Today my therapist introduced me to a concept surrounding disability that she called "hLep".
Which is when you - in this case, you are a disabled person - ask someone for help ("I can't drink almond milk so can you get me some whole milk?", or "Please call Donna and ask her to pick up the car for me."), and they say yes, and then they do something that is not what you asked for but is what they think you should have asked for ("I know you said you wanted whole, but I got you skim milk because it's better for you!", "I didn't want to ruin Donna's day by asking her that, so I spent your money on an expensive towing service!") And then if you get annoyed at them for ignoring what you actually asked for - and often it has already happened repeatedly - they get angry because they "were just helping you! You should be grateful!!"
And my therapist pointed out that this is not "help", it's "hLep".
Sure, it looks like help; it kind of sounds like help too; and if it was adjusted just a little bit, it could be help. But it's not help. It's hLep.
At its best, it is patronizing and makes a person feel unvalued and un-listened-to. Always, it reinforces the false idea that disabled people can't be trusted with our own care. And at its worst, it results in disabled people losing our freedom and control over our lives, and also being unable to actually access what we need to survive.
So please, when a disabled person asks you for help on something, don't be a hLeper, be a helper! In other words: they know better than you what they need, and the best way you can honor the trust they've put in you is to believe that!
Also, I want to be very clear that the "getting angry at a disabled person's attempts to point out harmful behavior" part of this makes the whole thing WAY worse. Like it'd be one thing if my roommate bought me some passive-aggressive skim milk, but then they heard what I had to say, and they apologized and did better in the future - our relationship could bounce back from that. But it is very much another thing to have a crying shouting match with someone who is furious at you for saying something they did was ableist. Like, Christ, Jessica, remind me to never ask for your support ever again! You make me feel like if I asked you to call 911, you'd order a pizza because you know I'll feel better once I eat something!!
Edit: crediting my therapist by name with her permission - this term was coined by Nahime Aguirre Mtanous!
Edit again: I made an optional follow-up to this post after seeing the responses. Might help somebody. CW for me frankly talking about how dangerous hLep really is.
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it's such a tragic irony that swifties, who rallied so hard for regulations on AI usage - because we all knew and experienced how dangerous it can be in the worst possible way, still continue to use AI to generate songs and alarm sounds and album/song covers using taylor's voice like it doesn't violate her artistry at all. and then defend it by saying this is different because they're doing it with positive intentions. there's literally nothing productive about using AI to generate any kind of content, especially not when that content is a blatant (and disgustingly shallow) impersonation of someone swifties claim to love and respect so much
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I have this headcanon that the only reason why Yoda gave Anakin so much shit about his attachments was because he couldn't get through to any of the masters and needed someone to bitch around.
Obi-Wan going starry-eyed whenever Cody is mentioned. Plo tearfully talking about how his men called him 'dad' in the middle of battle. Aayla scrolling through honeymoon options on the holonet. Mace trying to argue why the clones need better armor and also holidays. Shaak Ti showing around the newest pictures the cadets drew for her.
Yoda: Forbidden, attachments are-
Obi-Wan: Attachments?
Plo: Surely, you must be joking.
Aayla: What even are attachments, anyway.
Mace: Master Yoda, to even imply such a thing ... honestly, I thought you were better than this.
Shaak Ti: Master, I am truly wounded by your distrust.
Yoda: ...
Yoda, shaking: Go bully the bitch boy, I must.
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Alfred: *uses emotional blackmail and guilt tripping against the Batfam*
*ITS SUPER EFFECTIVE*
That's exactly it! LMAO
What can he say? Guilt, and just becoming aware of how much you've missed of someone's life — someone who lived in the same house as you for years, and is supposed to be family no less — is an incredibly good motivator.
Just a few spare tapes being played at just the right moment, and couple of flyers being handed to them — well, he hardly had to do much at all. They did the rest of the work themselves, though to say that wasn't the point all along would be a lie.
All he had to do was plant the seeds, and give them a bit of water, before just sitting back and watching them grow. :]
He's just an old man, and someone very dedicated to his job. He can't just look for the reader by himself... not as efficiently or quickly as the rest of the Batfam can, anyway. So he might as well pull a few harmless tricks to at least get them searching.
After all, it's the least they could do, no?
