy-headache
    party pills and alcohol sweating out
    and mania dripping its last honey from my bloody fingertips.

    I come back to life and wish I hadn’t –
    because now I have to recall
    every thread that I- careless- dropped
    gather all my straying thoughts –
    remember who and what and why I am
    all the faces and ideals I’m not.

    (i think this has happened TWICE-
    PERHAPS one was just a Dream
    time Loops and Skips and Stumbles
    when you don’t watch it closely
    I probably should worry
    but I already know THE COST)

    there’s smudged ink upon my forearm –
    who knows what it is I’ve lost?

    <– 1.10 1.12 –>

  • Behind The Curtain: Metaphorical Incest, Fanfiction and Cultural Taboos

    February 1st, 2021

    TW: As you might have gathered from the title, this column discusses incest, fanfiction policing, pedophilia, and abuse (of various kinds; child sexual abuse, relationship abuse and parental abuse all come up.)

    Ah, the fanfiction wars. They’ll probably never end, and trying to determine when exactly they began is a matter of definition more than history; people have been policing and trying to define what is and isn’t “okay” for literature as long as literature’s been around. Novels were deemed ‘unfit’ for Impressionable Minds in the Victorian era, after all — these are long-standing issues. 

    The topics forming the battlegrounds for these wars vary quite a bit, even if they share some common traits. I’ve talked about many of them before (here, here and here) but there’s another one that comes up a lot – incest. Before going ahead though, I’ll be clear — incest is a pretty heavy, distressing topic. There’s trigger warnings up top for a reason! Everything that comes up in this column starts from a place of curiosity, but also of compassion, cause this isn’t small potatoes.

    So, when we talk about incest, what do we mean? Certainly not just in fiction, either. It’s easy enough to say that in one story or another, shipping step-siblings should or shouldn’t count, or that one or another situation is ‘convoluted’ enough not to matter. But immediately we run into cultural relativism, and not just across oceans or the cultural divides that most people think about. The definition of what is and isn’t incestuous can vary within countries, states, cities and even families.

    1. So, What’s Incest?

    It sucks that when talking about incest in fiction, we have to start with the literal definition, but at the same time, unlike pedophilia or abuse, it’s not a clear-cut topic. Incest, at its most broad, refers to romantic/sexual entanglements between family members. Usually it’s implied to mean specifically sexual relationships, but it can mean romantic non-sexual ones too; ’emotional incest’ is an important term that refers to a parent treating a child as a fully-adult confidante, whether or not they treat their child as a lover.

    Legally, what’s defined as ‘family’ varies. In Canada, for example, incest is prohibited between siblings (including half-siblings), a child and parent, and grandchild/grandparent, as long as the blood relationship is known. However, in other countries (ex. Japan and the Netherlands) as long as both parties are of consenting age, siblings can have an incestuous relationship. 

    This only gets more complicated when discussing things like marriage between cousins. Marriage between first cousins used to be fairly common in the upper classes of Britain, only hitting a sharp decline in the second half of the 20th century. Additionally, the regionality and variability of the definition of incest really comes into play when looking at India. Cousin marriage in Islam is legal and acceptable, but proscribed in Hinduism… except that while in North India, cousin marriage is proscribed and seen as incestuous, in South India (Tamil Nadu, Kerala, Andhra Pradesh, etc.) this isn’t as strict and there are more Hindu marriages between cousins, and between uncles and nieces. So, not so consistent! And that’s only discussing first cousin marriages, not second cousins, step-siblings, half-siblings, adoptions… and only in one country.

    I’ve also only touched on incest between adults – who can, at least theoretically, consent to any relationship with each other. The moment the discussion turns to incestuous abuse, things take on a darker note – not just because of the topic, but because the law ceases to be of any help. Child sexual abuse is enormously widespread, and the majority of child abusers are parents, older siblings, or otherwise in positions of authority. It’s this that makes the topic so sensitive; incest and incestuous abuse are capable of being separated, but most people (and certainly not the victims of the latter) aren’t going to do so easily or immediately. Incestuous abuse has the terrible effect of combining the emotional and mental wreckage of domestic and parental abuse with the shame of any sexual assault; “I deserved it, I had it coming, I enjoyed it” mingling with the abusive parent’s standby that you owe them, you love them, they gave you everything in this world. It’s one of the hardest things about advocating for victims of CSA, particularly incestuous CSA; the person who created you and the person who destroyed you are one and the same, and that takes a long time to come to terms with, let alone process.

