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whereserpentswalk · 3 months

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Ghouls are some of the most destructive cryptids in 21st century America. Every city has a few buildings or streets that have become nests for them, where you're from its the subway stations that are effected the worst. And everyone is kind of sad for them, like they know the people who the ghouls used to be met with a terrible fate, but they tend to be fine with people killing them. For the most part they've become a hoard of enemies to die in one hit, as heros with blond hair and black pistols mow them down.

Your girlfriend was bitten. You've been dating for awhile. She's always been freindly to cryptids, she must have gotten close to one. Your family tells you it's best to kill her quickly once she transforms, that it's better to lay someone to rest then to let her be undead.

But you can't bring yourself to. Even after her family has held a funeral for her you still love her too much to hurt her, or to let her be hurt. You keep her in your apartment, and even after she's fully undead, you let her rest in her old bedroom, and keep her safe and comfortable.

She's not mindless like they said she would be. She still can talk to you, still remembers who she is. She's afraid, she says she feels cold. And she has new urges, violent urges, emotions she didn't have before. She keeps having these thoughts that scare her, but still they scare her. She might have been overwhelmed and hurt someone if she was on the street, but she's here with you, and you bring her comfort, and make her feel safe.

She starts looking diffrent. First she just looks pale and veiny, and then it becomes clear she isn't alive anymore. It's not like she's rotting or anything, it's just clear that her body is dead, like a perfectly embalmed corpse. Eventually her teeth become fangs, like that of an animal, and her eyes glow yellow. The ways she moves is what makes it so horrible to look at, for awhile it makes you want to cry just to see her, so twitchy and inhuman, you tell yourself she doesn't move like a human because she isn't one, but that doesn't mean it's too late for her.

Everyone tells you it isn't fair to her to not kill her. But you can talk to her, and she wants to be alive, she's afraid of being killed by humans. Her face and voice don't show emotions anymore, but she stills feels them. You talk to her like you always did, about things you always talked to her about. She likes the same movies, the same music, you find yourself talking about mythology a lot. You remember she was studying to be a classics major before all of this happened.

She's strong in some ways now, good at attacking things, you've seen her pounce on a sparrow to eat it in a momment of weakness, she could kill someone that way. But defensively she's weak, her skin breaks so easily. You tried to cuddle with her and she ended up bloodied from the way your hands broke her skin with pressure, and she had to eat raw meat and blood to heal herself. She wants to make love to you again, she looks at your body, and your breasts, at your face, but the motion might rip her apart. When you touch her you stroke her gently, sometimes with just two fingers, like a snake being brought out to entertain children in a meusum, you have to be so gentle, because she's so delicate.

And there are bad days. Days when you've seen her stalking tye streets naked, her mouth covered in blood, hunting like an animal. The days when so many people would have shot her.

There are good days too, days when it's like old times, when its easy to remember that you're still her girlfriend. Where you can sit on the couch together and watch something. Or when you can go out together. There are days when you get to put her in dresses and makeup to make her look more alive, so she can feel better. And there are days when all she can manage to wear is a bloodstained sweatshirt.

There are people who have asked you if your afraid of her, and even give you weapons "just in case". But you won't hurt her, you don't think you can hurt someone you love, just for the crime of making you afraid. And there are times when she's scared too, and you're there for you, and you let her lay near you, and you sing to her, and tell her she's pretty, and read her myths from the same book she was read myths from as a child, and you have to be the one to read them, because the person who used to read them still thinks she's dead, and hopefully you can be enough.

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religion-is-a-mental-illness · 6 months

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Published: Oct 24, 2023

I was around 10 the first time my mother asked if I thought I was a boy.

There was a period from the 1970s-1990s where the concept “tomboys”, although perhaps originally intended as a derogatory term, provided a space for pre-pubescent girls to act, play and dress in ways that were not stereotypically coded feminine; in other words, some of the freedoms boys were granted. My mother clearly felt that raising a daughter and a son should be drastically different experiences. This was not largely the case, as I wanted to be just like my older brother.

Growing up, my parents had strict ideas around the roles of men and women in society. Men were “head of the household” and had the final say on decisions, as well as being the primary disciplinarian; women’s primary roles were as caregivers. My parents were religious, raising me in a religion where homosexuality was taught to be immoral and unnatural.

