Puppy’s Name Was Taken

It has some genuinely fascinating stuff to say about gender, and I feel like it's worth looking at/thinking about in the context of Historical Gender Stuff. This 100 year old book has the following to say:

"The truth is that some young gentlemen would rather they had been born young ladies: they cannot admit this openly, because in the male world to confess as much would lead to instant ostracism if not worse; but they cannot conceal it either, and by preferring the company of girls, and soft, feminine clothing, and by flinching during the rough pursuits to which all boys, willing or no, are occasionally heirs, they attract opprobrium."

"Such boys weep too readily for their fellows' tastes - weeping is a great crime among boys unless it is generally admitted that circumstances left little choice - and are hounded for that reason."

"Just as there are girls who had rather been boys - we all know examples of the type - there are boys who, in a kinder world, would have been born into the gender more suited to their dispositions."

"Many young people of this sort are riven with a guilt they do not deserve but have been forced, by the conventions of society, to adopt; they are confused, ashamed and thoroughly unhappy."

"The ideal thing to do would be to treat these cases on their merits, send them to girls' schools, and so on. (The same thing should happen with those girls who would rather be young gentlemen.) Boys of this sort are girls in any case-in all respects save one."

Developmental coordination disorder (DCD), also known as developmental motor coordination disorder, developmental dyspraxia, or simply dyspraxia (from Ancient Greekpraxis 'activity'), is a motor disorder[1] characterized by impaired coordination of physical movements as a result of brain messages not being accurately transmitted to the body.

Deficits in fine or gross motor skills movements interfere with activities of daily living. It is often described as disorder in skill acquisition, where the learning and execution of coordinated motor skills is substantially below that expected given the individual's chronological age.

Difficulties may present as clumsiness, slowness and inaccuracy of performance of motor skills (e.g., catching objects, using cutlery, handwriting, riding a bike, use of tools or participating in team sports or swimming). It is often accompanied by difficulty with organisation and/or problems with attention, working memory and time management.

At least, that's what Wikipedia will tell you. Alas, I find that dyspraxia is often a poorly understood disorder, even among dyspraxics.

What's dyspraxia like?

I often describe it as having the motor control of a small child, and that's what it often feels like.

Dyspraxia affects things like writing and tying shoes, Wikipedia says that too. But that's such a vague thing.

Some of you might know that there's a simpler way of tying shoes that is taught to children, before they have the motor function for the more advanced way. I was never able to learn that more advanced way. In fact, I still struggle quite a bit with the "simple way".

I started at school like other kids. My writing wasn't great, and i'd need to correct a lot of mistakes, in fact i needed a special pen that was easier to erase, just because of how frequent it was. Wikipedia tells us that "brain messages [are] not being accurately transmitted to the body".

What does that mean? For writing, it might mean something like what i lived. Constantly accidentally writing the wrong letter, making the wrong shapes, needing to correct. That takes time, that means judgment. But don't worry, the people judging you will get tired of you not improving, they'll stop caring that you're bad at it.

It means writing slow. Not just slow, but noticeably slow. Too slow, far too slow. It means being a few times slower than anyone around you, and it means having to speed up, at all cost, to keep up. It means having the speed up not being enough. It means speeding up more, and more, until your writing is mostly unreadable to yourself, and having that not be enough, still. To slow, and too messy at once. It means being written off for your writing being unreadable, or for not having the time to write everything. Most likely both at once.

For most, it means a lot of pain, it means holding your pen like a child, or in really wierd ways. It can mean finding the "normal way" of holding pens way too hard. It means having the coordination of a small child.

It meant having the luck to get to use a computer, having to do mandatory teaching of how to type on a computer, because our parents managed to notice we struggled, and after all that, knowing it wasn't enough. It means focusing hard on every movement you do, tiring yourself because of that focus.

It means breaking glasses and plates, it means hurting yourself accidentally.

It means struggling to, if not being outright unable to drive. Losing balance, falling. Difficulty with basic workplace tasks, ridicule, difficulty to even get work.

It means struggling in most sports because your brain doesn't work well. Means being unable to interface with a society that expects a level of ability you don't have.

It means starting out not too bad, and watching everyone get better, as you seemingly failed to improve. Put a pin in that.

