I Feel Like For A Lot Of People, Childhood Is Just Doing Something That Feels Natural, The People Around

i feel like for a lot of people, childhood is just… doing something that feels natural, the people around you getting extremely angry, not being able to defend yourself without more anger directed your way, and then being expected to forget about it and never mention it again 10 minutes later. And put like that… it’s easily understand as something an abuse victim would go through, but it’s just a general childhood experience. Or is it? Is it just me? I think it’s worse for neurodivergent kids but not exclusive. And I think most people forget how this felt as they age, and ultimately continue the cycle with their kids or others kids, but I just… never forgot. Yes I’m only 19 but I don’t think I should remember this well. How it felt. The confusion and sadness

one of my least favorite neurotypical customs is how long it takes to leave somewhere. My mom will be like “alright it’s time to leave” but we stay like 10 more minutes because people can’t stop talking. We get two feet before stopping again. We stand in the doorway for 5 minutes. It’s annoying and stressful and puts my brain in constant waiting mood.

Just a reminder that it’s okay to be offended. Being ‘offended’ does not make your argument invalid. You are allowed to be upset at their bigotry, hate, and lies. It’s okay to have and express these emotions, and you are not being irrational, crazy, oversensitive, or stupid.

Reblog to put one of these in your mutuals’ pocket when they’re not looking

Pulse, and the Beautiful, Sad, Joyful Tradition of Queer Grief

"Behind the lights and the seedy bars and the glitter and the protests, there’s a unifying pain that connects us loosely in the good times, and tightly in the bad."

I went to Stonewall. Today, a year after Pulse, I realize that I did so without thinking. I had only been living in New York for a month at that point, but I had been living as an out queer person for five years. In those years, I had learned how to coalesce around tragedy. I had attended enough vigils and lit enough candles to know how to grieve.

I wasn’t alone in my instinct. When I arrived at Stonewall, there was already a crowd. It’s easy to forget, one year out, how difficult it was to be anywhere near a gay bar that day. But people went anyway, and they brought flowers, protest signs, megaphones, and glitter—essentially, our base ingredients. …

It seemed that grief had activated in us a dormant gravity. It pulled us to our nearest gay bar, or community center. It inspired a flurry of texts and calls and objectives—How do we help? What now? It brought us together so efficiently that I wondered if perhaps loss was our original creator, if queer culture itself had been shaped by grief….If, at the center of all this, behind the lights and the seedy bars and the glitter and the protests, there’s a unifying pain that connects us loosely in the good times, and tightly in the bad.

My answer, after much thinking and living and listening, is that we are not the pain. The pain is what was given to us. The grief is what is ours. Grief is the reaction, the medicine. It is the process through which we express our agency over loss, and it’s that grief that defines us.

Grief is not always a candlelit vigil, or a protest march, though it can be. Grief can be neon, can be a ball, can be camp, can be a read, or can be a parade. It can be as joyful as it is sad. Grief is the thing that comes after the hurt. It is an agent of healing. It is the reckoning, in all its phases both painful and triumphant, with the hurt you’ve been given.

When I think of queer culture that way, when I think of us as a people who gleefully mock the institutions that oppress and marginalize us, as a people whose bold existence inspires others to live without constraints, it informs me that we are not a community of mourners. We are a community of healers.

In short, pain provides the fabric. Queerness makes a gown of it.

what if they started printing ads in books