    And finally, because this wasn’t complicated enough – what isn’t incest? While the topic of ‘found family’ and ‘like brothers/sisters’ has been big in fandom for a while now, it’s hard to really claim that either of those function on the same level as those discussed above. There’s a lot going on with the metaphors involved, certainly – and we’ll get into that later. But then there’s also the idea of ‘martial siblings’, which has come up a lot in the fandom for popular series The Untamed and danmei source novel Mo Dao Zu Shi. While the terms are explained and given here, in short, Chinese culture uses familial terms for friends, new acquaintances, and within martial sects. None of these are considered incest – they’re just the terms used! (Much like ‘brother-in-arms’ in English.)

    Ultimately, incest is given different moral, legal and cultural weight all around the world, so before anything else, the base concept of ‘incest is bad’ has to be challenged. Not because I think incestuous abuse should be given a free pass (if you think that, come here, I have a sledgehammer…) but because our ideas of family, romance, sexuality and kinship are complicated.

    And on the topic of complicated – let’s talk about incest as metaphor.

    2. Incest, Queerness and Metaphor

    Many of the incest examples I brought up above were very heterosexual. Laws around marriage usually have a lot to do with pregnancy, family lineages, etc. – as well as controlling (cis) women’s bodies. But queer culture has a completely different relationship with incest.

    As much as I wish I could be as expansive as I was with the above, I can only really discuss North American 20/21st century queer culture here. (Although I’m always happy to hear more.) But even in that alone, most people reading this are probably at least passingly aware of the history of things like leather daddies, age gaps, the military/navy tradition of ‘brothers-in-arms’ etc. Perhaps not in detail! Our history’s very much kept from us. But one way or another, family relationships are an intrinsic part of it, both in sexual/romantic ways and in our platonic communities.

    One of the glaring examples of this that I see written out of history is the idea of the ‘trans mom’, the ‘drag mom’, etc. I believe it comes up on RuPaul (of all places!) but I don’t see it acknowledged much beyond people talking about their own. To explain: many trans people have someone who was their parent for them when they came out, because it is so common for us to get disowned or kicked out when we do. Sometimes it’s literally the person who took them in; sometimes it’s the person who showed us how to put on a binder properly, or the person who gave us our first ‘girlmode’/’boymode’ clothes. It’s not uncommon for this person to also be a lover, and given the complex nature of trans generations, somebody can be our trans mom or dad, and be anywhere from five to twenty years older than us. So immediately, there’s already a complicated emotional relationship between parenthood and romance. Our “proper” parents often don’t care about us, and our “real” parents, the ones who show us how to be who we are, and show us how to navigate the world we want to be in, are also the ones who hold our hands, make us feel desired, and sometimes hold a place as our first true love. Obviously, this isn’t true for everyone – and nor is it positive for everyone. More broadly, the queer community’s history with age-gap relationships and older queers showing younger ones “the ropes” is a fraught one. But at the same time, while the parents of queer children still range anywhere from ‘cold’ to ‘violently homophobic’, it’s inevitable.

    There’s more to it than just substituting for our parents, too – not all parents are homophobes. (These days ‘I have two moms’ is more than just a rarity or occasional joke, and I love that for us.) Queer love is often an exercise in translation. We can fantasize about a wedding, sure; but we have to translate it into ‘between two men’ or ‘between two women’, or for trans folks, we have to translate ourselves into the opposite role and see if it fits. Often it doesn’t; for non-binary folks in particular, it might never quite fit right. And we can read all the cis-heterosexual love stories we want, try to slide ourselves into them, but how much of the story do we have to change in our heads to make room for ourselves? (See also: why so many queer people write fanfiction.) Love – romantic love – in the stories we’re given is reserved for between cis men and cis women. Platonic love has more possibilities, but there’s also a shortage of stories that treat friendship as comparable to the overwhelming, intense emotions we might be feeling for a friend, an older teacher – whoever it is we might be crushing on, and usually the wrong person. The stories of sacrifice and heartbreak that come the closest to romantic love, while also allowing for “same gender” or otherwise inappropriate attraction, are often familial. Consider Anne of Green Gables, where Anne and Diana are ‘bosom friends’, and therefore ‘like sisters’; or Allison and Vanya’s relationship in The Umbrella Academy, which carries almost the full emotional weight of the narrative. Naruto and Sasuke in Naruto are ‘like brothers’, and Naruto’s intense love for him is the reason people kept returning, hoping for that emotional resolution. Edward and Alphonse Elric are the backbone of Fullmetal Alchemist in any iteration, and both Sirius Black and Remus Lupin’s parental attachment to Harry in Harry Potter serves as a reminder of the emotion and sacrifice underlying both their lives and his. None of these are romantic (although Anne and Diana does make one wonder at times) but all of them have attracted queer readers to them in droves.