It means struggling to speak because your tongue refuses to move in the right way.

But that's not all that it is.

What does dyspraxia feel like?

Dyspraxia is a strange beast. It's invisible to others, as many are, and as many too, it's too often invisible too yourself.

Dyspraxia is being bad. It's being worse at everything than most people are. It's seeing everyone get better than you at everything that you care about, in a quarter of your time. It's struggling, and feeling like you're at fault for struggling.

It's feeling like you could do it if you actually tried, if you stopped being so stupid, so bad.

It feels like being careful of everything you do because you're afraid of fucking up (again)

I played badminton for a year, a bit more. The number of times I managed to touch the ball can be counted on two hands. It means having to deal with that, with knowing how bad, how worthless you are. Having to deal with that feeling, and not being able to fix it, even though it feels like you should.

It feels like if I actually tried I should be able to play this one rhythm game! It's just pressing one key on rhytm, how do i even manage to miss all qtes? It's like I'm not even trying.

It feels like i shoudl be able ot type right no, I mean it can't be that had, and everyone achieves it fine, and usuallt 2 to fine times faster. it's having to correct thpe after typao , usuallt until you get tyred of correcting them and just let some pfo them slip theough because fuck, yiûve spent the last minute on tist one word that yoûve written fice times and failed five timeS.

It feels like your brain works wrong (it does). And one of the most pernicious things about it, in my experience is how it starts. How you start with a new activity, game, or whatever. How everyone around you including you is discovering and learning, and how they expect you to be bad at it. You're bad at it, but only more or less the normal amount. Sometimes you're even pretty good at it! Used to overcompensating for your disability in other ways. And as time goes, as people get better, getting left behind, because the expectation of ability climbs up. It means not being able to take pride in being good at anything, because you know it'd just take a week and some effort for an abled to outclass you (and nobody would recognise that it was much harder for you, would they?). It means having to relive that feeling of being bad, worthless, and not even being able to warn people about it, because, you're not bad at it (yet)! You'll learn (you won't)! Just keep trying (you'll try, harder than them).

It feels liek failing and failt?. Over and over, failing and failing. And having the world tell you that you're wrong for it, that you should try harder. And this isn't a metaphor.

A thing I often like to say, is talk about this or that game I struggle with playing. It always elicit the same exact reaction. Everyone assumes that I just have less experience, that I've done less, that I haven't tried enough, or that it's not that bad. Of course, it's worse than they can imagine it. But they have to protect their ego as a good person, and to protect ableist systems.

It feels like being mocked because your brain is broken, doesn't work right. And like everyone that doesn't mock you minimizing your struggle because it's what "nice people" do. They erase disability. It's not that bad. You're not that bad. It feels like knowing you are that bad, but being forbidden to recognizing it, like no matter what you say people will have a nice little piece to say about how hard it is and how normal it is that you're struggling actually (and feeling like an asshole for even complaining), like you're not actually strugging, you're doing great (you're not). Like saying, don't worry. You're not broken (and knowing you are). You're not disabled. You're not like them. (you are them)

This all is far from unique to dyspraxia specifically. This is common to ableism, in general. And that brings us to the next point

What can be done?

We're just girls on tumblr. I don't think we can change that much big things, not easily, at least. So I'll focus on the small. The interpersonal.

But if you wonder idily, the big is a great work. it's restructuring how we do things, to be more permissive. It's restructuring how we think about things, about everything. About the people that are bad at things, that can't do it, that hurt and are hurt. It's restructuring the world away from meritocracy as default. From performance in an activity as a moral good. It's having robust systems of care, and of help. It's big work.

The small work is stuff you can do right now. Stuff you should do right now.

The small work is not minimizing people's experiences. It's learning that when someone say they struggle with something, they're probably understating the amount to which they struggle. It's learning that even the small stuff matters. Learning that it's important, and that it has to be treated that way.

The small work is not judging what people do. Not the typos, not the way they might simplify or not do some things, not the wording, not the wierd offputting stuff. Not the laziness, not the cheats in videogames, nothing. Not judging is free, easy, and good for everyone.

