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trans-axolotl2 · 1 year

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I've been reading Cripping Intersex by Celeste Orr and one concept that I think is absolutely crucial and one of the best resources I've found for understanding my own experiences as an intersex person is the term Compulsory Dyadism.

Dr. Orr coins the term: "I propose the expression 'compulsory dyadism' to describe the instituted cultural mandate that people cannot violate the sex dyad, have intersex traits, or 'house the spectre of intersex' (Sparrow 2013, 29). Said spectre must be, according to the mandate, exorcised. However, trying to definitively cast out the spectre via curative violence always fails. The spectre always returns: a new intersex baby is born; one learns that they have intersex traits in adulthood; and/or medical procedures cannot cast out the spectre fully, as evidenced by life-long medical interventions, routines, or patienthood status. And the effects of compulsory dyadism haunt in the form of disabilities, scars, memories, trauma, and medical regimens (e.g., HRT routines). Compulsory dyadism, therefore, is not simply an event or a set of instituted policies but is an ongoing exorcising process and structure of pathologization, curative violence, erasure, trauma, and oppression." (Orr 19-20).

They continue on in their book to explore compulsory dyadism as it shows up in medical interventions, racializing intersex + sports sex testing, and eugenic and prenatal interventions on intersex fetuses. This term makes so much sense to me and puts words to an experience I've been struggling to comprehend--how can it be that so many endosex* people express such revulsion and fear of intersex bodies and traits, yet at the same time don't even know that intersex people exist? Why is it that people understand when I refer to my body in the terms used by freak shows, call myself a hermaphrodite, remember bearded ladies and laugh at interphobic jokes--yet do not even know that intersex people are as common as redheads? Understanding the term compulsory dyadism elucidates this for me. Endosex people might not comprehend what intersex actually is or know anything about our advocacy, but they do grow up in a cultural environment that indoctrinates them into false ideas about the sex binary and cultivates a fear of anything that lies outside of it.

From birth, compulsory dyadism affects every one of us, whether you're intersex or not. Intersex people carry the heaviest burden and often the most visible wounds that compulsory dyadism inflicts, as shown through often the very literal scars of violent, "curative" surgery, but the whole process of sex assignment at birth is a manifestation of compulsory dyadism. Ideas entrenched in the medical system that assign gender to the hormones testosterone and estrogen although neither of those hormones have anything to do with gender, a society that starts selling hair removal products to girls at puberty, and the historical legacy of things like sexual inversion theory are all manifestations of compulsory dyadism. For intersex people, facing compulsory dyadism often means that we are subjected to curative violence, institutionalized medical malpractice that sometimes includes aspects of ritualized sexual abuse, and means that we are left "haunted by, for instance, traumatic memories, acquires body-mind disabilities, an ability that was taken, or a 'paradoxical nostalgia....for all the futures that were lost' (Fisher 2013,45)." (Orr 26).

Compulsory dyadism works in tandem with concepts like compulsory able-bodiedness and compulsory heterosexuality to create mindsets and systems that tie together ideas to suggest that the only "normal" body is a cisgender one that meets capitalist standards of function, is capable of heterosexual sex and reproduction, and has chromosomes, hormones, genitalia, reproductive system, and sex traits that all line up. Part of compulsory dyadism is convincing the public that this is the only way for a body to function, erasing intersex people both by excluding us from public perception and by actively utilizing curative violence as a way to actively erasure intersex traits from our body. Compulsory dyadism works by getting both the endosex and intersex public to buy into the idea that intersex doesn't exist, and if it does exist then it needs to be treated as a freakshow, either exploiting us to put us on display as an aberration or by delegating us to the medical freakshow of experimentation and violence.

Until we all start to fully understand the many, many ways that compulsory dyadism is showing up in our lives, I don't think we're going to be able to achieve true intersex liberation. And in fact, I think many causes are tied into intersex liberation and affected by compulsory dyadism in ways that endosex people don't understand. Take the intense revulsion that some trans people express about the thought of medical transition, for example. Although transitioning does not make people intersex and never will, and the only way to be intersex is to have an intersex variation, I think that compulsory dyadism affects a lot more of that rhetoric than is expressed. The disgust I see some people talking about when they think about medical transition causing them to live in a body that has XX chromosomes, a vagina, but also more hair, a larger clitoris--I think a lot of this rhetoric is born in compulsory dyadism that teaches us to view anything that steps outside the sex dyad with intense fear and violence. I'm thinking about transphobic legislation blocking medical transition and how there's intersex exceptions in almost every one of those bills, and how having an understanding of compulsory dyadism would actually help us understand the ways in which our struggles overlap and choose to build meaningful solidarity, instead of just sitting together by default.

I have so much more to say about this topic, and will probably continue to write about it for a while, but I want to end by just saying: I think this is going to be one of the most important concepts for intersex advocacy going into the next decade. With all due respect and much love to intersex activists both current and present,I think that it's time for a new strategy, not one where we medicalize ourselves and distance ourselves from queer liberation, not one where we sort of just end up as an add on to LGBTQ community by default, not even one where we use a human rights framework, nonprofits, and try to negotiate with the government. I agree with so much of what Dr. Orr says in Cripping Intersex and I think the intersex and/as/is/with disability framework, along with these foundational ideas for understanding our own oppression with the language of compulsory dyadism and curative violence, are providing us with the tools to start laying a foundation for a truly liberatory mode of intersex community building and liberation.

*Endosex means not intersex

Endosex people, please feel free to reblog!

#personal #actuallyintersex #intersex #curative violence #compulsory dyadism #intersexism #interphobia #medical abuse tw #h slur #igm tw #disability studies #actually disabled

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trans-axolotl · 1 year

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antipsychiatry does not mean the same thing as anti medication. i firmly believe in antipsychiatry and part of the reason is because I’ve seen how hard it is for people to get the meds they actually want. the amount of friends I’ve had who’s doctors refuse to prescribe them meds for their ADHD even though they can prove that it’s helping them, the amount of people I know who want to get psych meds but can’t because psychiatrists refuse to prescribe them meds once they learn that they use criminalized drugs, the amount of people I know who can’t get psychs to prescribe them meds for the symptoms that are actually distressing them unless they agree to be on other meds that don’t help them—easy access to psych meds is a right that goes hand in hand with the right to not be medicated against your will. it comes back to autonomy and how psychiatry gets in the way of autonomy in so so many ways. psychiatry operates in a paradigm where the most convenient justification for the psychiatrists view of cure becomes the one they cling to in the moment. Which means that mad/mentally ill/neurodivergent people who have to interact with the psych system are constantly at risk both for being drugged against our will and for being prevented from taking medication.

mad/mentally ill / neurodivergent people deserve authentic, informed consent that allows us to make the choices about what risks we are willing to take, what symptoms are liveable, and what side effects are intolerable. The psychiatric system has a million barriers that get in the way of this type of decision making, and fucks over all mad/mentally ill/ neurodivergent people, no matter our personal relationship to medication.