    As things change, we’re seeing this less – which is a good thing in its own way. If young queer folks have characters like Korra, Benson and Catra to point to and identify with, and use as a way to describe their attraction, then that saves a lot of heartbreak. But these are all new. Legend of Korra, credited with kicking off the new era of representation, ended in 2014; by then, I was two years out of high school and already out as trans. For my childhood, and certainly the childhood of those before me, “you’re my brother/sister” was how we tried to confess our love to our firsts, afraid of being rejected or even just confused about what we were feeling, trying to force it into a shape it would never fit. It’s all the more complicated for trans folks with attraction to multiple genders. Attraction to women as a trans man isn’t the same as being a lesbian, but it carries the same pressures; so you promise sisterhood while carrying the crushing weight of knowing that you aren’t a girl, and that you can’t be a sister. And so often, our attraction to men is, from its outset, tinged with something not quite normative; “attracted to men, but in a gay way” is often how it gets worded, and while I’m sure not everybody who says that is trans, it’s a very good summation of how it feels. We ask for brotherhood instead of romance, trying to capture a version of romance where we aren’t maidens or damsels, and just as often as not, it blows up in our face.

    With this in mind, as I lead into the next section, I ask people to look at this infamous and much-discoursed-on screencap from Voltron: Legendary Defender a little differently.

    in this house we stan the entire show — “You're my brother.” This line was  necessary...

    3. Coping Mechanisms and Metaphor, Redux

    Incest-as-metaphor clearly has a long history in queer circles, then. But in the above, I’ve still mostly talked about attraction – consensual, normal attraction – , and interpreting it through an incest or maybe-incest lens. Not everybody’s pain and trauma around attraction is as simple as being attracted to the wrong person at the wrong time. In fact, sexual assault is so frighteningly common in both women (as defined by various stats takers, but usually cis) and the queer community at large that it’s almost a fundamental piece of talking about queer identity. Whether it’s corrective rape, incestuous sexual abuse, date rape, sexual harassment or all of the above in various combinations, most of us don’t make it to adulthood without a heavy dose of sexual or romantic trauma.

    In fanfic discourse, the idea of the “coping mechanism” comes up a lot. Usually, it’s navigated exceedingly poorly; anti-shippers will float the idea that only “real” survivors should write about certain things, and then with the other hand claim that survivors should only cope in private, or use “better” coping mechanisms. (Than something that doesn’t hurt anybody? I’d hate to see their suggestions; “get out of the house more” and “have you tried exercise” are probably on the top.) Before anything else, the idea of the Real Survivor should be challenged. If we keep thinking of sexual assault victims/survivors as some sort of rare object, of course we’ll idealize the concept of the ‘real’ survivor. But StatsCan belies that – “Although children and youth under the age of 18 made up only one-fifth of the population (21%) in 2002.. they were the victims of 61% of sexual offences reported to the police.” This is in Canada, and I can’t underline that last part enough. CSA is already less likely to be reported, since children often aren’t aware of what’s happening, and incestuous abuse even less so. Even without the rest of the terrifying statistics (83% of women and 32% of men with developmental disabilities, for example) this immediately flips the script. We aren’t trying to protect survivors by making sure only “real” ones have access. We’re all in the same boat, because there are fewer of us who haven’t been victimized in some way than there are who have.