The small work is learning how it's like, and not making excuses, not minimizing, it's learning how you can help, in every way that you can help. It's making small meaningful changes in what you do, and how you do them, to accomodate people. It's helping and giving tips while also being cognisant that they might not know the thing you're giving tips on, but they know themselves, and trusting them to interface between the two.

For dyspraxia, it's forcing people to rely less on fine motor function. Doing things or making things that can be done more easily, that rely on other things.

From a previous piece, for games, it means binding multiple actions to less buttons to worry less about what to press, it means providing alternate systems like mouse (better for buttons, bad for targeting), controllers (better for buttons), touchscreens (great for targeting). Providing things that rely less on strict timing, that are more lenient. Providing a separate "are you sure" button for important actions, being more lenient, in general.

The small work is helping others learn, because there aren't many of us but there's a lot of you.

I switch up letters when writing or even start the next word before finishing the first. Like OP I constantly make spelling mistakes (thank god for autocorrect) when handwriting or on a keyboard. My handwriting isn’t consistent and it’s hard to read. No amount of practicing has improved it. If I focus on legibility my hand hurts more.

the government says this plan will increase the integration of vampiric persons into normal society. the national health service says their trial will help 'people with disordered hemosynthetic parasitism' manage their health and avoid poor, condition-derived choice.

everyone knows it's kinda bullshit.

the clinics are too far apart, the waiting lists too long, the supply too short and the subject of endless headlines about the bagfeeders stealing from our veins. (0.4% of daily donations, to be precise.)

and you're still basically disabled without RADE (risk-aware dietary enhancement), and taking it from a partner is just a call-out post and a lost mutual aid network waiting for a breakup.

you could do bloodwork. it'll even be not-yet illegal if you don't let them fuck you, which is only the most required part if you aren't a top 0.1% earner and still wanna make rent.

no. what everyone knows really is that it's not enough, and it's not supposed to be. they want you starving, barely able to get up in the evening, getting fired totally because you can't keep up and all these complaints which are totally valid.

they want you thinking about making those poor, condition-derived choices. so they can simper about how much they sympathise with your condition and how unsafe you must feel while they lock you up and cancel all their plans and trials for being ineffective.

so you're in their corridors, their halls. it's where they want you. cheap, and vulnerable, and needy. with the people who could make it better and won't. who'll enjoy you and feed you and toss you when the headlines get too close to finding out.

they will notice--when the right honourable member for croydon west fails to preside over PMQs.

they will notice--when the mail is shoving PARASITE PROSTITUTE EATS YOUR SPEAKER OF THE HOUSE down every tom-dick voter's thursday morning throat.

it takes an hour for you to move.

the cold bag of flesh sagging inside of you falling out and off the state bed. what little blood is left shows only as a shadow in the crimson carpet. you shove it in the closet, and are a whisper in its mirrored face.

would that were what eyes see too.

a hidden panel makes for an exit. a mosque across the river makes for a bed and the other kind of meal without questions. you think about what they'll have when they turn the tv and leave before it. security cameras aren't made with silver; your face isn't yours any more.

would that you could turn a bat and fly. instead for all your fullness you still feel the pit dug of decades, like you could throw both lords and commons into it and still be empty.

there's a house in brixton, the worst hour of your life away. someone had a baseball cap you steal, there's sunglasses in your bag; a mask is too much. your parasol will mark you out as disordered; you put on every bit of silver you can and bear the little sun you can, police vans whining past and strangers in the street you have to hope don't care.

the girl inside has never met you, you just know her from someone who does from someone who does from someone who does. she's fae, and like a sheep. velvet cheeks and square eyes and not out to the world like you are. none of the fae are--they see how bad it's gone for everyone except the old blood who fuck their own great-grandnieces at party fundraisers--so none of them are on a police registry with your address, or on a list passed over from palantir of your friends and their friends and all the addresses of their shitty, overpriced boxes.

you take off the silver, red marks on your warm skin. she has to go to work; she'll show you how to glamour when she's back.

something thunders distant on windrush square. you hear it from the shared garden, where a thin line of glittering chalk keeps you safe and unseen.

everyone here is the same, almost. she's called dolly--a joke which stuck a couple months ago. it comes with different needs, a different kind of struggle, and not a reason to care about yours.

