they do not see color.
you are invisible. Nayyirah Waheed
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All of this is so important
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, PTSD, is mostly associated with soldiers returning from war. After the horrors witnessed in such an unnatural setting, many wo/men have a difficult time returning to “normal” life, often suffering from flashbacks, panic attacks, and severe anxiety.
Contrary to popular misconceptions, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) and Acute Stress Disorder (or Reaction) are not typical responses to prolonged abuse. They are the outcomes of sudden exposure to severe or extreme stressors (stressful events). Yet, some victims whose life or body have been directly and unequivocally threatened by an abuser react by developing these syndromes. PTSD is, therefore, typically associated with the aftermath of physical and sexual abuse in both children and adults. (Source)
Any traumatic event can trigger it. Rape, assault, acts of physical or verbal violence, even repeated emotional abuse or the sudden split of a significant relationship, especially if abuse was involved.
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I am five feet and two inches and I’ve been shoved to the side so many times that if you are going to look for me, always scan the edges of a crowd for a small girl with wide eyes and bruises on her knees. I like Fluttershy because she’s like me, she likes animals more than people and when things get too loud, she shuts down. I like her because I’m scared of most things even though I know I shouldn’t be.
I am filled to the brim of moments where My Little Pony started turning into ashes where once had been a harmless little girl’s show. Boys with Rainbow Dash on their hoodies have sexually harassed my underage sister. They have touched my hair and made comments to my brother about whether or not he and I were fucking. They have made me scared for the little girls in my second grade class who are old enough to search for pictures of their favorite show. A boy with a pony bag threatened to rape me because I said I was a feminist. I wasn’t even talking to him at the moment.
I have grown to fear the title “brony.” I use to love the idea that a show could teach everyone who watched it friendship and compassion. I loved the idea of an all-inclusive community.
My favorite video game is anything I can shoot things in. I have been playing since before the PS was a thing. Yet with more geek cred than my boyfriend, I have been stripped down by worse words than I care to repeat. I have been asked to do anything from make a sandwich to suck a dick to kill myself. The whole nerd culture rails against the idea that I can dress in flower print and still have played both Portal games more times than I can count. I’m not supposed to be a girl and be in their space. This is for boys, get away.
This is my petition for every girl who has been spat on for liking comics. This is my petition for every person who loved something hard and watched a group of angry men ruin it. This is for every man who flinches because they’ve taken his fandom from him and made it disgusting.
Step on them by giving them the exact shit they’ve been shoving down your throat since you were fifteen and admitted that you liked Bioshock. Ask them if they only like My Little Pony because their girlfriend does. Ask them if they know every word to every episode. Sneer at them when they dress up, ask them to get back behind the grill, catcall them. Let them know you’re done letting them walk all over what you love. Take it back. Take back everything they wrenched from your fingers. Make the spaces they poisoned become unsafe for them. Stop rolling your eyes and letting it happen. Stand up. Destroy them.
I am sick of privileged babies making every community cater to them. I am sick of their pickup lines and reddit threads and antifeminism. I’m sick of their memes and fedoras and resistance to women. I am sick of them.
Take it back. This is my petition. I’m calling it reappropriation.
|—||I’M SWEET AND SHY BUT TAKE SOMETHING FROM A LITTLE GIRL AND I’LL TAKE OUT YOUR HEART./// r.i.d (via fandomsandfeminism)|
somewhere out there is a universe
where looking into a mirror shows the face
of your true love.
Every day you would look into their eyes
and know you were born to make this person happy,
this person whose appearance doesn’t matter
in the slightest
because even on their worst days
they’re still filled with light.
You would watch them grow up
and get bad haircuts and
cry at odd hours and smudge their makeup
and the whole time you would think:
Good god, but are you
Here’s the thing:
you already live
in that universe.
You have already seen the person you should love
above all else
because every time you look in the mirror,
you see yourself.”
if I hear one more dead-eyed hipster
tell me that art is dead, I will personally summon Shakespeare
from the grave so he can tell them every reason
why he wishes he were born in a time where
he could have a damn Gmail account.
The day after I taught my mother
how to send pictures over Iphone she texted
me a blurry image of our cocker spaniel ten times in a row.
Don’t you dare try to tell me that that is not beautiful.
But whatever, go ahead and choose to stay in
your backwards-hoping-all-inclusive club
while the rest of us fall in love over Skype.
Send angry letters to state representatives,
as we record the years first sunrise so
we can remember what beginning feels like when
we are inches away from the trigger.
Lock yourself away in your Antoinette castle
while eat cake and tweet to the whole universe that we did.
Hashtag you’re a pretentious ass hole.
Van Gogh would have taken 20 selflies a day.
Sylvia Plath would have texted her lovers
nothing but heart eyed emojis when she ran out of words.
Andy Warhol would have had the worlds weirdest Vine account,
and we all would have checked it every morning while we
Snap Chat our coffee orders to the people
we wish were pressed against our lips instead of lattes.
This life is spilling over with 85 year olds
rewatching JFK’s assassination and
7 year olds teaching themselves guitar over Youtube videos.
Never again do I have to be afraid of forgetting
what my fathers voice sounds like.
No longer must we sneak into our families phonebook
to look up an eating disorder hotline for our best friend.
No more must I wonder what people in Australia sound like
or how grasshoppers procreate.
I will gleefully continue to take pictures of tulips
in public parks on my cellphone
and you will continue to scoff and that is okay.
But I hope, I pray, that one day you will realize how blessed
you are to be alive in a moment where you can google search
how to say I love you in 164 different languages.”