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So, hi!

10 Nov

I’m probably not going to write at this blog ever again.

[given my track record with official ultimatums, watch me start blogging here again in a week {that was a joke, it isn’t happening, I made this decision a long time ago}]

It just doesn’t feel right anymore, but I’d like to give my readers official notice because y’all are pretty fantastic.

I guess I’ll reintroduce myself? I’m Gray (formerly niema), a 23 year old nonbinary person with various and sundry somewhat nerdy interests.

I have a twitter: avocadosaurus

A tumblr: foxylittlemushroom

A dreamwidth: bowloffoxtrot

And a facebook and a google+, but those have my last name on them so I have to know you before giving those out.

Lots of love,



Meta: Messing with Appearance

19 Jul

I’ve changed to a different pre-built site theme, and am about to start playing with the CSS, so the appearance of the site may be wonky for a time.

Sorry for any inconvenience. Feel free to e-mail me at niemaodpowiedzi [at] gmail [dot] com with any requests for additions to the webpage, or if you notice a bug in the display(the only browsers currently at my disposal are Chrome 5 and Internet Explorer 6).

EDIT: It will probably take me a couple of days or weeks to get things where I want them, but I will try to keep the site operational throughout.

On Therapy

18 Jul

When I was thirteen, my parents took me to a therapist against my will.

They had just separated and were preparing for the divorce to be legalized, and were worried about my reactions to all that, because I was angry and snarky and bitter and didn’t like being around people, and I had made the mistake of telling them this.

The therapist, S., was most concerned by the fact that I didn’t hang out with my classmates from school or have any of their phone numbers. Ou did not see my desire to be alone as valid, and demanded that I become less averse to social interaction in the course of my treatment with ou.

This is how I learned to fake it.

My mother had recently decided that what the two of us needed was a “church family.” So, in order to please S.’s and my parents’ expectations/desires for me to be other than myself, the youth group at the church my mom chose became my ruse – my pretend friendships. I spent every Sunday afternoon at the church with the other teens, trying to look healthy enough to get out of the therapy that made me miserable.

Finally, I made it. A year and a few months later, S. and my parents agreed that I was “cured” of my social aversions. A successful intervention in my alienation from the rest of society, or so it was deemed.

Fast-forward almost ten years. Present day, present time.

I don’t trust people. I am incapable of feeling safe around them. I live in my room, avoiding leaving it for almost any reason. I try to ignore my need for food or the toilet or bathing facilities because these things are kept outside my protective barrier of wood and sheetrock.

I don’t trust, or like, or want to be near people. I have anxiety attacks when I do need to be around others.

My mother, in her latest round of “cure niemaodpowiedzi,” believes I will be less depressed if I stop isolating myself. If I do things like go to libraries and spend time around the people in them. If I go to therapy, because “you remember how much S. helped you with this before, right?”

And it’s not that I don’t think a therapist wouldn’t help the agoraphobia. It’s not even about my fears that a therapist won’t be able to tell the difference between my social phobia and introversion. It really isn’t about that at all. I think, actually, therapy scares the pants off me because I don’t know how to find “a good one” without getting hurt more in the process.

Cross-posted to Tumblr.


8 Jun

This post will meander. It probably won’t make a hell of a lot of sense. A specific set of words has been censored out because I can’t feel safe knowing people know how deeply I feel those words. If I don’t censor them out, this post will wind up in the WordPress trash bin, just like the dozens of other posts like it I’ve tried to write in the past.

Comments will be closed. I don’t think I can handle them.

Trigger warning.

I have [redacted]. I am a clinically depressed woman who doesn’t always take her antidepressants or go to the doctor when scheduled or do what she’s supposed to, and I have [redacted]. [Redacted] is one of those things where, if you have it, (according to the local prescriptivists) you need to see a doctor and stay on antidepressants and take care of yourself so that [redacted] doesn’t become [even more redacted]. I’ve heard arguments about [redacted], saying that people with depression coinciding with [redacted] don’t have any rights to their autonomy any longer, that they have, just by having [redacted] have turned in their bodies as forfeit to whomever is deemed as having medical authority over themselves. We are no longer autonomous, because people just don’t trust those with [redacted] to not [even more redacted].

I read a story recently, about a guy talking to his friends about [redacted]. Said friends reported guy to the police (Not linking, because it feels too close to admitting [redacted]).