she does. gets back from work and shows you the glamour she takes to it. like the chalk line, but takes away her and humanises instead. so long as you don't get too close.

she gives you her wrist, shaved down. does it before she injects in case it takes the hormones away because maybe that's how it works.

you walk outside and no-one stops you. you circle round the square, people shouting from concrete snakes. silver takes you far enough to find a carribbean shop. you don't know what to buy, dolly can't eat the same as you. you buy too much and have sex on an old carpet when she notices the regret.

you're not full. you're also not empty. the reflection in the mirror is strange; sunflower-print dungarees that were never marketably fuckable enough to pick for yourself.

there's police in the square. people push them from a memorial, there's cardboard in their hands. you try to go back to the shop; AFOs with Fs stand at each door to the market, and you can smell the silver bullets from too close to turn away.

you used your own fucking card.

drop it before you use it this time; bungle out the shop backwards right into someone. the glamour falters and you feel it like nails on half-dead nerve-ends.

someone else grabs your arm. the whole thing fails by time you're pulled into a kitchen. everyone looks and keeps moving as three different ipads chime out the demands of delivery apps. the boy who grabbed you, dreads in a net, asks what you're doing here.

(to eat. to be full.)

"you got a phone?" no. "i can call for you." you don't know her number.

where did they all come from. you try to run threat analysis. you need to find dolly. soft wool. hot skin. chalk to hide behind. there's only a crowd instead; officers up to the walls, the space between them long as a gun barrel.

across the gap. into the people, pulling you in before you're seen. flares burn and their smoke wafts on old, hand-sewn union banners. you must just be the excuse. drums and lungs. you don't need to breathe and it's suffocating.

a hand in the sky, pushed through a sea of flesh, from where you can't find. dolly. the tide pushes you back. if you had a voice she'd still never hear it. and a sheep won't herd this.

the tide crushes. your hand begs the sky for it to stop, and it burns. and everyone hears the scream. sees the smoke off your skin, black amongst the brick-red flares that stain every flag you would cling to.

and then everyone hears the shot.

the tide tries to pull but you end up on the rocks, a rifle pushed into your shoulder. a fleeting clack of secret hooves before they're gone.

she sends you letters.

everyone does.

enough that you're kept on remand, not in a hole to be lost forever.

a trial fails. crown prosecution services is allowed to try again. over and over. till the letters stop coming with the drops of blood you have to beg off nurses who come only to laugh at how can barely push off the floor.

they want their excuse for what's to come, and an example with it.

the group that organises the letters, and the blankets, and the small shark toy--is proscribed. it stops.

the last one left comes and the guard stomps on it before he kicks it through the thin slat into your hole.

half-crushed. your cold skin made even more pale by the puffed-out dust when you open it. a little bit left, wool-wrapped.

Storytime with Blue is starting in 10 minutes

There are very rare instances in which a relicta flos cannot be released from Affini care and must be placed under special wardship. These interventions tend to occur when a sophont is deemed to pose an extremely high risk to themselves or others. Relicta flos placed under temporary wardship are usually assigned to a specialist who handles the case personally...

Hab Ring D. It isn't the worst place to rot in interstellar obscurity. I pulled out my data pad and gazed wistfully at my background photo. A towering mass of vines and flowers and beauty, draped over my comparatively little frame. There was nothing in the world like being owned by her. Nothing. Nothing I wouldn't do to end up back in her arms, no price too steep. No indignity I count myself above, I would do anything.

With dread, I glanced at the foreboding steps - dimly lit. I figured the Affini would build the safest possible infrastructure. I wanted to be sure this would work. I needed to be. I suppose if I overshot the severity of what I was about to do - well. I wouldn't have to worry about it anymore. Another shaky glance at the long flight of stairs, originally meant for Affini and only slightly modified. The terran modifications actually made the stairs more dangerous, adding a ton of steps. I wouldn't have been jostled around that much if every step was still several feet high, ironically enough. I'm sure the terran who engineered the redesign for this stairwell wasn't thinking that someone would throw themselves down with the intent of maximum damage. Or... perhaps they had considered it? I shudder at the thought that my resistance has been accounted for. Gathering all of my courage, I open up the ship's local messaging service, contacting Scylla Syllgada, Fifth Bloom (She/Her).

