we need more feminist horror

I’m thinking about Danaë, Perseus, and Andromeda.

Danaë was a princess, once. Her happy life was upended the day her father caught wind of a prophecy that his grandchild would be his undoing. She was imprisoned in her own home, and when her son was born, she and the baby were banished and left for dead. Yet Danaë powered through, as heroes are known to do in these types of stories. This single mother in a strange land raised her son with pride — not hubris, but true, righteous pride. They have no need of gods or monsters or the kingdom that cast them out; all mother and son need are each other.

Perseus’s call to adventure begins when yet another evil king decides to treat Danaë as an object instead of a person. Polydectes will force Danaë to marry him unless Perseus can cross the world and return with the head of the Gorgon Medusa. Perseus is in no place to protest, not when the truest hero he’s ever known is counting on him. This is not a quest for glory, but piety: the duty a child owes to their parent.

In his travels, Perseus meets Andromeda, chained to a cliffside and awaiting her grim fate. She too, has a story of a mother and child. Queen Cassiopeia foolishly offended a long list of sea gods and their kingdom will be washed away unless the gods exact their price. Cassiopeia did the offending; it should be her on the cliff. But Andromeda has to suffer for the sins of her family, just like Perseus. He chose to risk his life for his mother; Andromeda had her fate chosen for her.

Maybe Andromeda tried to talk herself into thinking her death would mean something. She’s grown up as a princess, where each generation of the dynasty is meant to be in unbroken continuity with the generation before. The crown she is presumed to wear weighs down any hopes for her own life. If Cassiopeia tells her to die, it is her duty and honor as the child to obey. Secretly, she prays that her death will mean something for her mother — that the next child she has will be granted the freedom of choice Andromeda herself never knew.

But Perseus, raised by a mother worthy of her role, knows that is bullshit. He knows Andromeda deserves better than this, and he breaks the cycle by destroying the monster and breaking her chains, will of Poseidon be damned. And when Cassiopeia reunites with her child, it’s clear she has learned nothing. She immediately tries to force Andromeda into an unhappy marriage - just like what Polydectes means to do to Danaë.

Now Andromeda and Perseus are both angry. She is ready to let her so-called family crumble. She shields her eyes, and lets her suitor and her mother meet the Gorgon’s eyes. She walks away from the stone to which she was chained, into a new life of her making.

The young couple returns to Seriphos. Perseus saves Danaë from the dread altar. A worthy king claims the throne, and in a remarkable stroke of luck for Greek mythology, Perseus kills his evil grandfather without technically violating Ancient Greece’s taboos on kin-slaying. Andromeda and Perseus ascend to the throne of Mycenae, and have that rarest thing in any myth: a happily ever after.

Andromeda gets a husband and a crown, sure, but she also gets Danaë. Danaë is everything Cassiopeia wasn’t: humble, resilient, and loving. She raised Perseus well, and she teaches Andromeda how to stand tall against monsters: not the sea beast, but the creatures that would rather offer up their own children than admit that they were in the wrong.

mothers really will say the worst, the most heartbreaking insults when they get mad at you and then just pretend everything is fine two seconds later

What do I want? Wasn't ever asked before

there was once a time, says fantine, her mouth agape, her hands around a throat full of rot, but you took it all.

i have heard such protestations, says javert, wooden heart and wooden jaw, his eyes snowmolten. and it never changes anything at all.

fantine holds pearls in her palms, dripping deep into the lines of her. she spins out of gold 10 francs to throw into a foaming maw. she cups between bird-cage ribs a song like-

come on, captain, you can keep your shoes.

and cosette, cosette, cosette; motherless. pearled and golden, a conch-shell mouth that has once known cruelty. a delicate chest which holds, in the beat and giving of it, the shape of fantine's heart. even now. even still.

cosette, sweet and lovely as a freshwater spring who knows not the mother that once gave her all. the lullaby has long since faded, and the memory has worn that face to blur.

and fantine, who was once fair and sweet, wraps her hands around a man's throat until the warm blood runs into the sleeves of her dress. there was a time, she says, when men were kind.

