#i will readily admit that most of the people in the ‘Unsure’ category i just haven’t had the motivation to look into their careers much

[emsleyanbluejay]

Nonhuman AU Masterlist (WIP)

Nonhumans:

Adam Page — horse satyr

Bear Boulder — bear

Bear Bronson — bear

Brandi Rhodes — quarter fire elemental

Brandon Cutler — chameleon

Brodie Jr — Faerie

Brodie Lee — Faerie

Bryce Remsburg — pixie

Bunny — rabbit

Christian Cage — vampire

Darby Allin — half-ghoul

Fuego del Sol — fire elemental

Hikaru Shida — five-tailed kitsune

Jade Cargill — alien

JD Drake — chameleon

Jon Moxley — werewolf

Julia Hart — demon

Jungle Boy — squirrel monkey

Kenny Omega — dhampir

Kris Statlander — alien

Lance Archer — ghoul

Leva Bates — half-elf

Luchasaurus — dinosaur

Luther — banshee

Malakai Black — shadow elemental

Marko Stunt — chameleon

Max Caster — siren

MJF — [REDACTED]

Orange Cassidy — gorgon

Paul Wight — goliath

Penelope Ford — selkie

Penta el Zero M — storm elemental

Rey Fenix — storm elemental

Ricky Starks — merman

Ryzin — imp

Serpentico/Jon Cruz — naga shifter

Shawn Spears — hound

Sonny Kiss — elf

Sting — demon

Sue — harpy shifter

Tay Conti — lesser fae

Trent? — harpy shifter

Wheeler Yuta — half-selkie

Nonhumans: (Don’t Know Species)

Angélico (hybrid)

Aubrey Edwards

Cash Wheeler

Dante Martin

Darius Martin

Excalibur

Jack Evans (hybrid)

Jamie Hayter

Kilynn King

Michael Nakazawa

Miro

Red Velvet

Rebel

Ruby Soho

Thunder Rosa

Vary Morales

Humans:

Aaron Solow

Abadon

Adam Cole

Alan Angels

Alex Abrahantes

Alex Marvez

Alex Reynolds

Andrade el Idolo

Anna Jay

Anthony Bowens

Anthony Ogogo

Arn Anderson

Austin Gunn

Big Swole

Billy Gunn

Blade

Brian Cage

Brian Pillman Jr

Britt Baker

Bryan Danielson

Butcher

Cezar Bononi

Chris Jericho

Christopher Daniels

Chuck Taylor

CM Punk

Cody Rhodes

Colt Cabana

Colten Gunn

Dasha Gonzales

Dax Harwood

Diamante

Dustin Rhodes

Eddie Kingston

Emi Sakura

Ethan Page

Evil Uno

Frankie Kazarian

Griff Garrison

Hook

Isiah Kassidy

Ivelisse

Jake Hager

Jake Roberts

Jerry Lynn

Jim Ross

Joey Janela

John Silver

Justin Roberts

Kip Sabian

Lee Johnson

Leyla Hirsch

Maki Itoh

Mark Henry

Marq Quen

Matt Hardy

Matt Jackson

Matt Sydal

Mike Posey

Mike Sydal

Nick Comoroto

Nick Jackson

Nyla Rose

Ortiz

PAC

Paul Turner

Peter Avalon

Powerhouse Hobbs

Pres10 Vance

QT Marshall

Rick Knox

Riho

Ryan Nemeth

Sammy Guevara

Santana

Scorpio Sky

Serena Deeb

Shawn Dean

Stu Grayson

Taz

Tony Kahn

Tony Schiavone

Tully Blanchard

Vickie Guerrero

Wardlow

Yuka Sakazaki

#Blue Jay Chirps #there. that should cover it. #i will readily admit that most of the people in the ‘Unsure’ category i just haven’t had the motivation to look into their careers much #not that there’s a lack of information #this is subject to change #i’ll update it as i make more decisions #if this shows up in the main tags for these wrestlers: i am so sorry please don’t mind me i’m on my bullshit again #i’m not tagging everyone and you can’t make me #Nonhuman AU #Blue Talks Wrestling

[insomniac-dot-ink]

Is it wrong to lie to children?