In some ways, I fulfilled many stereotypes of feminine attributes: being gentle, soft-spoken, and nurturing towards others. I enjoyed playing with dolls and soft toys; however I also had a keen interest in cars and transformers. As a painfully shy child, I preferred the company of fictional characters in books more than people; this level of social awkwardness alone cast me as “odd”.

However, what had been convenient and financially fiscal - hand-me-down clothing from my brother - had become my clothing of choice. I only wanted to wear “boys’ clothing”, much of which came in my favourite colour (blue) versus the bright warm colours of “girls’ clothing”. Having worn both, I had realised that boys’ clothing was looser fitting, had more flexibility of motion, and was more comfortable. I disliked glitter, sequins, lace and frills, none of which was found on boys’ clothing. As a very shy child who refused to wear the clothing supposedly designated for my sex, this often invoked commentary and disapproval from adults around my appearance and my body. Boys’ clothing, with its longer sleeves and longer torso, covered up more of my body; a body I was painfully aware that others were observing and judging, sometimes openly.

My mother had told me how excited she was when she learned she was going to have a daughter to “do girly things with”, fantasising of frilly dresses and ballet rehearsals. Instead, she had me. Although my parents allowed me to play with the same toys as my brother, pursue the same sport as my brother, and (eventually) choose my own clothing, my mother’s question showed that she still didn’t understand: “Do you think you’re a boy?” My mother, likely feeling that she had been short-changed around the perks promised with raising a girl, could not understand how her daughter, who declined most things coded feminine, could indeed be a girl who was comfortable with this fact. 10 year old me didn’t understand just how loaded the question was, but did find it strange and hurtful, replying, “No, I’m a girl” in a confused tone.

Thankfully, as the concept of “tomboy” was popular while I was growing up, this meant there was a known word that described the type of girl I was; one that allowed me to know that, no matter what I liked or did, I was still a girl.

There was another word that described the type of girl I was. I was around 8 the first time I heard the word “gay”. A boy slightly older than me had spit the word out, yelling at another child “I’m not gay!” This caught my interest. Although the word itself was unknown, the meaning had been clear with the derision and emphasis the boy had placed on the word, his face consorting in disgust as the word left his mouth. It must be something really bad was the clear impression.

I had the opportunity to quench my curiosity that same week. In line with other tasks that could be deemed naughty, looking up bad words in the dictionary required careful timing to when family members were distracted elsewhere. I timed my moment carefully and looked up “gay”, which naturally led to my learning the term “homosexual” - oh. Reading the definition, it was almost like a warm recognition spread across my chest, embracing me. I hadn’t known that homosexuals existed, but I was pretty sure I was one. After this, I would sometimes sneak out the dictionary just to read these words again; although just ink on paper, it was proof that other people like me existed.

I would later use this word - gay - against myself, turning it from something comforting and wonderful, to the same kind of contempt that shrouded the word whenever I heard others use it in real life. Laying in bed at age 11, I had prayed to not be gay, promising myself that I would never tell anyone about these feelings and grow up to marry a man. Although it had been fine when my feelings towards certain girls had just been an intense desire to be their friend and be near them, these feelings had become much harder to ignore now they had turned into more concrete thoughts, such as how beautiful a certain girl was, how shiny and luscious was her hair, and daydreaming around our hands accidentally touching. It was much harder to deny the very clear signs of a crush, particularly when all my female friends had crushes on boys. In order to fit in, I focused my energies on talking about how “cute” one of the boys in the class was - I had never interacted with him, however he had soft features and long eyelashes, and seemed gentle in nature. I would then go home and dream about my female friend and her lovely, long dark hair.

Coming into puberty, I had also started learning more about my religion’s views on homosexuality, specifically that it was immoral and unacceptable. This led to a lot of emotional hurt and confusion for me. At this point, homosexuals may as well have been mythical creatures, discussed by others, but never appearing as an identifiable person in real life.

* * *

Several years older, 15 year old me was struggling. Since puberty, I had been trying to push away any inkling of desire I had towards other girls.; it hadn’t worked. Now with slightly more understanding around the world and how I fitted into it, I had started the process of accepting that these feelings weren’t going anywhere and were, perhaps, just a normal part of me. I had also started considering that if I had been created with intent, as my religion taught, then no mistakes were possible, and my attraction towards girls, which had always been there in some form, was as natural and as similar as anyone else’s. Although it had improved, my social awkwardness still made me frequently feel like an outsider, with my secret and furtive crushes on other girls further making me feel different in a way I couldn’t discuss with anyone. This feeling would decrease when I eventually met other lesbians, however this wouldn’t happen for several years.