#personal #antipsych #antipsychiatry #mad pride #disability studies #psychiatric abuse #ask to tag!#okay to reblog

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suspiciouslackofclowns · 8 months

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Maybe instead of getting better after Starcourt, instead of healing and mending that which has been broken, Billy just gets worse.

There’s no more playful grins behind cigarettes or keg stands held in good fun. No more speeding down empty backroads or engines revving in parking lots. He gets quiet, and that’s the scary part.

Because as soon as someone presses him to talk, he gets mean.

He outright says no when he’s asked to keep an eye on Max, because there are no repercussions anymore — his wounds from the “fire” haven’t healed just yet, and if he shows up in the hospital with new bruises over freshly cracked ribs, the doctors will suspect something.

So the most he gets is a glare from Neil and a stern do it or else.

And Billy, a believer of malicious compliance, picks himself up a walkie-talkie. Does whatever the fuck he wants while the thing sits on his dresser.

If any voices come through, he shuts it off, or at the very least tunes it to a channel that only he and Max use.

She knows better than to use it.

Things between them aren’t any less tense than before, but it’s different now. Now he knows.

So the playing field is even.

He doesn’t meddle in Max’s business, who she hangs around, and Max doesn’t burden him with asking for rides and things alike. Not that he could really do much with his car sitting in the junkyard — Harrington has taken over the task of chauffeur anyway.

Harrington, who apparently also picked himself up a walkie-talkie.

And who somehow managed to learn about Billy and Max’s private channel.

“Hargrove? You there?”

The voice is staticky over the radio, but not out of range. After the brief moment of shock passes, Billy rolls his eyes at the thought of Harrington parked down the block, sitting behind the wheel of his Beamer listening intently for a response.

Rather than reach over to his nightstand, Billy rolls over to face the wall.

His sheets have become more of a nest as of late. Gathered around him in piles because he prefers the chill on his skin to sweating beneath scratchy blankets.

He hasn’t changed the bedding in weeks. Hasn’t opened the blinds or really even left his room at all this summer — the pool has likely already filled his position. Not that he’d be going back any sooner than a year or two from now.

If he ever feels comfortable taking his shirt off again.

“Billy? Look, I know you’re there, man. Max said that this was the channel to reach you on, and—“

Billy snatches the walkie-talkie and holds the button down.

“Go fuck yourself. Over.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then static pours through. Likely the air conditioning in Harrington’s car.

“Touchy,” he tuts. Exhales a heavy sigh and blows a raspberry. “Don’t always have to be such a dick, y’know.”

“Being a dick isn’t something all of us have to try at, rich boy, so put your shit in gear and get off my block.”

There’s another brief pause.

“How’d you know I was in your neighborhood?”

“Walkies don’t work out-of-range, fuckhead.”

“Damn, okay,” Harrington huffs. “Sue me for wondering how you were doing.”

Wondering how I’m doing?

“Wondering how I’m doing?” Billy repeats.

He stares up at the ceiling, brows pinched together.

“Yeah? Y’know, like checking up on you?”

“Why?”

For months, Billy has done nothing but rot in his bed. Too sore to move, too short-fused to bother talking about it.

Too guilty to open any of the get-well-soon cards that he’s received.

Among the poorly-addressed ones with crayon scribbles from his former swimming students, he recalls one almost equally as poorly-addressed dawning the signature Steve Harrington at the bottom.

It was the only envelope he’d bothered to open. Practically had to rip it up with his teeth because of the lack of dexterity in his fingers, though, he never worked up the nerve to dial the number scrawled at the bottom.

Harrington scoffs over the channel.

“It’s like you’ve died or something, man. It’s worrying.”

Disregarding the flush spreading across his cheeks, Billy rolls his eyes and spreads out more atop his comforter.

“If you’re so worried, why didn’t you just ask Max?”

“If she answered my questions, do you think I’d be on this channel right now?”

Billy presses his lips into a line.

He knows he hasn’t been the best brother. Quite the opposite, actually.

But it still aches to learn that Max apparently refuses to so much as talk about him. Makes his limbs sink deeper into the mattress like gravity has doubled down on him.

Makes him want to shut his walkie off and never turn it back on.

“Well, you’re a few months too late on your check-up, Harrington,” Billy rasps. He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head at the sound of his own voice coming out so wet and pathetic. “Walking corpse at this point.”

A beat of silence persists. Then the static comes through again.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

“I have a therapist that already doesn’t help, thank you.”

“Well, if you change your mind…” Harrington trails off. He holds the talk button down for a long beat, absently tapping his fingers against the door panel in his car. Then, he sighs. “Is it okay if I use this channel again?”

Billy’s vision blurs and he sniffles. Thankful that it can’t be heard by anyone but himself.

“Yeah,” he says, and his voice shakes with it.

And that’s how Billy’s radio goes from being dead silent to constantly filling his room with chatter.

It helps and it hinders all at once.

Billy smiles for what feels like the first time in over a year, and laughs, even. But each time Harrington tells a little joke or giggles over the channel, Billy’s heart starts to ache more deeply.

It opens up old wounds.

He feels like Neil knows, somehow, when they’re both in the kitchen together. Accompanied by nothing but silence.

Neil asks if he can babysit for the weekend, and Billy drops the mug that was in his hand with a shaky wrist, fearing an entirely different question that doesn’t even get asked.

When Neil would normally berate him, he simply watches the way that Billy flexes his fingers. The way that he makes a weak fist, unable to straighten his fingers completely once he relaxes them, and his brows pinch in mild worry.

“Still havin’ trouble?” Neil asks.

His voice is gentle enough that Billy’s eyes well with tears as he nods. Bites his lip to keep it from wobbling.

Neil pulls him into a hug and Billy sobs into his shoulder. Not because of the pain or disability, but because he thinks he’s let a hint of love creep back into his life after all this time.

Which should be a good thing.

For once, Billy agrees to watching Max, if only because he doesn’t have the energy to snark back right now. Neil pats his shoulder and gives it a squeeze. Asks if he’s sure, like it’d be no issue at all for him and Susan to cancel their weekend plans.

Billy can’t help that he huffs a laugh. Can’t help that it comes out sounding closer to a scoff.

Why be accommodating now, after a lifetime of neglect and maltreatment? He shakes his head to himself, and his expression must give his thoughts away.

Neil digs his thumb hard into his shoulder, earning a stifled whimper and another influx of tears.