C: Hey. I - well. I found a way we can be together.

S: ??? Comet, what are you talking about?

C: Don't worry, finally I get to surprise you. It's all going to work out, and I can be your pet again.

S: ...Comet, are you intoxicated? You know that, without my direct guidance, that is incredibly dangerous.

C: Oh, so you care now?

S: Why must you be so ridiculous, of course I care, Comet! I'm following the Compact's protocol, and I'm going above and beyond by offering continued assistance as a volunteer. I'm trying to keep my feelings separate from my moral imperative.

C: Well.. if you care so much then... come find me at that library across from the old floret park. Come see me.

S: What? See you? For what purpose?

S: Comet?

S: ...Comet?

I tap away from the messaging application and am greeted once again with my own bright, smiling face, warm and happy and in the embrace of my Guardian. I watch as that happy face is replaced with a grim reflection in the screen - a scarred, feral girl. Lost, and afraid. Alone. I had one though when I started to run towards the stairs.

I hope this hurts.

Pain. Throbbing pain, splitting pain. The tumble itself - I fully don't remember. All I remember is - my datapad making noises I couldn't discern. Beeping every few seconds. What I later discovered was Scylla frantically messaging me for information. An explanation. To explain why my haustoric reads out that I'm in critical condition.

I take some time to evaluate what's wrong. and - well, I... can't feel my legs. Hacking coughs wrack through my body, and I cough up some blood into my palm. Oh - good. Definitely some internal bleeding there. Surely she'll take me back now. Surely this nightmare will be over, and I'll be in her arms again soon. Surely. I pull up my datapad and just type out "Owie..." on the cracked screen and send it to her. The blood from my coughing smears against the screen and leaves a crimson trail along it. I giggle. While my legs were most certainly paralyzed - I mean, stars above, I couldn't feel them! - There was still a burning sensation that only grew stronger. More crimson fluid flies from my lips as I cough; this time I can't cover my mouth, and it flies onto myself and the floor... I wail in pain. "M-mommy please, i'm sorry... i hurt myself mommy. i - please..." I whine to nobody. To myself. To Her. If only I had more of those god damn painkillers. I didn't realize that even through those, something could still hurt so terribly. That probably wasn't the best sign. If a doctor asked me about my pain on a scale of 1-10 I'd tell her to bite me, and then I'd probably tell her like an 8 or 9.

Soon enough, I see a few of them. The plants. I whimper and try to scurry away and wince, crying out in pain. Before I can open my mouth to explain, Scylla stabs me with her injector, and everything feels so much better. I giggle at her and make cute little grabby hands covered in something red. "M-m..mommy!!! Hi!!! mommy mommy!!!" I giggle more, in a fit. I cough up some more of that red something and pout, remembering something.

Scylla's vines twitch and her leaves rustle as she processes what is actually going on. "Why...?" She looks at the red and the broken girl in front of her, a growl rising in her throat that she tries to stifle.

"Scylla, no matter your feelings, we must attend to the sophont in emergent danger. Even if it appears self-inflicted. Especially then." A strange Affini places its hand on her shoulder, and Scylla sighs.

"You're right, Liiac. You're right. Can you help stabilize my relicta flos and get her somewhere? I have to fill out an emergency wardship form." She stares at me, and I giggle at her. She turns away as a growl rips through her throat and she stomps off.

"I-is... mommy mad at me...?" I look up at the other plant, almost forgetting entirely the events of the last year. It shakes its head at me and gets to work. Injectors of all kinds push fluid into me, pull it out of me. I giggle, and squeal, and squirm.

"Scylla is managing her own distress. You scared her." The feminine-sounding doctor lady explains in short sentences that make it seem like she's mad, too.

I don't get to respond to that because I feel a familiar stinging sensation in my neck, and everything fades to black.

I awaken in a vet's office, being looked over by the Affini that accompanied Scylla. "She's awake." The doctor had done a lot of work, but I still couldn't feel my legs. Still felt like I'd been punched everywhere a hundred times. To my left, there was a surgical table where - yup, pieces of bone had been deposited. There were several tools and a great many lights and monitors. The bed was far too large for someone of my stature, reinforcing the feeling of being a child at the doctor's. Waiting for the hard part to be over so you get to play again. Watch TV. Do something.