    Even aside from direct sexual assault in all its forms, romantic trauma and relationship abuse is a monster of its own. Especially in queer circles and particularly for mentally ill and developmentally disabled teenagers and young adults, the dating world that can end up mostly annoying for “normal” teenagers is full of unexpected landmines. I’ve known more than one friend who ended up in suicide pacts with romantic partners, and others who were forced into (or out of) closets. That’s only accounting for the age-appropriate relationships, too; despite my earlier rosy perspective on the role of older adults to young queers, one of the common distortions at play concerns the difference between playing that role to a fourteen-year-old and playing it to a twenty-year-old. If I (25) give support and aid to somebody in their early twenties, and also sleep with them, it’s at worst got some hinky power dynamics that can be navigated as long as everybody concerned is honest about them. If I give support and aid to a teenager and then sleep with them, I’m a predator, because they’re not fully-grown enough to know exactly what it is that they’re consenting to. (They’ll insist otherwise, but that’s the frustrating thing about adolescence; the instinct to try new things is part of growing up, but also sometimes what throws you head first into danger, because the instincts that tell you to stop only come with experience. Adults are killjoys, but it’s our responsibility to be.) The emotional trauma of these relationships has a powerful impact – whether they’re codependent or neglectful, bittersweet or nightmarish.

    Sometimes it’s asked genuinely. Why would somebody write about incest if they aren’t a survivor of incest? Incest as queer metaphor is enough for me, certainly. But also, the horror of incestuous abuse is so much about being trapped. Sometimes, when the nuance of something is too messy and too complicated to explain in a way that’ll feel real to others, making the ephemeral concrete is the first step. Perhaps a writer never actually had an intense, co-dependent, self-destructive relationship with their brother; but it’s easier to write that and explain what they mean than it is to try justify why they would get into a suicide pact with somebody. It’s definitely less close to home.

    The other element is one that I’ve brushed on a few times throughout this column, and that brings all three parts together.

    4. Why is the Taboo Sexy…And Why’s That Important?

    Incestuous relationships, censured queer attraction, child sexual abuse – at first glance, really, it’s almost ridiculous to be trying to spin connections between these, and almost offensive. There’s already so much history with making out queerness as taboo, that lumping it in with these three gets a strong reaction, and fairly so. Queerness isn’t inherently taboo, and the responses I talk about here are reactions to the Existing taboo – not something that is intrinsic to who we are.

    But all three do have an important connection between each other, something that “normative” relationships often don’t have; a sense of deep, sexual shame. The ‘taboo’ around all three varies in how much it “should” be taboo, and that’s not the point; the consequences of the fact that they are taboo end up far more important. And that taboo is exactly what leads to the policing and wars that inspired this column; don’t depict this, or that, because it’s Nasty.

    Re: queer attraction, it’s important to note that the most heavily censured part of queer attraction is queer sex and sexuality. Not the most oppressed – oppression or lack thereof is a pretty useless and subjective measure as it is. But consistently, the erotic side of queerness is the side that has to be most hidden away, the hardest to find, the last to be acknowledged. (Arguably, this is behind anti-ace sentiment as well; acknowledging a lack of sexual attraction requires talking about it in the first place.) As a result, it’s so, so common to have guilt and passion intertwined to the point of inextricability in queer circles and queer erotica. While not all kink needs to be or should be analyzed, it’s certainly interesting looking at degradation, hypnosis, genderplay, consensual non-consent, bondage, and dominance/submission as responses to or rejections of the guilt we’re so often forced to take on or told we should be feeling. “It feels so wrong… but so right,” is a cliché, but it’s a cliché for a reason.

    By the same token, child sexual abuse carries a different, heavier, but somehow still similar guilt with it. It’s one of the biggest misconceptions of sexual assault in general but particularly of child sexual abuse that rape is always violent and painful, and easy to sort into the “Bad, Terrible Things” pile. In reality, CSA usually involves grooming and slow conditioning, which means that for many victims, part of healing from it is actually acknowledging that what may have been a pleasurable or physically enjoyable if embarrassing experience caused long-term trauma. (While I don’t intend on getting into the MAP discussion here, one of the most brutal parts of the ‘minor-attracted person’/’adult-attracted minor’ nonsense is how many on both ends are victims who don’t consider themselves to have been victimized for this reason.) “It feels wrong, but also feels right” is at play here too, even if the “appropriate” morals to an outside eye are inverted. Of course queer sex is good, and child abuse is bad. But emotions aren’t that simple, and for people who are both, experiencing this feeling about both, it can be a source of a lot of distress.