When she’s too scared to agree and too polite to fight me on something “Go away, when you can, move far from this country,” my mother tells me She thinks I’m too radical for the borders I was born in She thinks I have too much fight in me to hold my tongue in She fears maybe she’ll see an example made of me

My mother is not without her flaws And I see where she gets it When I look at her mother, I turn back to my own I am faced with a younger woman, young and scared and too much like me And worse I am embittered by my own empathy

Because that is empathy I was never taught to show myself That is compassion I waited for like a dog at the foot of her bed That is love I still find hard to give the girl in the mirror Because I wish she would see me and find someone worth loving But she sees the potential of being loved instead

Because that is what I keep finding myself to be Someone who can do well and be liked Someone who can  be pleasant company With just enough work and effort put in Someone that can of love be made worthy

When our throats are raw from screaming and knuckles are bloody Eyes dry of tears that have streaked our cheeks After fighting for each other or each other maybe “Go away, when you can, move far from this country,” my mother tells me And I wish that that wasn’t the only time I felt like she really sees me

-cuckoo's carbon copy

taglist (it has been long since i've written something and tagged anyone, so feel free to drop me a message if you want to be removed or something <3): @enigmasandepiphanies @mistyw273 @genderfuckfag @fanofthepod @mrdyketator @davidpincher @callme-aria

ok but the way bertie’s relationship with her mother is so complex and layered, the way there will always be that feeling of trauma and betrayal there from her childhood, the way they are so different and sometimes unsure around each other, the way fledging day is difficult in different ways for the both of them but they still make time to go through the motions together, the way they each just want to be accepted by the other, the way they don’t really know how to love each other, the way they are finally learning to see each other outside of their roles as mother and daughter, the way they do love each other in their own ways and with actions more than words

hooooo boy this episode had me feeling some kind of way

Source: Tuca & Bertie, Season 3 Episode 8

they say that if you're raised with an angry man in your house, there will always be an angry man in your house.

what about an angry woman?

what if the first rage you knew came from the first love you had?

what happens when it is your mother who has all the anger and everyone says from the moment you're old enough to have your own being, that you are just like her?

the angry man in your house- not your home, never your home- means there are harsh words on the tip of your tongue.

the angry woman means there are mean taunts under your skin.

the angry man means you are angry.

the angry woman means you are broken.

the angry man does not know quite where to hit because he was never that attentive.

the angry woman knows exactly what to say to make you cower. and she knows exactly what to do to earn momentary forgiveness.

if there is an angry man in your house, you grow up and you search for him.

you do not search for an angry woman.

you become her.

if there is nothing like a mother's love, then there is also nothing like a mother's rage

My mother calls me crying and asks if she can come over. My immediate fear is that someone has died. And in that fear there is a twinge of hope it was my grandfather. But through her sobs she assures me no one had died. She has just gotten off the phone with my sister who has “said all these awful things.” I am laying in bed hungover and haven’t moved up until this point. I sit up finally and agree she may come over. In the five minutes it takes my mother to get to my house I hurry to make myself look and feel less hungover. She lets herself in. I say wait on the couch I’ll be right out. I come around the corner to see my mother sitting there, in my living room, face red from crying. “You look pitiful” I say. I am a terrible comfort. And I don’t know why she has come to me. In the years we’ve lived here in a state that is not the one I was born in, my mother has acquired no true friends. She tells me about neighbor women who agree to plans with her only to back out when it comes time. She is far away from the family she knows. She doesn’t work but relies on my dad. Growing up I noticed her bond being closer to my sister. And I never really minded considering I’ve never felt close to my sister. But now my sister is grown. And she has problems of her own. And I feel she has found herself in a situation many adults do. Where you grow up and realize just how much damage you took on in childhood. And now she has turned against my mother. I am the closest child so she now comes to me. And I am a terrible comfort. “Do you need a hug?” I ask. She nods. I give her an uncomfortably stiff hug. I try to find the words. I do not know what to say. I am a terrible comfort. I think to myself again. I have flashbacks to trying to comfort a woman in jail. Her dogs left in a hot camper when she was arrested. The desire to help soothe is there. But nothing in me connects. I do not possess the words. Back in reality my mother continues to cry on my couch. I utter a few sentences. She says she needs to go home to lay down. Okay. Glad that is over. When she has left I wonder to myself. How did I seek comfort as a child? And when I needed it did I receive it? I think not. This thought expands into every area of my life. And now of course I am connecting the dots of how being deprived of your basic needs, to lack understanding, to be poorly comforted in your youth, makes for a terribly out of touch adult. I am a terrible comfort. And I can not comfort my mother. As she could never comfort me. As her mother could never comfort her. As her mother could never comfort herself. My mind stretches on further into a past I will never be able to fully unravel.

