I don’t know who needs to hear this, but please, please,pleasedo not use the term “gaslighting” in political debates or discussion. It doesn’t belong there, and using it in that context is doing real harm to abuse survivors.
Gaslighting is when an abuser attempts to make their victim question their own sense of reality through denial or fabrication. A parent telling their child, “No, I never sat you down and yelled at you for an hour because you didn’t take out the trash. Why would you even accuse me of something like that?” That’s gaslighting. One partner using emotional manipulation and vague claims to convince another that having a single beer after dinner is evidence of a drinking problem? That’s gaslighting. Someone countering your political opinions? A politician saying something you disagree with? Not gaslighting.
I get that things are contentious right now. I understand a lot of people are angry about a lot of things. But the word “gaslighting” is important to abuse survivors. It’s a powerful term, and the only one that adequately describes the mental agony of having someone try and rewrite your reality, of having them attack your own sense of self to try and make you depend on them to define what you remember and what you don’t, of wondering if the horrible things you remember even happened. When you take the word “gaslighting” and fling it around your political arguments, you cheapen it. You water it down. You turn it into just another buzzword used to shut people down on Twitter, to win a debate that is utterly meaningless by any estimation. (Hate to break it to you, but it’s true. Social media debates don’t change anyone’s mind and, according to most counts, have only ever succeeded in making everyone angry.)
When survivors, still in that fragile questioning phase where they don’t know if they deserve to use the word abusejust yet, see gaslighting used so casually, they’ll assume that what happened to them was no more horrific than one person disagreeing with another on social media. What’s worse, their abusers can now accuse them of gaslighting for something as simple as challenging their false version of events.
I won’t be hearing arguments on this. No “but it IS gaslighting because….” No “but when my parents argue with me, it feels like gaslighting.” Your feelings do not define a word. That word does not belong to you. Leave it alone.
picture this, i give you a glass bottle and tell you to open it, but bottle openers are forbidden, how do you do it?
im talking about this bitch btw
you cant twist it off :)
Okay the first thing you need to understand is that I come from a country of drunks who will let nothing stand between them and their beer (usually served in one of these)
I don’t even remember all the stuff I’ve used to open bottles like this with. You want to know how I’d do it? I’d use any sort of sharp metal edge nearby
im sorry but. what lmao. getting this email notif was like top ten most surreal moments of the morning can you imagine DRINKING through this book???
Update- they are trying to kill us
i really do recommend taking a look at the entire list because there are some really interesting choices here. imagine finishing your drink after the jaswit harsher chapter
also today was my first day without a migraine in…..10 days?? i think 10 days. so im having a hard seltzer to treat myself. trigeminal nerve be damned.
In which Ford and Nursey raid a op-shop to a questionable success. Nursey and Farmer have a fight? or a reconciliation? or maybe just an agreement to do both later? Nursey and Dex remember what it was like before the coin toss when down but don’t do anything about their fractured relationship. Nursey and Chowder don’t talk about their feelings and least important of all: the game begins without a hitch!
Kevin probably took so long to admit that he wanted to recover. Wanted to get help for his alcoholism. He probably didn’t want to tell the team afraid he’d get made fun of. But he finally does. He goes to Neil first because the kids an asshole but Kevin knows if he really truly needed something Neil would 100% help him.
He tells the cousins next. He expected Nicky to crack jokes or Aaron to say some kind of bullshit but he’s not sure if Neil talked to Andrew and Andrew made threats but Nicky just hugs him and tells him he’ll help anyway he can. Aaron kind of just nods at him and tells him he’ll miss him at Edens which is the nicest possible outcome.
He doesn’t tell the rest of the team because he doesn’t drink with them anyways. He doesn’t really bother until they’re celebrating a massive win and they all want to party at the dorms after. Kevin is invited and he wants to go because he actually does like hanging out with these idiots as much as he hates to admit it. But he’s not really sure he can be around all that alcohol but even Andrew and Neil are going. He finally pulls Renee aside and explains because she’s sober and he wants to know how she does it. She explains that throwing himself into a situation before he’s ready won’t do him any good so he decides to just go back to his room.
Not even 10 minutes later the foxes are piling into the dorm room with snacks and sodas stacked in their arms and Nicky has a tower of DVDs falling onto the floor and he’s telling Kevin to pick one and Kevin is so??? But Allison just smacks him upside the head “you should have said something. As much fun as it is to get shit faced it’s not the only way to have fun. And Kevin suddenly realizes that there’s not a single liquor bottle in sight. They gave up their night of partying to watch movies and talk shit for him.Because he’s trying to get better and this is themsupportinghim.
