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I'm sleep depped and it's been a bad brain week (of the "self harm via upsetting blog posts" variety) and last night I went through a spat of "oh hey look it's someone who thinks darkfic directly causes sexual assault let's read their blog for a half hour" and, well, that was that. Thankfully Nen was online to talk me through the inevitable anxiety attack and sick feeling in my stomach.

But it's still in the back of my mind, and I think I have some Thoughts about it.  So, here we go. Also, writing these out makes me feel better.
My first instinct this morning was to pull out a particular selection of music - alice cooper, Lordi, avenge sevenfold, that kind of thing.  Darkness and power, glory and domination, sexualized violence and violent sexuality. Fear me. Worship me. Hallowed be my name.

And then I stopped and thought - okay, so /why/ is that comforting to me? It would make moralizers clutch their pearls and gasp, sure, but that's not all. It - makes me feel better about myself, takes away some of the sickness in my throat.

And I thought - I want to feel powerful. I want to feel untouchable.  I will be the storm, the desert, the conquering darkness and the stain of blood. If I'm going to be a monster, then I want to be the /best/.

(There's a reason I identify with Kylo Ren as strongly as I do.)

It's not something I feel all the time. It's not someone I want to be in real life. But it's there when I need it.



But, the thing is....  this isn't something that girls are... supposed to feel. I know that's an awful way of phrasing it, but it's the only way I can think to say it. Girls don't want darkness, don't feel like the world only makes sense when they're at war. Girls don't feel the sick urge for violence crawling up their throat, addicted to the rush of power. Women don't identify with characters like that. Women identify with women before they identify with /monsters/.

The people who /do/ identify with monsters, who are expected to, who are Supposed to be those types -They're shitty straight white boys. I think I called him That Guy once - the Health Ledger Joker fanboy, the Tyler Durden fanboy, who collects guns and is way too interested in serial killers and nazis. Entitled boys who think they deserve the world and throw tantrums when they don't. The insecure nerd with dark eyeliner and prop weapons.

Girls don't /do/ that.

And then there's me.

It makes me feel guilty. Like I'm... failing some feminist duty or some shit, identifying with the people everyone else calls the enemy. Finding comfort in what some people call the worst parts of masculinity.

( It's - about the only thing that causes me dysmorphia, tbh. It's the one of the things convinced me that I was nb - the rush of /relief/ when I realized that I didn't have to identify with women above all else, that I didn't have to identify primarily on lines of gender. I didn't have to pretend that I had something in common with them just because we share genitals.

I honestly don't know if that's a me problem or a them problem. Is it a shitty definition of womanhood or am I not really a woman? I have no idea.) 

Feminism doesn't get it, it feels like. Social justice doesn't get it.

25 years and I still exist in a different world. No matter how much they talk about acceptance and redefining womanhood, their definitions still don't have words for me.  I'm still the thing from beyond their universe, warping things beyond recognition simply by being around them.

(If I were a monster, I wouldn't /care/.)


I - as usual, I don't have a solution. I've just named the problem. It's just so - well, frustrating on a good day, to see this total breach of experience that no one on their side seems to see.

I don't know if I've made any progress. But I've articulated myself, at least kind of. So there's that.
splinteredstar: (Default)
but no, Shera. I don't even remember how old I was then - 12 or 13, I think. She was a YGO OC, who I paired up with Yami no Malik.  Yeah, the stabby one, with the hedgehog hair.  She was an assassin and a sadist and her - I think it was her face? - was burned and scarred from abuse. ...It might have been her back, I'm not sure. I don't think those files exist anywhere - if they were ever typed to begin with.

She was violent and soiciopathic and angry and she enjoyed blood and when Yami no Malik started developing goopy feelings at her she was deeply uncomfortable, because she did not sign up for /softness/, okay. 

....Every now and then, I look back at my younger self and think "...kaaaaay."  Like, I can see where she /came/ from, both culturally and in my brain, but. Still.


That part of my brain is one that I - still struggle with making peace with, sometimes. The part that glories in blood and violence and wreckless desctruction - the part that wants to burn the world, that wants to /break/. Rage, and anger, and pride, and control. Other people - don't matter, aren't really important. Break them if you want, it doesn't matter. It's a hunk of my psyche that - honestly frightens me, sometimes. But it's compelling, in the way monsters are.

(Also, it occurs to me that my taste in favorite characters - the terrible ones that I don't normally admit in public - makes a /lot/ more sense now. Give the monster a face, muzzle it by making it fictional - it can't hurt anyone, so it's safe to be fascinated.)
splinteredstar: (Pride scribble)

Looking back on the things I’ve written here lately, this has been developing for a while.
 

 

cw: abuse mention, self hatred, discussion of terrible philosphies, religion )

 

splinteredstar: (Default)
I need things that are mine, and mine alone. There is an exhilaration in shared experience, but it is something between, something that only exists in the shared and not in any one person. It can be greater than any of them, water poured into a shared well, and yet, and yet.

Stories are me. I am a collection of tales bound up in flesh, little story factories tucked away inside of bone and muscle and nerve tissue. Stories from me, stories about me - I don't know how to exist except as narrative distilled. (Maybe I'm broken, but that's for another day.)

But if all of my stories are us or them; if everything is shared and between - do I still exist at all? If I'm just the place where all of those shared experiences overlap, am I still real? (Is anyone?) If that particular combination of different us-stories and we-stories is unique, does that make a difference?

I don't know. I just know that i don't like it. I feel hollow. Everywhere my mind turns there's someone else there, tugged in by that story-that-is-us, and I have to deal with us when I want to deal with me. There are invaders in my head, strings attached to other pople strung everywhere. It's like walking into a room I thought was empty and finding it full of people.

So I need things that are mine. I need stories that I own, that are mine and no one else's. (Or at least stories that feel that way.) I need - spaces in my head where I can go and find no one else waiting for me there, where I know that if all of those shared experiences drop away, there will still be a /me/ left over.

Maybe it's privacy, a place where I don't feel the weight of shared experiences on my back, without the ghosts of other people surrounding me. Maybe it's security, the knowledge that if -when - people leave, they won't drag everything I love and care about with them. Maybe it's an anchor, being able to say this is me, this is from me and to me, weaving the stories into myself instead of spreading them outwards. Maybe it's all of them.

But I think it's something I need. A room of my own, as it were. So maybe that's okay? Psychological me-time, I suppose. (Do other people need this? Does that matter, if I need it?)

Hmm.

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