Scylla walks into room and looks at me with sad eyes, and asks for a moment of privacy with me. Once we have the room, she walks to the medical bed and lets out a growl. I shrink and nod. "I des-"

"Oh, no. It is not your turn to speak, Starling. That chance was squandered. What the hell were you thinking, jumping down a flight of stairs like that? What if I didn't have your biorhythms monitored? What if I was busy, or off the ship, or what have you? Are you trying to prove you're incompetent? You're doing a great job of it!" She lets herself pause, noticing that I had been wincing, backing away from her against an extremely comfortable pillow.

"I d-don't... know... I wanted my Guardian back, I wanted you, Scylla I-" I look to my left, and right, hoping for some invisible member of the audience to bail me out. There was none.

"Guardian, now? What happened to Mommy? Is that only when you're pathetically trying to lure me into being your Owner again?" She snarled at me, revealing some ugly truths. "Or, is that only when you're so high you can't think? Is that when I'm your Mommy?" She clenches her fist and turns away. "You know I was scared that you died, right? I was scared. My pet scared me." She seems to be calming down, and my brain sparks some realization in it, why she was acting like this. What it reminded me of.

"You're already my emergent warden, aren't you?" I chuckle and cough, and wipe some of the blood that comes up. The excess is being drained but that only does so much.

"...what...?" Her eyes are wide, and she looks me up and down. She knew my fall was self-inflicted. The motive was clicking into place. "You didn't, tell me you didn't..."

"I... d-did. I hurt myself. Badly. So that we could be together again. Can't you see? I-isn't this so much nicer than being apart?" I desperately try to convince her, and cough into my hand again. No blood this time.

"No. This isn't better than being apart." She looks at me, scanning for any hint of deception. She found none. "Emergent Wardens are only authorized to protect their wards for the period of time that they cannot care for themselves and present a danger to themselves or others. What happens when I take you to your doctor, and she clears you for release?" She growls to herself. "It's deeply disrespectful to put me in this position, knowing I wouldn't refuse a desperate girl in need. You pervert my kindness, little Terran." She steps to the medical bed, looming over me. Stars, she could end me with a single blow... and I wouldn't mind at all.

I shrugged, my eyes wide with terror. My body is shaking and shivering. "...I... don't..." I couldn't look at this goddess in her face. I was too ashamed. "I just needed you. Life w-without you is hell, life... is hell. I don't want to be independent. I don't want it." I start to sob and pull up a pillow, and let my tears stain the large comfort item. "I'll do anything. I will."

She pulled up an Affini-sized chair and sat next to the hospital bed. Her eyes never leave my face. I knew Affini didn't see with their eyes, but the effect was still nice. "Well. You get what you wanted. I'm your emergent warden and - since I stepped up, I'm the one that's always going to have to. That's how it is. So you're stuck with me." Her thorny mouth curled into a frown. "Don't look so happy about it. You've done a terrible thing, and this is a tragedy." She wilts under my pouting gaze.

"I'm sorry that I... um... scared you. That wasn't what I was trying to do." [Implant Activation: LLPOF-XD001] I immediately felt my body relax and my mind release. My eyes go wide. My Guardian's datapad beeps, and she grins, knowing already what it means. I also know - my haustoric is back online, in its full capacity.

"Are you sorry?" Her words almost seem to curl into my brain like vines and pull out the truth. The thing I was concealing so tightly felt all slippery, lubed up with Class-D xenodrugs, and now free to release into her prying clutches.

"No. I'm not sorry, and I'll do it again." I feel myself say, followed by a giggling fit. She won't let me lie anymore. She won't let me be a bad girl as long as I keep hurting myself. She'll see. It's a perfect system, we can't go wrong here... I give her a big smile, and she turns away.

girl whos read umineko and worm: i just like acting. literally millions of people are actors. that doesnt signify anything

girl whos read umineko and homestuck: sometimes i think about the version of me who didn't move away so much i can see the contours of her life