A personal essay on reconciling with a shitty childhood and the question: is it wrong to lie to children?

It’s perplexing to have a shitty “unorthodox” childhood because initially I tried to throw out everything about It. Toss out the plumping and the rafters and the roofing, dispense of every single part of my upbringing I could get my hands on and not look back. Naturally, this approach didn’t work. It wasn’t even a real possibility. You’re still haunted by it, a ghost in the bones of a house, a foundation that remains long after the builders have left. That’s part of recovery too, to look at that ghost, to look at those bones, and keep saying: I see you, I see. I let you in. You sit with it and accept, accept, accept.

The really terrible part of this, the part where I don’t throw away the baby with the bathwater, is that you then have to raise the thing, deal with it. You have to do the hard work of parsing through the endless bits of self and placing them in “keep” piles and “discard” piles. I want to keep my mother’s kindness. I want to keep my father’s sense of humor. I want to discard the isolation. I want to discard the delusions.

But then there are these weird . . . “I don’t know” things. The things I am unsure if they helped me or hurt me. As I’ve gotten older I’ve gotten more and more of those “I don’t know” categories piling up. I’ve worked my way through most of the more obvious ones and now it’s all grey and mushy and as cloudy as a London winter. Recently, more than anything, I’ve been grappling with the fact my mother believed it was wrong to lie to children. She believed, in her flower-child way, that it was unethical in all forms.

I never believed in Santa Claus. I’m sorry to say I was a pretty obnoxious kid too because I would preach on the playground about how there was no Santa and there had never been any Santa. Which was a bit harsh, but in my defense I was under the impression these people were suffering from some sort of collective mass delusion. They were being lied to. And lying was wrong.

Is it wrong to lie to children?

I’ve known about sex since I was around 5 years old. I don’t remember why I asked, but it was something about where babies come from and so on. Most parents talk about a stork or love or some other abstract side-step. My mother described the anatomy to me and showed me a scientific diagram of the process. She told me that a sperm meets an egg and fertilizes it so the baby can grow. I learned most of this in scientific terms and was surprised when none of my middle school friends knew how a penis worked.

Is it wrong to lie to children?

When I was 9 or so our cat was eaten by a coyote. I asked my mom where he went and she said that he accidently got out the night before. She said they looked for him all morning, but it was too late. She didn’t use the word “gone” or “passed on” or “he’s in a better place now.”

She said he was dead. I said oh. She asked if I wanted to see him. I said yes. For the record, I am not actually sure if 9 year-olds should see corpses. That is neither here nor there. It was something that stuck with me though, the body of my cat with his tummy ripped out. I had never seen intestines before. His eyes were open.

But there was something cathartic about digging the grave. About helping pick up his little stiff body by the feet and placing him inside. There was something about piling on the red dirt as the sun set and letting the tears fall.

People on sitcoms hate talking about death. It’s understandable, it’s not funny, it makes for good dramatic irony when the kid asks “Where’s Socks?” and the parents go “Uuuuuh. He ran away.” I’ve never felt more alienated at those points. My cat died. He was eaten. I saw his body, and I buried it. Sometimes I think I wouldn’t want to be told he ran away-- that he had a choice in whether or not he left me.

Is it wrong to lie to children?

For a long time I thought the entirety of my childhood was wrong and bad, because I was miserable and broken at the end of it. I will assure you, my parents fucked up time and time again. But sometimes I have to stop and keep asking: Was this the wrong part? Was this the part where they fucked up? Was any part of this valuable? It’s a hard process to comb through an entire life and decide which bits are worth keeping, and if there are any silver linings.

So here is one: I am an honest person. I am a crooked person too, unsure of where to place my feet in social situations, picking my way through others normalcy. I do not readily share information, I am not forthcoming, and it’s a slow burn for me to open up about anything.

However, I notice time and time again that strangers will share personal things with me. I don’t mean for it to happen, but there’s just this pattern in my life. I once went on a car ride with a girl I barely know from my debate team. She described how she wanted to lose her virginity, she wanted it, but was scared God would be angry. That she’d be dirty afterwards. I told her that that was impossible, sex was just an act, it had no eyes, it had no priestly robes, or bearing on her soul. She cried. She said she hadn’t told me anyone this before.