It’s unspoken after that. If it’s a team activity that all of them are at there’s no drinking. Even Abby and Wymack have switched out their beer and wine at family dinners and when Kevin tells them they don’t have to they just shrug and tell him it’s the least they can do. Renee tells him eventually he can be around people who are drinking. Maybe. He might be able to but it’s okay if he can’t. And Kevin hates this team. Hates that they’re so difficult but he loves them. He loves his family.
@aftgbingo square: the rain. this is the final in the 5 and the +1 is up next!!
Dan spins. Hands landing on the rail, she leans her weight back on them. “Wanna have sex?”
His mouth slowly opens. “What?”
She shrugs, feeling light and friendly after a couple drinks. There’s a heart full of affection in her chest that she wants to rain down on him. “That’s how this goes right?” She gestures vaguely to the titillating room. All it needs are a few candles and it’d make it onto some pinterest list of dream fuck sights.
>walking home from a party late one evening >several guys were following me, as my drunk ass managed to piss them off by existing >try to walk faster, to no avail, as I’m drunk as shit >catch me in some random student neighbourhood >oh shit, my ass is about to be beaten >still in talking phase >lights flick on in a house >three guys in full musketeer garb walk out >leader is some blond guy with a beard, eyepatch, and some weird-ass accent >“What sort of ruffians would be accosting someone outside our residence? Stand and deliver!” >guys start yelling at them to fuck off, that I deserved to get my ass beaten >“Very well, then. Draw steel, you blackguard!” >all three of them draw rapiers on their belts >guys run >“I know not why those foul men sought your harm, but come and tell us the tale, stranger!” >spend remainder of evening drinking mulled wine with lunatics >bunch of Swedish re-enactors live there >blond guy is actually missing an eye; lost it in an machine shop accident >stagger home completely drunk with a hat
I had no idea people like that existed. Or had the money to rent a house.
in addition to two comments reading “FUCKING EPIC” and “THIS A THOUSAND TIMES THIS” op elaborated further in another post:
Holy shit, is this still being posted?
I figure I owe /tg/ a bit of an update on these guys.
Their leader, O he of one eye and little common sense, nearly had his visa revoked for these kinds of shenanigans. One too many arrests meant that his right to stay in the country was contested, and he had to go to court to defend himself and prevent his visa from being revoked.
I was his ride to court, and had to testify to the board that he shouldn’t be deported for lack of common sense or social normality.
His defense? A written speech, about three pages long, about the rights of man, the education he has received here, and the opportunities for a one-eyed machinist. The spirit of his crimes were all in defense of people who would otherwise suffer. For other witnesses, he had some of the random people he’d helped out, including one memorable point where a woman, nearly on the verge of tears, pointed out how he’d taken on a guy threatening to rape her and carrying a knife by whipping out a fencing saber, disarming him, and mocking him in his thick Swedish accent so that the girl could call the cops. Something like a dozen people all showed up, explaining how this dude, despite his eccentricities, made the country better.
He was not deported, and lives here to this very day, stalking the streets in musketeer garb, rescuing drunks, and dispensing his own brand of justice.
Summary: Combeferre tries to teach Marius German and is interrupted by the Romantic zeitgeist and then gale force winds of puns.
A/N: arrivisting found out the cool cookie protests!
“Marius needs to learn German,” Courfeyrac announced to Bahorel. “Where’s Combeferre?”
“And the relation between your two statements?”
“Bahorel! I am surprised at your mental turpitude this afternoon! Did you attend a lecture at the law school by accident?”
“Alas,” Bahorel admitted, lips twitching, “you have the right of it. I should not be surprised that Combeferre found time to learn German, and yet, I am.”
Combeferre was in the back room of the Cafe Musain, examining Joly’s attempts at parody. Their last attempt had nearly resulted in arrest, so Bossuet and Joly had the possibly brilliant, certainly drunken idea to create edible satires of Charles X. Joly’s characteristic care and precision made him a good cook and the batch of gingerbread batter had turned out very well indeed.
That had been the end of the obvious success.
Joly and Bossuet had invited Grantaire over to help them shape the cookies. Grantaire had been at the Musain with an open bottle of wine and it had seemed impolite not to sit and drink when Louison had already brought them two glasses. Two hours later, they recalled the original purpose of their errand. Joly unearthed a bottle of brandy to aid in the creative process. That “helped” about as much as could be expected. The result of this evening now lay on the table under the map of France, in a very sad row of misshapen lumps.