This shit hurts, y’all. It hurts me, that people don’t trust me once I admit [redacted] to not [even more redacted] or [yet another redaction]. And why is [redacted] something I have to admit? Why won’t my brain let me call [redacted] by its name, on my own goddamn pseudonymous blog? Why can’t I trust that I will be safe, that someone won’t have the police trace my IP because they’re worried about the possibility of [even more redacted]? Why isn’t my autonomy guaranteed, even in what is supposedly a safe space that I control the content on?

I remember a blog post, over a year ago now, which was my first real encounter with ableism in internet feminism. The OP posited that a person in ou’s life deserved to have zir autonomy demolished, because of [redacted] and [redaction the fourth]. I remember reading that post, and the several hundred comments long comment thread (nearly all of which commended the original poster), repeatedly over several weeks, sobbing each time.

Why aren’t I real? Why in the flying fuck don’t I matter? Why is [redacted] your license to control my body with medical treatment, interference in my daily life with law enforcement? Why can’t you act on what I want? Why don’t you trust me to deal with [redacted] in the way I choose (and yes, doing nothing is a legitimate choice.)? Why don’t you trust me? Why?

Quick Hit: Birthday

21 Oct

Today’s my birthday. I’m now 21. I don’t have much more than that to say on the subject, really.

Feel free to treat this as an open thread.

Image of awesome cakey goodness, iced to look like Van Gogh’s Starry Night via Frau Sally Benz.

On Birthers, Socialism, Bob Dylan, and the American Way

29 Sep

Bob Dylan’s song “Talkin’ John Birch Paranoid Blues” (lyrics here) gets, I think, into the motivations of those referred to as “birthers.” Those who are going to great lengths to disclaim President Obama’s citizenship, those who want their country back (warning! Link goes to Daily Kos! (it’s still a good article, but I know of many in the ‘sphere who object to their practices)). That all-consuming fear of the ZOMG!Red Menace lurking around every damn corner, leading to carrying guns at town-hall meetings, bears a certain resemblance to becoming so wrapped up in the character in Bob Dylan’s song’s conviction of the socialism of Betsy Ross, the woman who, in popular USian folklore, sewed the first American flag (red stripes and all).

And this shit needs to stop. Calling the president a socialist doesn’t make you insightful, or politically aware, or whatever. It just makes you look like a willfully ignorant fool that doesn’t understand your ass from your elbow. The Declaration of Independence (henceforth referred to as the D0I) signed on July 4, 1776, by representatives from each of the thirteen colonies, an important document in the history of democracy, cites the unalienable right of life to all humans (men in the parlance of the time). While the DoI is not legally binding, it is a part of our philosophical legacy that I believe President Obama is attempting to enforce with his bid for “socialized medicine.” Universal healthcare is not the Red fucking Menace, nor is it the end of the world. From January 1 to September 1 of this year, I was one of the millions of people in the United States without health insurance. I had the  fortune to not need healthcare during that time, and thereby avoided accruing huge debts, but many don’t. Many go through chronic pain, or go to extreme lengths to avoid medical debt (for the love of FSM, click through and read the whole damn thing. Here, I’ll post the link again.) The healthcare system in the United States needs a significant overhaul, and while a good half of the political blogs I read have mentioned this, I’m going to bring the statistics out. Per person, medical expenses are much smaller in countries employing UHC, and yet USians have paltry care in comparison. And yet people are still arguing that welfare programs are sufficient. And yet people are dying because they can’t get access to heathcare. Because it isn’t fucking affordable. And yet, the cultural narrative of decrying “socialism” is continued. God fucking bless us all.

EDIT: If any of the links or the video at the top aren’t working properly, let me know in comments.

Quickhit: On Love, Identity and Changing the Pronouns

3 May


*hugs* to Tina and Jess.

Metapost: Blog Note

15 Apr

Posting is going to be fairly light for a little while. I’m having the “oh, shit. Finals!” sensation on top of actually having a social life (no wai!), so it’s safe to say I’m a bit frazzled right now.

While you wait for my astounding brilliance to return to the internet, enjoy this video of Susan Boyle singing the shit out of Fantine’s “I Dreamed a Dream.” As fillyjonk said,

Folks, we are all Susan Boyle. Fat or thin, pretty or plain, butch or femme, old or young, abled or not: people will judge us and find us wanting. You can posture all you want, out of genuine confidence or bravado; you can insist that the ideals are wrong, that the goalposts need to be moved, that rational humans can shake off the shackles of cultural expectation.