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Monday, 21 August 2017

The Trouble With Talking nsfw

The Trouble With Talking

A Bloggage
By
Alexander Gordon Jahans

Content warning: Rape mentions. References to fictional trans cures and people trying to cure trans people in reality. References to characters changing gender in fiction. Incest mention. War mention. Poem insulting nazis. 


A wise man once said that all it takes for evil to win is for good men to do nothing. He neglected to add that it really doesn’t help when well meaning morons wade into the fray. I am such a moron and it burns.

I have been trying to stay off social media. I blame nazis. I blame family. I blame Trump. I blame Algorithms. I blame feminists. I blame everyone but me.

Do you know what the big problem with honesty is? Lies are what we’re made of. Our whole memory is a system of oft repeated lies, stories that are easy to remember. In being honest I took myself out of the equation. Oh I have always been a good little capitalist who knew how to wield the truth like a weapon when I needed to but a pacifist does not build a personality on weaponry.

That’s why Doctor Who is important to me. Not because it’s the greatest show in the galaxy because it isn’t. Every single show and book I have experienced since then has been better. Farscape. Babylon 5. Blakes 7. The Culture. Firefly. Hannibal. The Thick Of It. House Of Cards. The West Wing.

The list goes on and on and on but Doctor Who remains important because it taught me the importance of lies. The Doctor is a monster. He is a white imperialist interfering cruel, sadistic, genocidal monster. Yet he tries to be better. He believes he can be better and he tries to use the terrible nature he has for the better. He is Bruce Banner getting himself dropped into the path of a monster so that his own darkness can fight the good fight.

I don’t think that logically I am a monster. I don’t think that logically I have done much I would genuinely consider immoral. However there is a scene in the West Wing that I think sums up my feelings. Vice President Hoynes has been running this discreet Alcoholics Anonymous forum for so long during the series when it becomes relevant to point out that hey maybe the Vice President shouldn’t be an alcoholic. He explains that he never had so much as one night binge drinking but all it took was one little drop for him to know he had a problem.

I grew up with my dad displaying the dangers of the anger management issues I inherited and I went to a school where those issues were tested with fire. Literally once I think. My whole life I have felt like I have been living under this shadow of what I could do. It doesn’t help that I was a weird kid. Maybe it’s just my own personal anxiety. Like a variant of the imposter syndrome. I am David’s monstrous doppleganger waiting for the signal from the shadows.

Doctor Who matters because it told me that no matter how broken, how strange, how monstrous, evil and pathetic I felt, that I could be powerful. Useful. An asset to the good.

Except I did have a dark secret. It just wasn’t what I thought. There’s this moment in This Book Is Full Of Spiders where a character finds out he is an imposter. That he is a clone created by the shadows and killed himself. What I love - What I have always loved - Is that you expect the aftermath to be like Torchwood Children of Earth. Quiet devastating victory for the bad guys. Instead the imposter finds a way to carry on where the original left off, to fight the good fight.

I was worse than a shadow bound terminator who killed his original self. When I found out my dark secret I should have grieved in private. Retreated from the world and figured myself out. I didn’t. I have explanations and justifications. I blame many people. I did this to myself. I set myself up on a stage, set up a loaded gun, drew a large crowd then pulled on a thread that unravelled my sanity. What happened next was my own doing. I can blame so many people, I can explain and justify so many things but if I had been smarter, if I had even just stuck to what I said only a few months before I made the changes that screwed me over...

For Want Of A Nail the horse was lost.
For want of a horse the message was lost.
For want of a message the battle was lost.
For want of a battle the war was lost.
For want of a war the government was overthrown.
For want of a government the peace was lost.
For want of peace a thousand generations died in horrendous bloodshed.
For want of a nail.

There are so many fucking nails the coffin of my sins.

And in digging my own grave and hammering those nails deep I stopped myself dealing with the incident that caused all those problems. Easier to think about them mean feminists than stare headlong into the abyss and accept that it serves as a mirror by which to see and learn about myself. Who gives a rat’s arse what I did why I did it? That’s the wrong thread to pull on.

Learning I had Kallman’s Syndrome fucked me up. It fucked me up bad. It fucked me up because I needed someone who could tell me it was going to be okay. Instead I had anger management issues, anxiety issues, depression, self loathing and two sides in my head that gave no shits about the issue.