    The reason I bring this up is because it’s another common topic in fanfic policing to say, well, writing about abuse is one thing, but you write this like it’s porn. It doesn’t have to be sexy. And. Sometimes it does! I have never met somebody who enjoys incest porn who has a thing for their own sister or mother, but an awful lot of them have been queer, survivors of assault, or both. The fantasy of a taboo relationship, and taboo sex, is so much more tied to the idea of “it feels so wrong, but so right” than anything else – and it’s also completely understandable that incest would be the vehicle for it. Who wants to write queer sex where the character in question genuinely thinks they’re a bad person? Some people do – but if that’s what you’re actually fighting off, no wonder you want something else to translate it into. And while there’s definitely people who will write stories about the kids who “secretly want it” and hate themselves for it, it’s often a lot less traumatizing to write about those complex feelings in a situation where you feel like you aren’t making excuses for your own abuse. Incest, by the immediate nature of being more complicated – by being something that doesn’t have its own consistent moral value – is a safer place for that taboo, especially for the sexual side of things.

    Why sexual at all? If you’ve ever heard the term monkey brain or lizard brain, then that’s where a lot of this happens. While everybody copes with their trauma differently, fear responses end up fairly consistent at least in the moment. Most people know about fight, flight, freeze; and more often, now, people have heard about the ‘fawn’ response. But in addition to that, when you’re trapped somewhere, it’s exhausting to be afraid all the time. C-PTSD is a diagnosis that accounts for this; instead of the sharp trauma of a sudden shock, like PTSD, Complex PTSD accounts for the animal stuck in a snare. You can’t stay afraid or angry 24/7; your brain will break. So a common response, especially if there’s prior or current sexual trauma involved, is to turn what scares you into something that excites you. (NB: I don’t know the exact science behind this, but layman’s guess is that it’s a relationship between cortisol and dopamine.) Putting it behind a few layers helps, too, but this is a major force behind things like hypersexuality, and a massive reason why I hate the idea that coping mechanisms and pornography have to be separate. For many, they’re the same thing.

    What people enjoy in fiction – SFW, NSFW, romantic, horror, fanfiction or original – is an expansive topic that thousands of scholars have written on in the last ten years alone. Kink is no less expansive, and while I’ve focused on trauma here, that’s only one piece in a massive puzzle. Ultimately, my stance is very simple: fiction is fiction, and should be treated as such – but I also think that when it comes to trauma, our understanding of how that can translate into fiction needs serious updating. Abusers can bite the dust. But incest is a complicated, interesting and multifaceted cultural topic, and even if it is always harmful, and always bad – it’s never been my understanding that shutting up about abuse made it go away.

  • Ghosts in Quicksilver: Chapter 2.20: The Forest For The Trees

    December 31st, 2020

    TW: anti-Arab racism, bullying, violence, mental illness, dissociation, unreality, eye horror (not trauma to eyes)

    I don’t remember the first fight I was in. Part of that’s because it’s hard to tell the difference between a fight and being pushed around; bullying versus confrontation. But I remember one in particular, because it was one of the last ghosts I remember seeing for a long time.

    The white boy who’d tripped me was a big guy, maybe fourth, fifth grade. I’d seen him around, mostly lurking in front of the portables or sneaking out the back wire gate of the school to smoke pot with the seventh and eighth graders during recess. I wasn’t sure what his problem with me was, but it was probably the same as everybody else’s. I hadn’t said hello or goodbye the right way, or at the right time, or I’d looked at him weirdly, or he didn’t like my name, or my clothes, or the way I talked. Maybe he thought I was from Iraq (Eye-Rack, was how he said it. I wasn’t sure he was wrong, but it didn’t sound right either.) The point was, he didn’t like me.

    I struggled onto my hands and feet, swallowing the taste of blood in my mouth. I’d bitten my tongue. Then I looked back at him—past the sneer on his pale, slightly frost-reddened face, to the man standing behind him. He was as pearly gray as all the rest of the ghosts, but he was Black, or maybe just a mess of mixed blood like me.

    When he noticed my eyes on him, his curious look turned into appraisal.

    “Well, kid,” he said with a snort. “You gonna let him get away with it?”

    I ignored him, and stood up, trying to avoid the older boy’s eyes. Sometimes if I just didn’t say anything that worked—

    The punch took me by surprise and knocked me right back onto the ice, feet slipping out from under me. I was just glad I hadn’t hit my head. Next thing I knew, the ghost was squatting down next to me. He had calluses on his knuckles and fingernails cut down to the quick, deep lines cutting through his pink palms.

    “I know, I know. I should just walk away,” I mumbled, mostly to myself as I spat salt and dirty snow out of my mouth. I was just glad Jo wasn’t here.

    “Nah. Fuck that.”

