you know that trope in shows or movies where the evil character is in captivity and starts talking to the Heroes to try and mess with their minds, and starts analysing them going “face it you’ll never be good enough” … “you try to act tough but inside you’re broken” … and the Hero gets really rattled and upset.
well i want a scene like that where it doesn’t work
Villain: “You have a darkness inside of you. You try to hide it, but it’s there–”
Hero: “Yeah that’s the depression, there’s pills for that.”
Villain: “You try every day to make your mother proud. Even after death, it still haunts you. But she’ll never be proud of.”
Hero: “Well yeah, she was an emotionally abusive narcissist, she was never proud of anything I did, what else is new.”
Villain: “You put on a good show, but deep inside I know you don’t feel worthy.”
Hero: “I know, man, I’ve been trying to work on that in therapy.”
Like… give me characters who know they’re mentally ill and traumatised who can’t have it used against them because they’ve fully accepted it
I just can’t believe it would ever happen. Every gov’t is usually so kicked against LGBTQ community. And these beautiful people just SLAYED.
This makes the whole world proud.
MY MOTHER ASKED ME TO STOP WRITING ABOUT HER
1
When my best friend was a child,
her mother used The Game of Life
as a metaphor to explain sexuality.
“You can have two pink guys
or two blue guys, you know,” she explained.
My best friend is so straight,
she doesn’t even masturbate.
Still, she always knew that even
if she wasn’t, even if someday she ended up
shotgun to another pink piece,
she would remain loved and supported.
She wouldn’t have to ask for forgiveness.
Of all the things she was taught to apologize for,
love has never been one of them.
2
My mother doesn’t bring up my sexuality
anymore. I think she is tired of arguing.
She is sick of reading about her faults
in my poetry. She hates my selective memory;
how I only remember the sharp things,
the slammed doors, the heavy whiskey.
“I used to sing to you before bed
every night,” she reminds me icily.
“but you must’ve forgotten that story.”
Last week, she silently folded up her old flannels
and placed them at the foot of my bed.
I know this is probably just a coincidence,
not a peace treaty or an attempt to understand me.
But for my own well-being,
I have to take this as a sign she is trying,
even if it isn’t.
MY MOTHER ASKED ME TO STOP WRITING ABOUT HER,by Blythe Baird. (via blythebrooklyn)
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