I tried to do what I have always done. I tried to be good. Except I knew nothing. I reached out to a community I hoped and prayed would be able to understand me and I offered them the solace I wish I had. I could not have insulted them more deeply.

I fucked up so bad and it caused so much shit to rain that I am only now at the point where I can begin properly shovelling it out. I needed to write and I needed to be confident in my writing but I should not have been on a fucking stage. Everything about how I handled that was a trash fire.

Except I see now that I did and do need to write. This kind of revelation is not something you can look directly at. I mean I’m still pulling at the thread of that revelation. Kallman’s Syndrome led to Growth Hormone Deficiency, led to Sleep Apnoea, led to so overweight I am in agony and my ankles grind and crunch when I walk.

I have stared long and hard into the abyss. I have studied politics and technological unemployment. I have read the terrible history of Autism and learned how attempts to cure Autism led to attempts to electrocute the gay and trans out of children. I have listened to history podcasts. I have been stalked by nazis and witnessed the terror of Trump. I am older and wiser, more cynical and heart broken by how fucking awful the human race is.

I don’t fear and hate my lust any more because my lust has become my lust for life. Because who cares about war, disease, tragedy and heartbreak when you are looking into thee smiling face of someone beautiful and adorable? Because I can cope with the world when I think of the cute ones being happy and loved. My deep dark beast became my reason to survive.

I am in so much pain and I am always so tired. I keep writing dystopias and finding hope, family and happiness within them. I suppose it’s the competency bias. It’s the lust coming out because there has to be a submissive woman somewhere. I suppose it’s just that if nobody cares about your characters there are no stakes.

I always have explanations and justifications but ultimately its me.

I keep coming back to that fucking fanfic and why it burns. Why this particular bullshit must be redeemed? I’ve hurt people before. I’ve hurt people since. God help you if you have ever had the misfortune to make me genuinely hate and try to hurt you. I hurt as lot of people with that fanfic but it wasn’t special, important, or significant as flame outs go. It’s not even the first time I got kicked out of a fan community. So why does it hurt still? Why is everything I write a response or reflection or a conscious distancing and avoidance of that moment?

Well as I said lies are what we are made of and Doctor Who told me how to lie by inspiring me to write fiction. I have been writing a lot and the last three big stories are kind of impossible not to read as direct reflections of that fuck up.

The Phantom Raspberry Killer deals with a tortured Farsh-nuke being convinced by the nazis to aid them in creating a way to switch the genders of a person so that their glorious leader can fuck their son/daughter. Yeah, I’m about as subtle as a slice of lemon wrapped around a large gold brick when it comes to my trumpists are nazis and this shit is terrible metaphors.

Come Again features the non-binary Elder God Viorum Kaztif-tan and their trans woman journalist companion Claudia Green as they investigate why the Great Farsh-nuke has sent a message from his hell dimension and why people are fighting each other as part of a strange competition. It is about dealing with the legacy and fallout of the Farsh-nuke. It also features two canon versions of myself as I face my demons, or the judgement of my better angels and at least 5 different submissive women.

Those two were planned. Those two had a lot of thought put into them. They were bold steps forward while dealing with the past. The third is not like that. It was inspired by stumbling across art for a kink that is, or maybe was, not my kink on twitter after feminists criticised the artist. Ideas are dangerous things to plant in my head.

The Golden Girl is a distraction fic that might be so terrible it very swiftly gets moved to the Old Shame section of my website. It is the story of a man who becomes a girl. It’s nothing to do with trans and I have done my best to make clear that in-universe this is radically different. This is a powerful organisation and privileged individuals taking advantage of a desperate man’s choice in a world where the best qualification he can get features changing gender as a passing grade. I literally wrote an essay before I even started on this distraction fic just fleshing out the organisation because I knew I wanted to focus on the human story without leaving this stuff unanswered.

What I have slowly begun to realise is that the fan fic still burns with me because it is so emblematic of what I was trying and failing to do. The fanfic concerned the founding of the United Civilisations of the Multiverse by the manipulations of the Great Farsh-nuke to create the perfect leader and champion to replace him in the form of Lucy Danse the Paragon of Virtue. It was a story of how taking a stand and trying to achieve revolution when you are out gunned and out manned is still worth it because thought the forces of oppression seem impossible to topple against a forever war all you need is to kick enough space to begin to grow your power.