Billy cleans up the broken mug and wipes the liquid away from the floor by himself, knelt on his achy knees while he’s watched like a hawk from the doorway. Like he might shove the glass under the counter if he’s left unsupervised for even a second.

Over the weekend while their folks are away, Billy takes Max out to pick up a couple of movies and get a few snacks with Susan’s car.

Since he so scarcely leaves the house, he turns a few heads when people recognize him.

None so much as Harrington, who gawks at him from behind the fucking desk at Family Video. Billy glares hard at Max when she smirks at him before disappearing to the horror section.

The brunet is a bit more rugged than Billy recalls. Has a stronger jawline and more hair. Lots more hair.

It makes Billy feel especially pathetic, draped in a t-shirt that used to fit his figure well, but now swallows him more than anything.

That heavy feeling droops his shoulders down. He shoves his hands into his pockets and looks away nonchalantly when Harrington abandons his station, leaving Buckley behind the counter floundering at the register.

“Look who’s out ‘n about,” Harrington chuckles. He has no issue reaching out and setting his hands on Billy’s biceps, moving close as if to inspect him. “Have I always been this much taller than you?”

Billy flushes red and straightens his posture. Brings himself back up to eye-level, which spurs a dull pain in his spine. He must not do well in terms of hiding it, because the brunet’s brows furrow.

“Do you wanna sit down?”

Rather than respond right away, Billy huffs and waves Harrington off of him. Shoots Max another glare when he spies her watching the exchange from behind a shelf.

“All I fuckin’ do is sit,” Billy grumbles. “If I knew I was gonna get a pity parade I would’a just sent the shitbird in.”

Harrington nods to himself. Takes half a step back and smiles.

“Alright with standing, then. Got it.” He tilts his head to the side. Eyes never leaving Billy for even a second. “Your hair’s grown out a lot.”

His gaze is a fond one. Like they aren’t in public right now. Like Billy is his damn girlfriend on prom night, and he’s seeing the gown for the first time.

Billy shrugs. Absently toys with one of the curls that dangles over his collar bone.

That weird pit is back in his stomach. The one that leaves him crying in the dark when Harrington signs off after hours of chatting about everything and nothing at once.

Billy wonders where he parks his car when they talk for that long. If he’s right outside or in the deep quiet of the woods, where the stars can really be seen and the train shakes the ground.

He’d rather Steve just climb through his window.

“I like it,” Steve adds. Nudges Billy’s elbow with his own. “It’s a soft look. Fits you really well.”

“Are you this nice to all the girls that come in here, or just the ones you wanna pork?” Billy teases.

Steve laughs, and it sounds so much better in person. Billy wants nothing more than to bottle it up and keep it forever.

Before the brunet can come back with a snide little joke of his own, Max meanders up to them. Holds up a few tapes for Billy to approve. Without really looking them over, he hands her the cash, and they all move back to the register together.

Steve rings them up. Max pays. Everything is so much slower than it should be going, like he’s trying to prolong the encounter as much as he can.

Billy understands the feeling.

When Steve slides Max the receipt, he’s less smiley. Billy turns to face the door, but doesn’t miss the way that Max nabs a pen and scrawls something on the slip of paper before sliding it back towards Steve.

Billy decides not to pry. Fears that if he asks, he’ll find that it’s some secret nerd shit that he can’t be privy to.

Fears that the heavy feeling will bear down on him again.

He doesn’t have to ask, turns out. The phone rings later that night, and Billy’s blood pressure spikes when Steve’s voice pours over the line.

“You should come out more often,” he says easily. “Really need some sun.”

Billy just tsks. They wind up sitting on the line for a little under half an hour. Billy wishes it lasted longer.

But he’d rather not explain the minutes away when his father shows him the phone bill.

Just before they hang up, after giggling at each other nearly the entire time, Billy barks out, “Don’t call here again.”

Then he hangs up.

Steve, naturally, gets on the radio not a few seconds later. Giggles and says, “Okay, dick. You can call me from now on.”

They stay up for practically the rest of the night talking.

Billy stares up at the ceiling and wonders how long this little thing between them will last.

He starts to question it more when Steve actually, by some miracle, convinces him to come out a handful of times.

The brunet is really touchy. Always has an arm around Billy’s shoulders or a hand on his back, and constantly bumps their knees together when they’re sitting down. Billy feels stupid for wanting more.

Why, he doesn’t know, because he’s fairly certain that he could ask for anything at this point.

Steve never calls again and that’s okay.

Billy prefers hearing whispers over the radio anyway.

It’s one evening in particular that Max is out of the house for the night, away at the Chief’s place for a sleepover, that the pit in Billy’s stomach turns into a black hole.

Steve has been ranting about his manager for the last half hour, only stopping to mention how a movie cover reminded him of Billy. How he couldn’t even wait to get home before he turned his radio on and pressed to talk to him.

The black hole consumes Billy before he can catch the words leaving his mouth.

“Do you like me?” he hears himself ask.

His voice gets choked up, and the second he lifts his finger off of the button, he rolls over and screams into his pillow. Quiet enough that Neil and Susan won’t hear, but hard enough to let a fraction of the tension out.

“Obviously,” Steve says. “Why else would I be friends with you?”

Billy presses his face harder into the pillow.

He can feel the pressure building behind his eyes. Feel the blistering heat of fresh tears and the throb in his temples as he huffs a strangled sigh into the pillow. Before he can even decide between turning the walkie off or fabricating a response, static pours through.

“Jesus Christ, Steve, he means do you have feelings for him,” Max groans.

There’s a beat of silence.

“What? Rea—“

“What the fuck are you doing on this channel?” Billy interrupts.

He can feel the veins in his neck straining from how hard he’s clenching his jaw. Can practically see red when giggles pour through the radio.

A red hot flush of shame paints Billy’s face when he realizes that Eleven is listening in too.

“What are you still doing on this channel? If you didn’t want us to eavesdrop, you should’ve switched forever ago.”

“How long have you been listening to us talk?” There’s a beat of silence. Billy huffs. “Max. How long?”

“How long have you and Steve been talking?” Max asks.

Her rhetorical question is accompanied by giggles that are cut off when she lifts her finger from the button.

There’s nothing but silence for a moment. Then two.

Billy’s vision blurs as he sets his walkie down on his nightstand. The cold fingers of embarrassment wrap around him and drag him down, lower than he’s ever been drug before.

He’s ruined everything.

His sister not only hates him, but she knows about him now, and the only guy he’s ever let himself truly like is going to want nothing more to do with him after this.

Not for the first time since Starcourt, he wishes that monster had killed him.

“Billy?” Steve asks gently. When there’s no response, he sighs. “Look, we can figure out the channel thing some other time, but… was she right? Is that what you were trying to ask me?”