I had a friend in high school who was struggling with an eating disorder, people had tried to get her to talk about it before, but I was the first person she admitted it to. In the hallway, sitting, just discussing nothing, and out it comes: I’m scared to eat sometimes. I was on a city bus and an old woman struck up a conversation with me. Over an hour or so, and she ended up telling me her fears for her own daughter going away to college. Her fear of growing old and passing on. Her problems with sleeping as she lay awake and dreaded it.

People have told me about their problems with substance abuse, their struggles with sexuality, and childhood trauma. People spill to me and I sit there thinking: Why? Sometimes I think it’s my gender or just how people are, but it always feels like I’m missing some part of the picture. Why do people open up to me, unprompted, all at once? Why me?

Is it wrong to lie to children?

Recently, I was reading a memoir set in 2001 where two young kids ask the narrator, their mother, about 9/11. They asked what happened to the people on television who were jumping off the building. Where did they go? The mother says this: They were caught. There are people-catchers that flew and saved them. Everyone is okay.

This story was meant to be heartfelt and lyrical, relatable. It ended like this: It is the job of mothers to offer gentle lies.

I had to stop reading because I was suddenly lost in a white-hot rage, unexpected, knee-jerk. How could she do that? I found myself frothing. They trusted her with answers and she lied. How could she? I knew it was irrational. It was silly even. This was a sweet story. It was meant to be heart-warming and framed in a way that suggested this is what all mothers do. This was what they needed to do. 

I felt my own mother, pumping through my veins, furious that these elementary school students were being betrayed. I stopped myself of course, I knew it wasn’t reasonable. I wasn’t raised “correctly.” I had no legs to stand on.

But still, is it alright to lie to children?

I am once again faced with that unending dilemma: how to throw-out those parts of myself that don’t work and keep the ones that do. It’s difficult to say, because in some ways I agree with my mom. How can I not? But death is cruel. Sex is weird. Santa Claus is a beautiful lie.

And what’s wrong with lying? I still don’t know. What’s wrong with letting them never hurt? Never knowing the pain or gross parts of the world? What’s the harm in letting them make-believe?

But sometimes I think about all those people who have cried to me. All these unprompted confessions come with an unspoken plea: I hurt. I am afraid. I am so scared. It’s all so heavy, these painful truths.

And some part of me stands there, the part my mother raised and says: there is nothing in this life that is too shameful. There is nothing in this world that is unnatural. There is nothing in this life to lie about, even to children.

Is death too painful? Is sex too gross? Would you tell an adult that a man lives in the North Pole and watches them?

I asked my mom, years later, when I was less furious and able to talk with her again without screaming, about why she believed all this. She had told me about it since I was very young, but I never asked why. She shrugged. She said: children are people, aren’t they?

I still don’t know what to do with this.

Children are people, but they are not adults. They shouldn’t be exposed to “adult” things, right? But is that line so concrete? Is the word “adult” just a mask for the greater word, the one we really mean? We all agree: honesty is good. Lying hurts. But it’s alright to lie to kids, because in many ways they aren’t people yet, they aren’t people yet, they don’t count.

I am admittedly an argumentative person. I was on the debate team, mock trial, United Nations, I studied political science in college and fought with every single one of my professors I thought was wrong. And I stood in that playground, age 6, and told every single one of my classmates Santa wasn’t real and I wouldn’t stop. The truth was important. And my mother, no matter what, thought I disserved it.

I often felt tiny and powerless as a kid. Terrified and holding myself together by shoestrings. I often felt there would be nothing better in the world than to be grown up. Not for the money or the dating or the job, I just wanted to feel like the hurricane would end. That one day I could stand on solid ground again. My friend often says: I wish I could be a kid again, ya know? No responsibilities. Just bliss. I want to be a kid again.

I can’t relate. I never have. I’ve been busy weeding through the pipes and lighting and the carpentry of my upbringing and asking myself: is any of this worth keeping? Is any part of me built correctly? There are no right answers.

But still, I am haunted. I sit and ask myself in circles: is it alright to lie to children?

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#personal essay #nonfiction #creative nonfiction #writers on tumblr #story time