I had started to shop in the women’s department, and outgrown my obsession with cars, instead falling into an obsession with music; something familiar to many teenagers. Still, I preferred comfortable clothing that would be classed as “gender neutral”: jeans, baggy t-shirts, converse shoes. I wore my mid-length hair messy, fantasising about the short hairstyles lesbian duo Tegan and Sara sported. I spent a lot of time listening to music with female musicians who played guitar, preferring artists who openly sung about and desired other women, or those who sang with ambiguity in their love songs, allowing me to place my own meaning on them. My penchant for female musicians had not escaped the notice of my friends, who gently teased me about it, although they didn’t seem to understand the cause for this fixation.

Again, now a teenager, the same question from my mother, phrased slightly differently this time: “do you feel like you’re a man?” I remember telling my friend about this at a sleepover the same night - her response was silence. She didn’t know what to say.

* * *

Several years passed. I was now an out lesbian with a rainbow flag proudly adorning the wall of my share-house bedroom. This included being out to my parents, who had taken the news reasonably well and had been supportive. Having a friendly gay male couple move into their neighbourhood in my late teenage years had significantly increased their understanding and acceptance of homosexual relationships - and had allowed me to finally meet others “like me”. I had fulfilled my fantasy of cutting off the majority of my hair, with the longest section being a fringe that flopped into my eyes. I had also gone back to shopping in the men’s wear section, though my wide hips and narrow shoulders made finding men’s clothing that fit me well difficult. I had finally had my first kiss, although not yet a girlfriend, though most of my time was spent dreaming about this.

My parents had reassured me that they loved and accepted me when I told them I was a lesbian. They had continued to reaffirm this in the following months, however despite this acceptance, my mother showed that she still doesn’t understand, asking me the same question again, some months after I came out: “do you want to be a man?” It was as if every five years, the thought occurred to her again that I must have gender identity disorder because of the way I looked and acted.

I’m in my late 20s now. I have been an out lesbian for a decade, and have had several girlfriends, although my current relationship is by far the longest. My parents adore my girlfriend, buying her birthday presents, and always letting me know how much they approve. My mother comments on how nice my girlfriend’s dresses are and how much she likes her long hair, telling me, “you would look so nice in that”. I feel fatigued with a lifetime of trying to convince her I am genuinely comfortable like this, and tired of defending my short hair, which is my favourite part of my appearance. My girlfriend gets angry on my behalf whenever my mother makes these comments, defending me and saying she thinks I look beautiful as I am.

I am thankful that I never came across the often repeated and homophobic rhetoric that only boys like girls, and therefore lesbians are actually just straight males on the inside. My conviction of my own self, that I am a girl who likes girls, has protected me in this way, but may not have had I had been born a decade later, where it seems many young girls similar to myself are being taken to gender clinics. Or that my mother’s conviction that I am secretly a transman - which has been a reoccurring theme across my life so far - could have caused consultation with a medical professional to convince me of this very fact; something that, as a child who felt different and never seemed to fit, I am sure I would have trusted the adult expert’s views on.

Somehow - bewilderingly - now almost 30, my mother again asks me if I feel like I’m a man and if I’m actually trans. I explain as patiently as I can that no, I’m a lesbian woman and it’s hurtful to me that she seems to refuse to truly accept this, questioning whether I can be a woman because I don’t match her view of what a woman looks like.

She listens to my words and apologises, saying she thinks she understands now. I can’t help but wonder if we’ll be having this same conversation in another five years.

It's weird that they would prefer that their god made a "mistake" and put her in "the wrong body," than that their god doesn't make mistakes, and that she's who he wants her to be.

It's a bad sign when a far-left ideology and a conservative religious view coincide.

#LGB Alliance #lesbian #same sex attraction #trans the gay away #trans away the gay #save the tomboys #gay conversion therapy #conversion therapy #gender ideology #queer theory #genderwang #religion #born in the wrong body #in the wrong body #religion is a mental illness

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