Silence. Then, giggles.

“Oh, I’m pretty sure I’m right,” Max teases.

“Radio silence,” Steve snaps. “Now.”

His tone is stern. Brotherly in a way that should be surprising, but isn’t, really.

“Signing off…” Max says dejectedly.

Astonishingly, the channel falls silent. Billy sniffles as he reaches over to paw at his nightstand, curling his fingers weakly around the radio.

He doesn’t press the button. Tries to swallow his silent sobs in a failed attempt to compose himself first.

“Billy?” Steve coos, voice much softer now. “If you don’t wanna talk over the radio, that’s fine, but—“

“Yes,” Billy rasps.

A beat of silence.

“Yes?”

“She was right.”

Billy winces at how broken his voice sounds. A whistle pours through the radio.

“Oh, man,” Steve chuckles, and Billy’s heart sinks. “The boy of my dreams wants to know if I have feelings for him? Are you dense?”

There’s a crisp millisecond of confusion before Billy presses the button.

“What?”

“Of course I like you, dude.”

Billy inhales like he just resurfaced for air for the first time in years.

“Why?” he breathes.

“You’re funny, smart, surprisingly sweet, and pretty easy on the eyes. Just for starters.”

If his heart was thumping fast before, it’s going light-speed now. All he can do for a few beats is focus on controlling his breathing.

“You don’t like me,” he murmurs. “Trust me, Steve, I’m fucked up.”

“You aren’t the only one who’s a little fucked up.” Steve hums a laugh to himself. “And I do like you. You’re not gonna be changing my mind about it anytime soon.”

“What if I told you to go fuck yourself?”

“I’d tell you that you don’t always have to be such a dick.”

A tiny hint of a smile creeps its way onto Billy’s face when he hears Steve chuckle.

His eyes are dry. The pool of dread in his belly has begun to drain, and he feels the slightest bit hopeful.

“If you’re so sure, then I guess picking me up for dinner and a movie sometime won’t be difficult for you, will it?”

Steve sighs fondly at the notion.

“Are you asking me out?”

“Are you accepting?”

There’s a brief pause. Billy’s unable to keep from smiling giddily to himself.

“Depends,” Steve lilts. “Gonna open your window?”

There’s a light tap on the glass. Billy pushes himself up and draws the blinds, revealing a grinning brunet standing about a foot below, holding his walkie-talkie.

Billy tosses his on the bed before he opens the window and leans his elbows against the ledge.

“Is this the part where you ask me to let down my hair?” he teases.

Steve chuckles, but furrows his brows as he steps closer to the house.

“Were you crying?”

Taken aback by the question, Billy wipes his eyes with the heel of his palm. Shrugs nonchalantly, which doesn’t seem to be the answer that Steve was looking for.

“I was expecting things to go a bit differently,” Billy admits.

Steve frowns, and the expression doesn’t look right on him. He reaches up. Settles his hand on Billy’s forearm, smoothing his thumb back and forth against his skin until Billy shifts to dangle his arm out the window.

The pads of Steve’s fingers are soft where he holds Billy’s hand, clasped and suspended in the air together.

Billy really does feel like Rapunzel for a moment.

“I can be a little thick-skulled sometimes,” Steve says softly. “You’re always talking about yourself like you’re some unsalvageable disaster, so when you asked me if I liked you, my mind instantly went there. I wanted to make you sure you knew for certain that I do.”

He gives a little half smile. Billy squeezes his hand gently. Hopes that Steve doesn’t notice how weak his grip is.

“It’s not like I really gave you any context clues.”

“True. You didn’t.”

“I am a bit of a disaster, though. Feels like I’m only good at messing things up sometimes,” Billy sighs. “Max already hates me, and when I thought for a second that you might too, everything felt so lost.”

Steve makes a face.

“I would never, and I’d like to point out that Max doesn’t either.”

Billy blinks. Huffs amusedly, and as always, it comes out sounding closer to a scoff.

“Pretty sure she does. You’ve said yourself that she wouldn’t even talk when you asked about me.”

After thinking on it for a brief moment, Steve laughs.

“Yeah, man, ‘cause she bites the head off of anyone who asks about you. Definitely told me to mind my fucking business more than once.”

Again, Billy just blinks.

He never considered that maybe it was a protective thing and not a shame thing. The revelation has a surprising amount of weight lifting off of his shoulders.

“Definitely sounds like her,” he says.

They share a chuckle. Billy flattens his other forearm against the windowsill and rests his chin against it.

“Thanks for trying to lift me up earlier?” he muses. “Didn’t really work in the moment, but still.”

Steve softly swings their hands from side to side and sighs.

“I can tell. Your eyes are all puffy.”

“Should’a seen me the other night.”

The brunet cocks his head to the side in mild confusion.

“What happened the other night?” he asks. “Didn’t mention anything while we were talking.”

“It was, ah… after we signed off for the night. It’s no big deal, really. I cry after most of our talks.”

Billy looks away. Steve squeezes his hand.

“I’m sorry.”

“‘S okay,” Billy rasps.

His eyes prick with tears again and Steve steps closer. Drops his walkie-talkie in the grass and reaches up with his free hand to cup Billy’s cheek.

“Oh, you’re just a big crybaby, huh?” he coos. Billy chuckles sadly and leans into his touch. “If I’d known, I would’ve snuck over here sooner.”

“My old man checks in on me sometimes, so it’s probably better that you stay in your car.”

“Well, do you have a curfew? I’d love to steal you away every now and again and kiss your cute, stuffy nose.”

Billy sniffles, and chuckles again. Wipes his eyes with his free hand and shrugs.

“Haven’t really had anywhere to go ‘till now,” he says.

Steve nods.

“You eaten yet?”

A smile cracks across Billy’s face. Steve mirrors the expression.

“You buying?”

“I’ll spend my entire paycheck on burgers and fries if it gets you outta this fuckin’ room. I swear sometimes it’s like pulling teeth.”

They share a chuckle, and Billy sits up. Flushes red when Steve presses a kiss to his knuckles.

“Gimme a sec.”

Again, Steve nods. He’s slow to release the blond when he pulls away, and Billy can’t help that he’s grinning like an idiot as he opens the door and pads out of his room.

He finds Neil and Susan in the living room watching tv. Makes up some lie about a few friends having a kickback. Even goes as far as to apologize for the short notice.

His folks share a look. Susan spreads a big smile and sets her hand on Billy’s bicep.

“No worries, sweetheart. Go ahead,” she says. “Have fun, alright?”

“Will you be coming back tonight?” Neil asks.

Billy stays quiet for a moment. Then two, just processing, and eventually shakes his head.