Lucy Danse walking the hundred million universes was supposed to be the great cure. It was supposed to end the bloodshed and allow for glorious post-scarcity. To ensure that being progressive could win against Neoliberalism and the war on terror. That monsters and saints can unite to fight for a better tomorrow.

Then the UK voted to leave the European Union, Trump got elected President and I got driven off youtube by nazi stalkers. So the Farsh-nuke and Lucy Danse sacrificed themselves to end the great Septagonoid war, The United Civilisations took out the tyrannical fascism of the Logicio empire and the Sylph Liberation Front was left as the biggest swinging dicks in the multiverse. Only for a newer worse kind of Fascism to step up, aided by an even more ancient god called Adam Godwinson, the dreadful scheming of a Bam-Kursh and an imprisoned Farsh-nuke who tried to stand against them. There is hope and there is victory very much in sight but things are far from over.

I am tired and I am in pain. I want the cure. I am not even sure if I care about my gender or anything any more. I have sunken so low that I genuinely think hell might be psychologically easier to deal with because at least then when I felt pain and tiredness I wouldn’t also feel fear and anxiety. All I can do is keep going. And that’s fucking hard.

A person is built on a bed of lies. I am honest and that sucks because I look at the facts and I try to calculate the odds. When the most optimistic you can be is to point out that you are bad at math so maybe you’ve calculated the odds wrong then things are bad.

There is this idea in scifi, in reality, of the cold equation. That there is a right answer to a problem that isn’t nice and nobody likes it but the facts are what the facts are. Humans in general do not react well to the idea of the Cold Equation.

Kurt Vonnegurt apparently thought that the great sin of man was that we kept telling ourselves these damaging narratives that aren’t how reality works. I very much agree with this idea. It’s like people who get mad at spoilers baffle me. When I know a main character is going to die that’s not a spoiler, that’s a moment of tension in a scene that otherwise would not exist. How do they not know that the main character is going to be okay and the status quo will be restored by the end of the episode?

Here’s the thing I’m getting help for Kallman’s Syndrome and all the other things. I could add psychological help to that already long list and I probably will someday once things are a little calmer but it wouldn’t help me now. I am under no immediate danger, I have coping mechanisms, I get by, make it through the day, but on the long term I know that I am falling. I hope I can slow my decent enough to make it to the next boost and the next boost. I hope the things weighing me down can be dealt with. I hope someday I might have the strength to actually pull myself up by my bootstraps.

People who are okay generally think of people who aren’t okay like a character in a story. You’ll find a solution to the problem and get over it. Even if you know it’s not that simple the desperation makes you see cure alls where there are none. I’ve done this to myself. Desperately sought things I hoped would solve everything so much only to find that it was just a different kind of frying pan over a different kind of fire.

I want the happy ending. I want the solution. I want the answer. I want the cure. I want to believe that there is something better than this. That life can be better, more possible. The fact one of my solutions now is something I long since gave up as impossible has me severely doubting that. Any plan that relies upon a person who is all out of fucks finding fucks to give is a plan doomed to failure.

I am still writing and I’m still breathing and I’m still hoping and learning. I might survive this. I might be a better somebody. I might get a happy ending. I might find workable solutions. Answers that work for me. I might get the medication I need.

My story is not over. Not yet. I just don’t have any answers for you. Except sorry because this is going to suck. It is going to suck for everybody. And if you are a sadistic nazi moron laughing at the outrage and agony of the filthy SJWs, remember this:

This too shall pass. 

Nobody wins forever.

Your time to suffer will come.

When suffer people will smile.

When you are dead people will forget you or spit upon your name.

You are alive today.

Be grateful for the mercies, liberties and victories you get.

It can always be worse

Anyway I’m going to go writing my story about a man becoming a beautiful giggly enthusiastic submissive girl. I will burn in hell and I will deserve it but for now I live and I am writing what I want because I feel like it and I am no use to man nor beast if I stop myself doing the things that give me the strength to continue.