    I glanced up at him, surprised. Adults usually pretended not to swear around me. He smirked at me, stubbled cheeks elastic with age. “You’re gon’ get it no matter what. Learned that the hard way. Ain’t nothing gonna stop a prick like that from throwin’ his weight around. Kid like you minding your own business? He don’t give a shit. And the teachers standin’ around? They’ll blame you whether you did anything or not.”

    I liked his voice. He was from somewhere else, somewhere south of here—although everywhere was south of Ottawa, really, everywhere that mattered.

    “So what do I do?”

    “If he’s gonna see you as a threat,” he said, jabbing a nicotine-stained finger into my chest that slid right through, “rise to the challenge. And make him regret it.” 

    I didn’t know what that meant, but I reached forward in the snow, and my fingers closed around a chunk of ice on the ground, exposed in the March thaw. I wasn’t sure what to do—

    The older boy’s boot hit my stomach, and I tried not to throw up. I hadn’t even done anything to him. This wasn’t fair. This wasn’t fair. This wasn’t—

    I got up, chunk of ice in my hand. They’ll blame you whether you did anything or not.

    And I made him regret it.

    ——

    I stayed back, standing on the porch and glancing hesitantly between Sunvay and Kiera. I should have left. I was brash, sure—but I wasn’t brash enough to get between anybody and a baseball bat. Certainly not between a candidate for worst person in the world and her stalking victim. No point in sugar-coating it. But… but I did want to help, and I was scared for Jaylie, because Kiera was much more powerful than her. And somehow, for some reason, I was scared for Kiera, too. It was ridiculous. She was the monster here. I knew that – we were all on the same page – but I still –

    None of this should have to happen. Childish, maybe. It was what I had to offer. And the same part of me that believed that kept trying to brush this off, too, as drama or bickering or the kinds of fights people had over break-ups and snubs and perceived insult.

    And the much smarter part of me knew that Jaylie was going to be in a whole load of trouble if the cops showed up. Again. For somebody who held her breath while passing police stations, I was getting involved in an awful lot of crime scenes. Maybe I should reconsider my career choices.

    Calm down. You can get involved if it gets out of control. The smartest thing I could do was be here. Somebody just being here would keep things from spiraling… I hoped. It hadn’t worked at McStab’s, but who knew?

    Kiera looked at Sunvay with – not quite surprise, but close – and then put her hand on her hip with a scoff. “Banshee? Is that really what you think I am?” She reached casually into the air next to her, showing off her trick again and pulling her sword from the air like it’d been tucked between the folds. She spun it in her hand, hilt tumbling over her knuckles. She looked so relaxed that I could almost pretend that the ground below wasn’t flickering between normal, salt-speckled asphalt and some sort of bone-white dust.

    It was little things that were wrong; cracks in the porch wood that disappeared if I looked straight at them, TV static between the gathering clouds, rot appearing and then retreating on the scattered tree trunks. Other people’s instability—at least the little bit I’d seen—didn’t seem to have as much middle ground as hers. Maybe it was just that she’d been like this for so long that it’d become her normal.

    “It was that or hag.” Sunvay shot back. His eyes were amber in the real world, but they flashed green back at Kiera for a second.

    She brushed it off, but the cracks got a little deeper. “I’d expect humans to be so unimaginative—but you? Really?”

    He twitched at that, and I frowned. I supposed Jaylie’s alters were something other than human depending on the perspective, but that didn’t seem right. For a moment I thought he was going to respond—but instead, he raised his hand, beckoning at Kiera.

    “Come on. You’ve been trying to kill us for months now. You sca—”

    Kiera’s sword cut an arc of gold through the air, and I held my breath, for a moment thinking it would hit Sunvay—but he leant backwards just enough for the saber to hiss past him. He blocked the second swing with the bat, and with each strike he stepped backwards, staying on the defensive. On a particularly hard swing, he dropped the bat, Kiera’s sword lodged into the wood. Kiera jolted forward at the sudden weight, and Sunvay slipped down into a crouch, suddenly smaller and lighter, and kicked her feet out from under her.

    It wasn’t Sunvay anymore. I didn’t know who this was, but their hair was a loose puff of ash-gray curls all around them, pale scars decorating their bared arms like lightning scars. Kiera vanished into a streak of silver and reappeared standing a moment later like nothing had happened, and the new person just snickered in a hoarse voice.

    “Lovely,” Kiera deadpanned. “I’m fighting all your little personas.”