“It’ll probably be too late,” he says, and clears his throat. “I have somewhere else lined up, though.”

He winces at his own words, regret beading on his skin like a cold sheen of sweat.

Neil nods. Turns his attention back to the tv.

“Just stay outta trouble.”

And that’s it.

Nothing more is said, but Billy still stands there like he’s waiting for something else to happen.

When nothing does, he nods curtly and pads back down the hallway to his room, deciding not to press his luck by letting them think too hard on it. Once he has the door shut behind him, he’s immediately leaning out the window again.

Steve has his walkie back in his hands, rocking back and forth patiently on the balls of his feet while he waits. He smiles when he notices that the blond has reappeared.

“What’d they say?”

“Go get your car, I’ll be ready by the time you pull up.”

Billy leans back. Grabs the window and shuts it just as Steve nods enthusiastically. Turns on his heel and jogs off of the lawn and back towards the street.

Giddy, warm feelings pool and buzz in Billy’s stomach as he digs through his drawers for jeans that he hasn’t worn in forever. Already has a date-worthy outfit in mind as he unfolds a pair.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when static pours through the radio still sitting idly on his bed.

“Update?” Max asks.

Billy rolls his eyes. Moves to grab it when another voice comes through.

“We’re goin’ steady,” Steve informs, out of breath.

“Yes!” Max shouts.

Then, a third voice comes through.

“Finally! Jesus,” Dustin huffs.

There’s a beat of silence, followed by Steve panting when he presses the talk button.

“How many of you dickheads are on this channel?”

“Just two?” Mike says. “Technically, since we’re only using two walkie’s.”

There’s laughter over the radio, and Billy rolls his eyes. Can’t really find it in himself to be mad right now with all of the butterflies swirling in his tummy.

“You’re all banned from the front seat of my car,” Steve huffs. “And the wedding, when it happens.”

“No! I wanted to be the flower girl!” Eleven whines.

“I was gonna walk you down the aisle,” Dustin adds.

“Good luck finding another officiant, then, I guess,” Lucas says with a scoff.

More laughter is had. Max and Mike chime in with various jokes about ring-bearers and bridesmaids, but they’re cut off when Steve presses to talk again.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. I highly recommend switching channels.”

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?” Max muses.

Billy can practically hear the smirk in Steve’s voice when he speaks next.

“‘Cause I’m gonna start using this one for sex stuff, and it’s gonna get real weird real fast, so be warned.”

Multiple groans and sounds of disgust pour through the radio.

“Yuck,” Max says. “Switching channels.”

“Ditto,” Dustin adds.

Then silence. True silence.

Billy grabs his walkie.

“We really gonna have phone sex over the radio?” he muses.

Steve laughs. The subtle rumble of the engine is audible from the street as his car pulls up to the curb.

“Not if you hurry up and get your ass out here already.”

The blond bites his lip. Can’t believe for the life of him how light he feels. How, for once, he feels better for having survived car wrecks and slimy monsters in the dark.

Feels like letting someone new into his life won’t cause him grief this time around.

“On my way, pretty boy.”

#harringrove #billy hargrove #steve harrington #max mayfield #billy & max #the party stranger things #disabled billy hargrove #fluff and angst #tw abuse #internalized homophobia #it’s important to me that Neil is shown being more than a two dimensional mma fighter when it comes to his relationship w Billy #so I wrote him a little differently based on my own personal experiences with abusive parents #also mainly wrote this to show that Billy deserves love and compassion even if he doesn’t start making steps towards bettering himself #because healing begins with support!!#ficlet #my writing #unedited #billy antis dni

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neurotypicalabusesurvivor · 2 months

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The fact "empaths" don't have empathy for childhood trauma survivors (ASPD, NPD, systems) is funny actually.

#empath privilege #empath #low empathy #empathy #neurodiversity #ableism #leftism #mental illness #medical model #malignant narcissism #narcissistic abuse #narcissistic personality disorder #actually narcissistic #social model of disability #aspd

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thatdiabolicalfeminist · 11 months

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Disabled people deserve to have our needs met without sacrificing our autonomy.

We deserve to be treated with respect and dignity regardless of how much support we need.

And we deserve to receive that support regardless of whether we personally know anyone able and willing to provide it, or have access to enough wealth to hire helpers.

#as a disabled person whose support needs often just go unmet like there really aren't many options for a poor disabled person in the US #and the options that ARE available often come with unnecessary surveillance and a lack of autonomy and dignity #no wonder a majority of disabled people have experienced abuse!#thatdiabolicalfeminist #disability

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little-bloodied-angel · 3 months

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This morning I woke up and my right leg was screaming. The pain was so intense and brutal it was what woke me; I had to sink my teeth into my pillow and scream, too. Every cell from hip to knee is (yes, still) burning, liquid acid going through my veins; and the calf is strained and cramped and protesting the extra work as hard as it can.

I still had to use the bathroom; when I tried to stand up it buckled, like a lightning bolt went through it, and I went to the floor. Even just rotating in bed to get out was agonizing on my hip. My foot was numb, full of pins and needles for lack of proper circulation.

I limped there, dragging my leg behind, supporting my weight on the wall and gritting my teeth. The process of sitting down and standing up almost made me black out.

Over the sink, I looked at myself in the mirror and willed myself not to cry. When I came back into my room I caught sight of my medications on my bedside table, the myriad of pills I'll be taking for as long as I live. The Tramadol on top of them was mocking me, and I did cry then.

I remember everything my body could do. I remember flying. I remember the fall, too, the agonized animal screams that seemed to come from outside my body, the brutal audible SNAP of muscle and tendon, the bone against the hardwood, the hushed whisper-shouts of "get help -she can't move -she can't walk -god, her leg!"

The doctor's office and his placid smile as he told me I was "lucky" because my ACL didn't require surgery at the same time he delivered my death sentence, or what may as well been.

"A career in ballet is no longer an option for you".

I know he didn't understand how people who dance with the goals I did live and die for that dancing. He thought I was young and I'd find something else to do. I was young and a part of me died in that accident and I had to bury it.

I remember a different doctor, a different office, her worried face scanning my psychiatric history like she thought I'd kill myself right in front of her because of the diagnosis as she told me what I already knew.

"You have fibromyalgia. I'll prescribe medication to manage it, you have to be careful with it. But..."

But it'll never get better. You'll always hurt. It'll get worse. I already knew that. I just wanted someone to sign on it, because it turns out that when doctors perceive you as female, complaints of chronic pain tend to fall by the wayside, particularly if you have a history of mental illness. She took me seriously. She warned me about my leg, about what a flareup would do somewhere I'm already hurting all the time, and I kept myself from barking at her I fucking know, that's part of what it's been like for almost a decade because at least she believed me.

