Abuse is not an Anger Problem

Abuse doesn’t come from anger, insecurity, or (usually) pathology. It doesn’t simmer to the surface from the emotions. Emotions are only a side effect. Abuse isn’t even rooted in a crappy history—there are as many abusers who were abused as children as there are abusers who had happy childhoods. Their childhoods are only their excuse.

Abuse is not a defence. It’s an attack, but thanks, Freud, for trying.

Abusers abuse because of what they believe, not what they feel. They abuse because they think they’re entitled to own you. You are their accessory. You are not a person, but an object. You have no right to your feelings. There is no space where your abuser ends and you begin because you are nothing more than an extension of them. That’s why they feel authorised to mistreat you—you aretheirs. You have no right to your autonomy.

(Continued below)


If it were true that they had no healthy conflict resolution skills, they would let their rage and manipulation obliterate their impression management campaigns. Their careers and friendships would be in chaos. They would exist as solitary entities who were constantly being arrested, fired, and despised. If it were true that they couldn’t resolve conflict civilly, they would be all Hyde and no Jekyll and you would never have attached to them in the first place.

Continue reading


Depression is Not Sadness. It’s Deadness.

Depression is not sadness. It’s deadness. It’s grief that took its running shoes off because depression is like arriving at the finishing line of a 40 km marathon on the hottest day of summer only to find the race doesn’t really end. When climbing out of bed is as exhausting a prospect as continuing to run with that fucking boulder on your back, the pain of existing becomes harder to tolerate than the pain of dying.

Depression is not sadness. It’s finally arriving at the end of your life only to find you have years still to go.

The worst of depression is not suffering: it’s numbness. Numbness will swallow your life and suck every enth of care from your bones because depression is not sadness. It’s existing as something dead, something inhuman, an object wounded. You know the distress is in there somewhere and you know that one day it will rise to the surface. On that day, you will wake up with a laceration in your chest and a knot of thatch in your gut and you will remember what life was like a second after it stopped being a life, just before feelings evaporated.

(Continued below) 


Depression is not a feeling. It’s a lie. It’s one side of a coin that forgot there was another because depression is like a bucket of black paint spilled over your world. Once it’s washed away, the truth begins to show itself. The ochre and cadmium and indigo return. The world comes back to life because depression is not an emotion. It’s a sickness that almost always has a cure.

Continue reading

What I Believe but Cannot Prove

If you play a song five times on repeat, you deserve to be murdered as slowly as you murdered the song. If I play a song five times on repeat, it’s called “A Party”.

When a computer stalls, telling it to “hurry the fuck up, asshole” will make it hurry the fuck up (asshole). Computers have poor self-esteem and only do shitty things when they get arrogant.

When you’ve lost your glasses, standing in the middle of the room calling them as though they’re a dog will cause them to walk up to you and say, “Here I am.”

If you show up at a kink party wearing flats, your shoes automatically become invisible.

If you tell the internet douche on your monitor to go fuck himself, he will hear you, especially if he lives on another continent and you shout loudly enough.

Swearing at the thing that fell off the shelf will make it regret it, so it will definitely think twice before falling off again.

Begging for thunderstorms causes thunderstorms 99.76% of the time.

If you don’t understand physics, they don’t exist.

If you don’t look up what an acronym means, you can laugh at how funny it sounds for longer.

If you finally cave and look that five-year-old acronym up to find out what it means, every soul on the planet will instantly stop using it.

What you can’t see does not exist, including the back of your hair, your ass, and the hole in your cardigan.

Dogs make the world go around. There is no problem that five minutes with a puppy can’t fix.

If you get undressed in front of the window, nobody will ever see you from the street, so no worries.

If you feel annoyed enough when your neighbour’s baby cries, it will stop immediately.

Toothpaste will always creep onto your outfit, even if you brush your teeth before getting dressed.

It’s literally impossible to wash toothpaste out of clothing.

If Kevin Spacey shows up in the movie you’re watching, be sure to fix your hair. He can see you through the screen and will ask you out on a date if you look hot enough.

(Edge.org asked the world’s greatest minds what they believed but couldn’t prove because people with high IQs often know things before the evidence crops up. They didn’t ask me what I believed but can’t prove. Clearly they just forgot.)



I’ll See Your Gossip and Raise You Nothing at All.

I don’t exist easily in an environment where gossip thrives. I would rather be oblivious to the chatter than confront it. Fuck correcting gossip. I need those hours for reading books, drinking coffee, and cuddling TMJ. Is that enough information to fuel some new gossip? I thought so. Go ahead. I’m not looking.

I try to avoid the chatter, but I sometimes see it anyway. If nobody is telling you what your life is currently like, you’ll find it easily enough in Fetlife threads. I have one response when I see someone is telling people what I do with my spare time and why:


So did you see season four of Orange is the New Black?

It’s not that I’m one of those people who has that “I don’t give a fuck” superpower. Quite the opposite. Self-esteem is an alien species in my life. I don’t confront the online chatter for one reason: if someone doesn’t have the integrity to ask me for the truth, I guess they weren’t my friend.

(Continued below)


I live my life far too loudly for my own good online. I’m transparent. I tell all my secrets. I give everyone plenty of fuel for the gossip mill. To make it worse, I’m as clumsy online as I am off, and I try to represent the worst aspects of my character alongside my other traits. I consciously try to keep my online persona authentic. I don’t much care for connections based on managed impressions.

Continue reading