    Not-Jaylie’s face dropped into a scowl—then they slammed an open hand into Kiera’s chin, foot swinging up into a kick. Not street fighting. Jaylie had clearly learned somewhere.

    Kiera just barely caught the kick, wavering slightly at the impact. “Aw, cute. I’m stronger than that, honey.” Her face split into a grin too wide for her mouth, shark-teeth on full display. Then she shoved the foot down, slamming her forehead into Not-Jaylie’s. I winced just watching it, and blood ran down from the ash-haired scalp.

    I should do something.

    Do what? I was in exactly the same position as before. I could fight, sure. Not like this. I could stab people, and punch people. And I could talk to dead people. That was it. Jaylie had actually learned how to fight somewhere; I hadn’t. My big skill was that I was tenacious and stupid. Kiera would eat me alive.

    “Is that all you’ve got?” Kiera taunted as Not-Jaylie stumbled to their knees, clearly dizzy. She tossed the baseball bat over to them, and it clanked against the asphalt. “Come on. Show me what you’ve got, wechselbalg.”

    Wechselbalg. What was she trying to prove? Why Jaylie? Jaylie hadn’t done anything to her. This was just cruel.

    Kiera raised her sword over Not-Jaylie—but then Jaylie raised her head. “Stop.”

    Kiera’s arm stopped midair, her face a sneer of rage.

    “You forgot, didn’t you?” Jaylie said in a low, mocking tone. The ash-hued hair was gone, braids falling down her back with a rattle of beads. But Kiera didn’t stop for long—the Sulfur trick had slowed her down, but that was all. She shifted with another streak of silver—in the low light, all I could see was the silhouette until she prowled into the intersecting rings of lamplight.

     “Very clever.” She leant down to pick up her bat, and dark red bloomed across her hair. Reynare straightened up, pointing the bat at Kiera. “Not clever enough. You know we can see you.”

    See her? But—

    Oh.

    Jaylie was a Sulfur, and a Mercury. I didn’t know how exactly having two at once worked, but Kiera hissed at Reynare with a fury that gave away exactly what she meant. (Jaylie’s the only one you’ve met with two, some part of me insisted. She’s the only one. What are you missing?) She leapt, but Reynare dodged the telegraphed jump easily. Except halfway through the leap, Kiera shifted back into herself, and her fingers grabbed Reynare’s hair, yanking her backwards and throwing her down to the ground.

    “Get out of my head,” Kiera snarled.

    “Love to. Stop thinking about us.” Reynare tore her hair out of Kiera’s grip, strands melting like they were made of ash. She put more distance between her and Kiera. “You can’t, can you? It’s constant, Every time we’re near you. You can’t stop thinking about us, and what we are.”

    “Get out.”

    “We can’t stop. Any more than you can, apparently.”

    “Then shape the fuck up. Show me what you’re actually capable of.” Kiera feinted with the sword, then slashed at Reynare’s cheek, fingers turning to silver-tipped claws midway through the swing. And a second later, I realized she’d used actual silver, because there was smoke hissing up from her fingers where the nails hit her skin, and she nearly bit through her lip until she shifted it away. Was that possible? And good god, why would she hurt herself like that, unless—

    Oh. Oh, god.

    Reynare was crouched over, one hand on the ground. I’d missed it at first. Kiera had actually hit her. Blood dripped down her cheek, but not as much as there should have been – because the three claw-marks across her face were still smoldering, hissing smoke into the lamplit air along with the smell of burning flesh. Her face turned back into Jaylie’s, but the cuts remained. Smoking, just like Kiera’s hand. Faerie flesh.

    Jaylie wasn’t human.

    Too little, too late, a bunch of pieces fell together.

    “You want to know what I’m capable of? That’s what you want?” she almost crooned, looking back at Kiera with eyes burning quicksilver-bright, voice so sweet that the fury behind it almost seemed like a mirage if you weren’t paying attention.

    It gets complicated with plurals, Gurjas had been trying to say, but then I’d asked if she had two powers because she was a system-

    Somewhat the other way around. Reynare.

    Nobody had told me about people who had more than one element, because humans didn’t.

    I glanced up at the swiftly-darkening sky. The moon had disappeared.

    Kiera hadn’t noticed the sky yet. She was too busy grinning manically, taking pride in some sort of perceived victory. “If this is all, then that means I win. I win, I knew I w—”

    “You stupid, jealous bitch.”

    Isaiah. Stories about faeries stealing children, switching them with their own. I hadn’t thought to ask him how the faerie children felt about it. I hadn’t thought to ask him if they ever got to go home.