I mourned my body again, all the same.

I lay in bed gripping my thigh, trying to will the spasms down, trying to decide between yelling and sobbing, trying to figure out why: had I slept on it wrong? Was it the weather? It had hurt after walking too much on Monday, but not as much as I expected; a delayed reaction? It didn't matter, in the end; it wasn't going to take the pain away.

I thought of Izzy, as I tore my lips apart with my teeth to feel something that wasn't my damn leg. I thought of how real he felt, the tears and the screaming, the gritted teeth, the suicidal loss of identity. The loneliness. I thought of his stubbornness, his progress. How much both of those realities meant. How they thrashed it all, in one moment, and all but told us, the ones that feel like him, "when the desire to die comes back just do it. You've outlived what you were, so who you are has *had enough*", and my mouth tasted like blood for more than one reason.

He meant so much. He could have meant so much more. And we have to wipe the spit of this insult from our faces and carry on and accept it was part of a happy ending.

He might've forgiven it all; he was a character and you made him. I don't. I won't. I'm still here, with my pain and anger, and I refuse to die so the people who want me gone can live in peace. And I refuse to be quiet and accept that for a happy ending I should fade away.

If you can't understand this anger, at least don't insult me and others like me by telling us there's no reason for it.

I'm hazy with pain and aware that I'm rambling. But whatever I don't bleed in ink will poison me.

#me #personal #izzy hands #abuse tw #israel hands #israel basilica hands #negative #swearing #disability #actually disabled #chronic pain #blood mention #ofmd critical #ableism #our flag means death critical #suicidal ideation #suicide mention #tw suicide

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dyspunktional-revan · 5 months

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A narc abuse believer has reblogged from me so here's your Fucking reminder that no disorder is an abuser disorder. Your abuser(s) did/do not abuse you because they have an Abuser Disorder, they abuse(d) you because they believe(d) in their right to control you and had the means. And no, no disorder fucking creates that.

To abuse is a choice, and it's a carefully protected bolt in all the larger systems of oppression. To have a disability born out of being abused, that fucks You up, is not a fucking choice. And is certainly not a fucking protected bolt in the larger systems of oppression, rather the fucking opposite.

Yes, people with Any disorder Can choose to abuse. As well as people without that disorder! And people with that disorder are not fucking More Likely to abuse! And don't fucking armchair diagnose other people!

And the fucking case of parental abuse. You were not "raised by narcissists", you were raised by people whose literal societal role is to abuse you. Which Very Much does not absolve them. Parents are cops, and more. Read up on youth liberation and stop throwing *other survivors* into the fucking meat grinder.

And the fucking nerve to put anti-narc shit into the *npd* tags. You know well it's a Disorder, not an Abuser Personality Type that the abuser Chooses, and still demonize us.

#leviathan.txt #leviathan yells at folkel #leviathan argues #ableism #saneism #diagonal ableism #blame shifting #anti-npd ableism/saneism #npd #narcissistic personality disorder #abuse #swearing cw #disability posting #disabled community #mental illness #personality disorder #abuse survivor #cluster b

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uncanny-tranny · 6 months

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You know... it's okay to trust your body. If you are separated from your body to such an extent you feel you cannot trust it, I truly from the bottom of my heart empathize and feel grief for you, but you can trust your body.

It's okay to listen to your body and to heed what it is telling you. I wish you (and your body) well wherever you go. You deserve the peace of mind to feel able to do what you want.

#positivity #mental health #mental health support #gentle reminders #this is something i struggle with myself so that's why i said i empathize (well... i guess as much as you CAN empathize)#(because even if you have gone through the same thing... it's not going to look the same as somebody else going through that)#(and while it can be valuable to express empathy it doesn't mean you truly 'get it' from the other person's point of view)#i struggle sometimes not to feel like my body is fucking with me because sometimes i expect it to function at bare minimum #or i just assume that when it is in debilitating pain that it's just... somehow to fuck with me and i am cognizant that this isn't true #i am cognitively aware that the body isn't Specifically Designed to have a Fuck With You mode even if it feels like it #but my experiences with disabilities and general unwellness made it easy for me to alienate myself from my body #in order to preserve myself i felt the need to separate myself from every flaw (or 'flaw') i have #so when people are confused about why you could mistrust your /own body/ it's stuff like this that can somewhat illustrate it #i think we don't really talk about this but i think it's more common than i would assume #(mostly based on the There Are Eight Billion People principle)#hm making this also makes me realize that abuse absolutely plays into how i mistrust my body. hm.#mistrust in your body feels like self-protection and self-preservation in this weird and almost twisted way (at least in my experience)#but then you start mistrusting *everything* and nothing feels... GOOD or NORMAL anymore #i'm going to play mahjong about this 🫡👍

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alostlittleriverlotus · 3 months

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not in a good mood cause my friend's boyfriend is dealing with his abusive mom. And after a recent issue they had of her verbally abusing him, he found out about narcissistic abuse and ow. Ow. Thing is, he's autistic/adhd and has BPD and DID. I just. I fucking hate how easy it is. He repeated that "autistic and adhd people attract narcissists."

NO!!!!! Luckily he's very open minded and chill and is trying to understand when my friend tells him. But still. The fact that someone with equally demonized disorders and BPD which can be very commonly comorbid with NPD and then demonizes narcissists cause of how widely available that information is hurts. Just...no. Just no.

That is how easily accessible the information on "narcissists" is. He learned about it that easily when that ableism stems from the same place as the rest of hatred of mental health. There are people that believe you can't be in a relationship with someone with ADHD without it being emotionally abusive. People think meltdowns from autistic people are intentional emotional abuse. There are people that still believe that stuff.

It is so important for the rest of the mentally ill to not fall into this hole of demonizing narcissists. That ableism stems from the same place that ableism against autistic people and depression and anxiety and all stem from.

Narcissism doesn't make someone more likely to abuse. They do not have unique patterns of abuse. It is just abuse. It is emotional abuse, verbal abuse, mental abuse. Just because someone that may have NPD is abusive does not make it narcissistic abuse. And also: if your abuser, especially if you are genetically related to them, has NPD then that raises the chance YOU would have NPD. It doesn't guarantee it, but personality disorders are a mix of trauma and genetics.

Anyone with any disorder can be abusive. People without disorders can be abusive. The majority of abusive people most likely don't have a personality disorder. It's the same as assuming that "all serial killers are schizophrenic" which is something my brother said to me recently. It's the same as believing all criminals are "psychopaths" when that just isn't true.

Anyone with or without disorder or neurodivergency has the ability to abuse and hurt others. A lot of the time, abusers may be just neurotypical. Narcissists aren't more likely to abuse than anyone else. Their disorder does not make them abusive. Any disorder can affect their treatment of someone.