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(i love you, i love you (kill me in the morning) ; bonus part)
kenjaku rests on a tatami mat, admiring the ephemeral glow of the starry sky.
it’s a sight to behold, truly: the infinity within it, blooming endlessly across the milky way, before his very eyes. that swirling of indigo and pure white. endless possibilities, just out of reach — so close he can almost reach out and touch them, feel them glide across the skin of his fingertips.
slowly and sweetly, savouring the cold air, he ponders. legs crossed, hair swaying gently in the summer breeze; about this, and about that. about a plan that’s been resting in the back of his mind for thousands of years.
he wonders if there is any way you could be of use to him.
without too much contemplation needed, he decides that there isn’t. that nothing about you could benefit his goal, that there’s nothing your presence could possibly accomplish. that you have no place, in the world he resides in, no place in the narrative of the story he is crafting. no place in the clash between curses and sorcerers and everything in between.
(and kenjaku understands, without needing to peek into his host’s memories, that perhaps that is exactly why suguru geto loved you.)
he goes to visit you, anyway. just for the fun of it, just to satisfy the ingrained urge his body has to do so. and it’s fascinating, it truly is — the fondness that sprouts in the confines of his chest when his eyes meet yours. a childhood muscle memory, one this body could never fully rid itself of.
it is nothing short of horrified, the expression on your face; you look like you could pass out any second, and kenjaku finds it just a little bit amusing.
but he bites back a laugh, and his lips curl up into a smile. not the smile of a people-pleaser, nor the smile of a liar, but the smile of something rather monstrous.
kenjaku does not think you will figure him out. he does not think it possible. how could you possibly? with such miniscule cursed energy, without any concept of the soul?
and yet you do.
you tell him that he isn’t suguru geto, and you’re absolutely right. and now, kenjaku is maybe just the slightest bit intrigued.
(how strange. how amusing.
is there really no limit to what love can accomplish?)
eyes shining with barely contained, gleeful curiosity, he takes a step forward, and you call out for a dead man. a ghost. kenjaku does not expect anything to happen, because how could it?
— a hand comes up to squeeze at his throat.
it is a firm grip, with strangulation as its intended purpose. a lethal kind of ferocity. almost desperate, primal, like a mother wolf protecting her cub; the pads of his lithe fingers press into the sides of his own esophagus, and prevent any air from entering his lungs. those chipped nails dig into his pale skin, vicious and ruthless, hard enough to draw blood.
it is violent, it is gritty, it is devoted. an instinct of the body, as natural as the beating of a heart.
kenjaku can’t help it — he chokes on a laugh, as suguru’s hand curls around his throat. within the vice grip lies an old promise, molded into the very fabric of his being. a promise that transcends death.
he’ll protect you forever.
kenjaku smiles, all teeth. drool dribbling down his chin, neck bruised and bloodied. pondering; about this, and about that. about two children by a dusty summer creek.
(no matter what, huh?
— such a fool.)
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I feel like The Father and Hell both understand and experience love in all the worst ways.
The Father sought to create a life form that would follow and love him unconditionally. It wasn't enough that he had a great cosmic kingdom of angels who are unquestioningly loyal, no, he needed something that knew suffering and mortality and the threat of oblivion, and would still find love at the end; love for him above all else. But after numerous implied failures at that, in his desperation, he instead created the threat of eternal damnation to force them to love him in order avert that fate. Lucifer's words must have been like a splash of cold water, but by the time he realized sheer magnitude of suffering he had unintentionally set into motion, it was too late.
He could not destroy Hell; he could not stop the cycle of violence.
That guilt drove him to seek a death that, from the looks of it, eluded him in spite of the hollowness consuming him. And now he is... somewhere, helpless to stop his experiments from consuming one another and themselves in a glorious show of blood and violence.
And then there's Hell itself, who seems to recognize love as an act of violence and cruelty. It is something that derives joy only from the suffering of other living creatures. God gave it so many toys to hurt and break and reform, and Mankind gave it new ones. Why would it understand love as anything but? It gave Minos a facsimile of the son he is most ashamed of, and delighted when he cast it, once more, into a labyrinth. Gabriel flattened all the souls within it's confines beneath his heel and gave those that did bend false hopes.
Now there's V1, tearing its way through the remaining layers and creating a spectacle of violence like nothing Hell has ever witnessed before. How could it not love them all for all the entertainment they've provided?
But deep within its recesses, hidden away from the eyes of Heaven, there was a Gutterman. A machine built for war, who eventually came to love that which it gave it life at the cost of their own. Enough to give the human welded within their coffin the mercy that both Heaven and Hell had denied them; enough to write a single love letter to them, even knowing that it would never be read by its intended recipient.
So, as things turn out, you /can/ teach a machine to love. And they will understand and experience it more sincerely than God or Hell ever could.
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