    Kiera lashed out at Jaylie again—and the bat hit her squarely in the ribs. She collapsed to the ground, and I found myself running off the porch, onto the asphalt, and then I stopped, because I was not equipped for this, for any of this.

    “You think you’re the first person to hate me?” Jaylie didn’t even sound angry. She sounded… resigned. There was fury there, yes, but it was so tangled up with exhausted sadness that it was all the more terrifying. Fury was alive, fury was passionate. This was different. “You think you’re the first person to try banish me with silver and iron? Or even just—know that I didn’t belong and use other tricks on me, try get back the child they deserved?”

    The moon was back. The moon was—

    A black spot rolled around it, down to focus on Kiera, and I stuffed my knuckles in my mouth, trying not to scream. The moon was not back. The silvery thing hanging in the sky wasn’t a moon. It was an eye.  And as I watched, more of them were opening across the blue-black sky that was too dark for sunset, all focusing on Kiera.

    “I didn’t know,” Jaylie spat, her voice almost breaking. “ That’s what the others were locking up, away from me—and I’d wondered, sure, but not knowing, not remembering, kept me sane. Don’t you understand? You did this to me. You did this.”

    Jaylie hadn’t just been afraid of Kiera. She hadn’t just been hiding from Kiera.

    The sky was moving. Why was it moving? It wasn’t a sky, skies didn’t lurch like that, or rise upwards. It was a body—a massive, horrifying, lithe body lifting itself up and exposing the orange-streaked atmosphere behind it. There was no head, just a ragged stump that could have been a neck.

    It was the Headless. It was the Headless, the god that had thrown me out of the Medium the first time, and it was here. How was it here?

    Calm down. I had to calm down. Jaylie was a Mercury, too, I was probably hallucinating—

    But Kiera was staring at the Headless, too. She was seeing the same thing. Mercury hallucinations weren’t shared, right? They weren’t. Oh, god. What did I do? Whatever was happening, Jaylie was doing it.

    I willed my feet to move. They wouldn’t obey me—so I squeezed my eyes shut and managed to get them moving the first few steps before I opened my eyes again. Jaylie. I had to get to Jaylie.

    I grabbed her shoulders, turning her away from Kiera. Her silver eyes were frightening in the dark, shapeshifter trick or not. “Jaylie, you gotta stop.”

    “Absolutely not. She ruined my life.”

    “I—I know. But if she and I can both see… that, so can everybody else.”

    “It’s just a mirage, it’s not real.”

    “It looks pretty fucking real to me!”

    “I don’t care!” Her voice did rise this time. “I don’t care! If it was that nobody helped me that’d be one thing! I’m used to that! But everybody who helped me died for it! I’m not okay with that and I shouldn’t have to be okay with that, and you are not going to stop me from doing the world a fucking favour!”

    I felt like I was being stabbed. Mostly because—she was right. She was right, and I didn’t know how to respond. Nobody was backing me up on this. Not even Will, who had the most reason to. It was time to give it up.

    Kiera was getting to her feet. I just noticed it out of the corner of my eye, and then I saw her sword in her hand—

    This was my fault for letting it get this far. My fault. My fault. My fault.

    So I did the only thing I was good at.

    I watched as the sword arced towards us, and pushed Jaylie out of the way.

    ——

    “This wouldn’t be such a problem,” came the familiar voice, “if you weren’t such a self-sacrificing idiot.”

    I tried to open my eyes, winced, and rubbed at them.

    “If it helps, by the way,” Jo sighed, “you aren’t dead.”

    I squinted against the light. I wasn’t cold, even though it was November. There wasn’t any snow on the ground. 

    “…Well. I suppose that’s good news,” I mumbled. “You got anything else for me?”

    “Yeah. I have no idea how to get you home.”

    Ah.

    My eyes cleared enough to get a proper look at the world around me. I was lying on wild grass, dotted with flowers; a few feet from me, dark trees surged up into a sky that didn’t look right. It took me a moment to realize why. No plane trails. No phone lines. No satellites.

    “…I don’t suppose tapping my heels will work,” I said weakly. I supposed this is what I got for fucking with fairytales.

    Previous
    Start Book Three

    THE END
    FOR NOW
    BOOK THREE STARTS 2022

    Download Book 2 as an ebook here!

    Or, read it on Archive of Our Own over here.

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