I have dealt with many people who used their depression as a way to abuse me. It does not make it depression or depressive abuse. The disorder is irrelevant, the abuse is not.

If you lump in narcissists with abusers, you are lumping in other people that have been abused and traumatized with their abusers. I have been compared to a rapist, to a child sex offender, to a serial killer for being a narcissist. I have seen people saying to kill every narcissist since it would be better for people. I have been told I am lying about my abuse and actually my abusive ex boyfriend didn't abuse me, *I* abused *HIM.*

Narcissistic abuse does not exist. It is not a different or unique pattern. It is not "different than NPD cause the word narcissist existed before NPD" (when it is heavily associated with NPD and many resources say it is about NPD.) It is not a special type of abuse done by people with NPD. It is bullshit. You don't need "narcissistic abuse" to be able to understand your own abuse. Narcissists are not everywhere and looking to harm you. It keeps you scared and traumatized. It is not healing, it is not helping.

I'm just so upset cause my friend's BF is such a cool dude and I have faith he will learn over time, but it was so triggering. I split so fucking bad. So yes. Here's my rant and the reminder that: Narcissistic abuse is bullshit and just demonizes people with NPD and the mentally ill and people they often claim are narcissists aren't and are just privileged and entitled and shitty people and often have to do with more systemic problems that are normalized and accepted by society rather than, you know, icky mentally ill person.

Oh and btw. If you're gonna fight at all on this, just block me. Either you can listen and learn or not. If you're in the "not" section, just leave. You'll just be blocked anyway. Because I'm not here to have it justified why it's okay to say narcissists are abusive when I am literally a narcissist and this shit has literally worsened me to the point of wanting to die. Fuck off. We are mentally ill people. Some people with NPD being abusive does not make us all abusive. You would never say the same for any other disorder so why say it for us? If you wouldn't say it about autism, depression, OCD, or any other literal mental illness then do NOT say it about us. There are people out there who DO still say that about those disorders. Who DO believe that a disorder makes you inherently abusive. Is that who you want to side with? Cause it's the same fucking logic. Narcissistic abuse is purely pop psychology and popularized by the mainstream rather than even being a real term. Yes, psychologists and other professionals can be wrong and can be ableist too.

I've said my piece. Narcissists and anyone else demonized whether your disorder is widely demonized or not, I love you. A lot of disorders have become more infantilized rather than demonized these days, but there are people out there that still see every mentally ill person as evil. No matter what kind of ableism you face for your disorder, you deserve love and care and support, not to be treated more like an object than a person. And no matter what, no matter how good or bad, You. Deserve. Help. You deserve to be able to have access to help without any bullshit.

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rebellum · 1 year

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I feel like... Perhaps... Arguing that transphobia is defined by murder and that anything other than murder doesn't even matter... May NOT be conducive to fighting for trans rights.

Like... people want the right to exist as they are. They want to have access to hrt and surgeries and prosthetics. People want access to clothes that fit them and reflect how they want to be seen. People want access to medical care (eg. Getting screened and treated for sex-based forms of cancer can be impossible if you have the "wrong" sex listed to receive those tests). People want to be respected and treated well. People want to not be sexually assaulted and beaten and abused. People want to have access to housing and jobs, and the protection to not lose those things for being trans. People want access to shelters for homeless people or survivors of domestic abuse. People want name changes.

Acting like all of those things don't matter because at least they weren't murderered by an individual (and instead die of suicide or state violence, or survive and suffer) isn't okay.

#'hey people are forcibly detransitioning you and raping and beating you and you lost your job and are going to be homeless and #probably die of infection from being stabbed for trying to go to the bathroom. but at least you arent part of a demographic that has a #higher murder victim rate! shhh just ignore that we dont actually have data on the murder rate of your group.'#do ppl like. forget state based violence exists. and that thats most violence minorities face.#idk man im just. mad about people on here acting like youre only oppressed if youre a perisex trans woman who was AMAB.#cause i exist at the intersection of multiple minorities and being told hey u experience violence but at least you wont be murdered by an #individual feels like a slap in the face.#like it doesnt matter if i have to mask my neurodivergent behaviour bc if people see they could assume im on drugs and call the police and #i could potentially be really hurt but not die but hey at least i wont die just be horrifically traumatized by police brutality!#there are millions of people with mental illnesses similar to my own around the world who are institutionalized and forcibly medicated or #living on the streets or dependant on horrifically abusive caregivers #but hey at least they arent being murdered!#like. the way the transphobia discussion on tumblr rn discusses (and doesnt discuss) race and ability and class and health makes me #feel very invisible.#like if people had to choose who to believe about my experiences between listening to me a black/mixed mentally ill maybe disabled (used to #be disabled) hella nd trans nonbinary person #or listen to a white middle class trans woman's take on my experiences that theyd choose her. its such a weird weird microcosm.#its like a monkeys paw like people are finally listening to trans fems and finally recognising the violence they experience and finally #actually caring about them but for some reason decide that in order to do that its necessary to throw every other minority under the bus #like fuck man have you seen how 'anti transandrophobia truthers' discuss race? its NOT okay #we all matter we all are so similar and are part of the same groups and same communities we need to stick together #stop using trans fems as a battering ram to hurt other minorities challenge #cause like. yes its some trans fems. but its mostly NOT?#like its non trans fems telling other non trans fems that they arent oppressed #and even when many trans fems are like what the fuck dude of course other trans ppl matter whats wrong with you #the group of like 80% non trans fems 20% trans fems are like 'hmm if you are defending other trans people you must not really be trans fem'#like. denying trans fems their identity bc they disagree with them?? dude someone doesnt stop being a trans fem cause they recognise #people other than trans fems matter and exist #its just all so WEIRD its a weird little tumblr microcosm #i wanna stress. for those of you who dont have access to other lgbtq+ communities. how much it seems to be primarily a tumblr thing. to

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cookinguptales · 5 months

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Do me a favor, okay? Next time you have a chance, close your eyes for a minute and take a deep breath and imagine someone loving you.

Imagine someone who gets excited just thinking about you. Imagine someone who loves the things you say and do and who genuinely enjoys spending time with you. Imagine someone who feels lucky every moment they get to be around you.

It can be a real person or someone you just made up. You can imagine them praising you or laughing with you or touching you or whatever love means to you. It can be romantic or otherwise. Take your pick.

And if you had a hard time doing it?

Do it again. And again. And again.

I read once that it’s important for us to visualize being loved. That your brain needs to be trained like a muscle, and like a muscle, it can become weak from disuse. Your brain can only do the things that you practice doing, and if you never, ever visualize someone loving you, it becomes difficult to even imagine someone loving you. You get stuck in a rut. And once it’s impossible to imagine someone loving you, it becomes impossible to believe you will ever be loved.