i'm sitting here, listening to the playlist my mom made for our road trip and the whole spelling bee album was in there along with six and & juliet. the happiness i felt when i realized she does listen when i talk and takes time to notice what i like. how can i still love someone so much even after all the issues we've had, it made me tear up

Sometimes I look at my mother and it’s like “all I want to do is make you proud.” “Why does your affection smother me?” I want to rest my head in her lap but being at home exhausts and suffocates me. She loves me but sometimes doesn’t understand me. I have so much respect and admiration for her, you’re from a different time. My internal voice is my mother kissing me on the forehead and insulting me in the name of love

The situation now is worse than before. To avoid triggering my sister, for whom, it seems, my mere existence is a reason to fly into a violent rage, I have been reduced to hiding in the apartment - hiding in the back if she's in the front, hiding in the front if she's in the back, eating meals separate from the family and at odd hours to not encroach on her space, speaking only minimally and when it's certain I'm out of earshot. Now and then, when I pass her in the hall by some force of necessity, I try to act like we are still friends. I say hi, give an open bob of my head, and keep walking so I don't overdo it. She barely, if ever, acknowledges me. Turns her head constantly in the other direction, even if she's walking the other way. My mother has also gotten worse. She explodes when she's frustrated or overwhelmed, but because she can't explode with my sister without triggering a meltdown, she explodes with me. She hits herself, goes red, and screams - today because I misunderstood something she said about the puddle by shower, whether the toilet had leaked or the shower door had been open, a small thing. I find an even smaller corner to hide in. After, she comes to my corner with food. I don't know how to receive it because, yes, I'm grateful, but I'm still crying, and I don't know what to say because anything I say gets turned into my mother being hard-done-by after she's made such an effort, which she has, but... but it's still not ok. And I didn't ask for the food. But I'm grateful. But that doesn't change that it wasn't ok. Does it?

I should go somewhere else... but where?

Eldest daughter

“Your double chin is showing”

That has reached my ears while I was dealing with my clothes in a bathroom. It’s not that I am easily triggered, I am truly not though each word coming out of my mom’s mouth is like a bullet.

“I don’t mean it as a compliment, nor as an insult. It’s just what it is”

I only have one thought in my mind - backhanded. My mom is just like any other ethnic mom says what she wants because for the first time in her life she has an authority over someone. She finally gets to be the boss and find a scapegoat. Motherhood is the only space for women from traditionals and ethnic households to seek control and people who would finally listen to each of their bitchy words. Even if it means that your children, particularly your daughters, would be those people.

And such phrases come out so randomly, I frequently try to get inside her mind and comprehend what drives her sudden urges to put some salt onto my wounds.

And I truly am trying to become the mom from 11th episode of “How to get away with murder” and gravitate towards forgiveness. I truly do.

But this same womb that carried me will eventually become the cell.

Oh to be able to heal your ethnic mom, to become her, to sink into her and be one big piece like we once were. Yet I am aware of the fact that the more I sympathize the more I idealize her, and her “double chin” comments.  

But perhaps this is faith. The faith of an eldest daughter in an ethnic family. The faith that is full of generational curses and traumas that I will cut off.

I love my mom and this is why I will never be like her.

Tell me you’re your mother’s daughter without telling me you’re your mother’s daughter:

you take it upon yourself to never disappoint your mother, to make sure she doesn’t feel like a failure in life(even if she failed you and never treated you like you deserved), bc you’re the one who’s had to carry your mother’s wounds and trauma your entire life

i am unable to hold a grudge against my mother because i know what she went through as a child.

maintaining our relationship is so hard.