I think… sometimes it can become easy to stop believing that we’re worthy of love. And I think sometimes we have this fantasy of someone making us believe that we’re worthy of it again. Or that somehow we’ll just — earn it, one day. Being worthy of love and desire, respect and affection.

But I think the truth is that we can only start believing that we’re worthy of love if we’re capable of imagining it. And it becomes much, much easier to imagine it if you practice doing so.

It may feel awkward at first. Embarrassing. Silly. Maybe even painful. But think about it like this, maybe: your first day in a dance class, you’ll fall. You’ll look ridiculous. It’ll feel like your body will never be able to do this fluidly. But by the end of the class, you’ll be able to move in a whole new way. Maybe not perfectly, but… better, y’know?

Learn to waltz with your own mind, and try not to cringe too hard at your first awkward movements. Start small and work your way up if you have to. Someone liking you, then someone liking your conversations, then someone liking your presence, then someone purposefully seeking you out. Someone putting time aside for you. Someone thinking about you when you’re not there. Someone being with you because there’s nowhere they’d rather be.

It may feel self-indulgent, but… I mean, we all deserve to be indulged sometimes. And we all deserve to feel worthy of love.

So… indulge yourself. Take a moment and have a silly little fantasy. Get into the habit of imagining love, and imagining it for the you that exists right now, not the you that you wish you were.

Learn to speak the language of love as it applies to you, even if you think that it doesn’t, and one day you’ll realize how to use those syllables to say your own name.

It’ll come one day. In the meantime, let’s learn to dance together, okay?

#personally...#I mean I am disabled and I am not conventionally attractive #I have PTSD now from the kind of childhood abuse that makes you feel... broken I guess #so I have spent an awful lot of my life finding it difficult to imagine truly being loved #when there are so many 'easier' choices in this world it is hard to imagine someone picking me #so believe me when I say I know it's hard #but I also know that I closed myself off to love once I stopped being able to imagine people doing it #I lost the vocabulary for people loving me so when people did it I could no longer describe it #I didn't notice or worse - it stressed me out #but... I have started doing this visualization exercise and it does help #sometimes I have a spark of... well yes this person in this fantasy does deserve to be loved #and I am that person #so there's a spark of hope to it #hope can be good and hope can be bad but... I guess it's necessary too isn't it?#so let's do our best to make our brains stfu when they're being mean and instead focus on self-love

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trans-axolotl · 2 years

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doctors have a interest in “curing” intersex children. that is the main and oftentimes only purpose of intersex medical treatments, to “cure” a problem that doesn’t exist. I think this is best understood with the larger framework of the ideology of cure: the medical industrial complex is set up in a way where cure is defined as eradication and prioritized above all else, and things that disabled people might want or need (accessibility, freedom from pain, political power) are dismissed as insignificant unless they help promote cure. The ideology of cure is part of the reason why we are sold prenatal genetic testing for Down Syndrome and eugenic abortion, why we are sold skin lightening creams, why the diet industry exists, why homosexuality was in the DSM: the ideology of cure is a deeply, deeply ableist, racist, oppressive structure that is integral to the way the medical industrial complex operates. And the ideology of cure is why intersex medical abuse exists.

Most “treatments” that make up the standard of care are treating cosmetic issues rather than legitmate, life threatening issues like salt wasting crisis. And even the treatments that provide life saving care are often wrapped up with other interventions that provide no benefit and are focused on “normalization.” Look at any of the rhetoric that doctors use in their research studies and private letters: they blatently admit that most interventions have no necessary function besides normalization, and are very clear on their racist, ableist, homophobic, standards for “normal.” As an intersex person, when you go to the doctor to try to get the help you might want (having some type of stable hormone levels, addressing anemia, dealing with adrenal crisis), much of the time you are also coerced or blatently forced into other treatments such as hair removal and nonconsensual hormone therapy. The first concern of doctors is usually trying to make you as dyadic as possible, whether or not you’ve expressed interest in those treatments. The medical industrial complex does not want intersex people to exist, and as a result there is a whole industry and people who have built careers off of surgically and hormonally trying to force intersex people to be as close to dyadic as possible, nevermind the harm this causes to us.

Intersexism does not exist in isolation: much of the stated reasoning behind intersex medical intervention is to prevent children from growing up to be gay or trans. The only intersex adult considered acceptable is one who is able to have heterosexual sex, have biological children, and who is gender conforming. None of this is hidden: I have had all these things said to me by my doctors, and much medical literature is very blatent about their reasoning for things like sudden hormonal intervention and surgery. (Look up anything about dilators and intersex children to see how bad this gets--major content warning for child sexual abuse.) Much of intersex medical experimentation is tied to the incredibly violent, antiblack history of medical experimentation in gynecology. Things like the hirituism scale often use explicitly racist language to discuss body hair, and white supremacist beauty standards are embraced by doctors in the way that they suggest treatment. Intersex bodies are seen as a threat by doctors, in many ways because we challenge the status quo by existing naturally: to let us grow up healthy would be to admit that biological sex is a social construct, and would prevent them from trying to shape us into their ideal, white, heterosexual, cisgender, compliant as-close-to-dyadic-as-possible adult.

Intersex medical abuse is particularly violent and blatent, but it is not an anamoly in the way that the medical industrial complex works. All disabled people are fucked over by the ideology of cure, not just intersex people. And part of this violence is the way intersex people are encouraged not to identify as disabled. The medical industrial complex is happy to label us disordered, sure--but not disabled. That is very intentional: they want us to buy into the idea that we need to be cure-eradicated, but don’t want us to feel any type of community, solidarity, or political power. Disabled community is fucking powerful, and intersex people having access to this type of community is such a threat to intersexism. Having access to our own self-identification, advocacy, and autonomy, directly challeneges the ideology of cure that wants us to label ourselves as disordered in a way that only the medical industrial complex can “fix.”

Intersex people do not need to be cured. And in order for us to actually fight against the violent harms that we are facing, we need to understand why they are happening and who else these systems of power are harming. Intersex medical abuse needs to be understood not just as a one-off issue of doctors abusing power, but rather as a prominent example of the harms that the medical industrial complex causes by being oriented around cure.

Okay to reblog by anyone, and here’s some sources if you want to learn more:

Brilliant Imperfection: Grappling with Cure by Eli Clare

List of Academic Studies about intersex medical abuse

#personal #intersex #actuallyintersex #trans #disability #cripplepunk #disability studies #disability justice #ok to reblog #intersexism #intersex medical abuse tw #igm tw

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