“You can tell Grantaire studied under Gros,” said Combeferre, taking out his handkerchief. He moved several of the cookies to one end of the table. These were all recognizably profiles of Charles X, and helpfully had raisins for eyes. The rest looked sort of like the profile of a human being, if one had never seen a human being before and had possibly confused human beings with rock formations.
Feuilly was standing at the other end of the table, frowning and tilting his head from one side to the other. “Which… is that…? I think that’s the nose?”
Bossuet looked down the line of Feuilly’s pointing finger. “Alas, no, that’s the tail of his wig. I think. Joly?”
“I think two cookies may have fused into one,” said Joly, rubbing his nose against the knob of his cane. “Quite the medical anomaly.”
“We shall call this one Janus, and pretend it is elaborate political commentary,” said Bossuet. “Ah ha, got it! Charles X is literally two-faced!”
“I do not think anyone would be able to recognize that it is two profiles of Charles X,” said Combeferre. “Feuilly, you are an artist. Now that you know what it is, can you see a likeness?”
“Euh….”
Bossuet sighed. “It is because I baked this particular monster. Let us be thankful that amongst my many names, one finds neither Victor nor Frankenstein. If this is my Creature, heaven help the world. You see, I have no eye for how a man’s nose changes when you put a priest’s cap upon his head.”
“Ideally, the nose should not change,” Feuilly said, still unused, as of yet, to Bossuet’s sense of humor. Feuilly moved onto one of Joly’s attempts. “Is that.. a priest’s cap?”
“Oh wonderful, that is what it is supposed to be!” exclaimed Joly, delighted.
“Why did you put a priest’s cap on the head of Charles X?”
“Because I could not figure out how to do hair mostly,” admitted Joly. “But it is supposed to be an indictment of Charles X’s hyper-religious policies. He might as well be a priest, because of his reliance on the Catholic Church— at least, that is what it was meant to convey, but since his face looks so unpleasantly melty it distracts one, rather, from the intended message.”
Courfeyrac, ever the gourmande, went to look at the cookies himself, Marius trailing behind him like the tail of a comet. Courfeyrac thoughtfully nibbled on one of the more malformed Charles Xs. “One often talks of swallowing injustice,” Courfeyrac remarked, “but it is always considered bitter. Decidedly unlike these. The irony is sweet.”
Bahorel came in then, Jehan orbiting around him. “Ah, Combeferre! Marius needs to learn German— and there is Marius! The stars seem to be aligned.”
Marius looked uncertainly around the room. Combeferre turned his attention from the cookies and smiled. “I can certainly help, though I must confess my own knowledge limited.” Combeferre moved to another table, leaving the others to sort the cookies in order of ‘most like a representation of a human being’ to ‘least likeness to any sentient creature or ones not seen after smoking too much opium.’ Feuilly was supposed to be in charge of this task, but he soon grew distracted. Jehan, Courfeyrac, Joly, Bossuet, and Bahorel were more interested in finding the most horrifying looking cookie than trying to gather together the specimens that would actually be useful, and, anyways, Feuilly was always eager to learn new things. He considered any knowledge useful knowledge, and began slowly edging away from his table.
By the time Enjolras had arrived in the back room, Feuilly was hovering behind Marius, listening intently to Combeferre’s instruction.
“Are you giving a lesson?” asked Enjolras, smilingly. “It appears you have another eager pupil, Combeferre.”
“Feuilly, you are welcome to join us,” said Combeferre. He gestured at the chair Enjolras was already dragging over to their table. “Do you mind, Pontmercy?”
Marius stammered out that he did not. Feuilly gingerly sat down and accepted the blank paper Combeferre put before him. It felt odd to Feuilly to have someone in a top hat and a tailcoat pulling out chairs for him. It mitigated the awkwardness somewhat that it was Enjolras, who always seemed absent-minded (though he wasn’t; Feuilly had never known a man to be more observant), and who extended the same cordiality to everyone. It also helped the Enjolras immediately wandered away afterwards, to look at the cookies and to be genuinely delighted in the creative mishaps of his friends.
“I know I am not—” Feuilly began.
Combeferre interrupted him with, “Anyone who has an interest in German is welcome. Have you an interest in German?”
Simply, Feuilly replied, “I have an interest in everything.”
“Good. Let us continue with introductions. ‘I am called,’ is…?” Blank stares. Marius was too shy, Feuilly too intimidated. Combeferre prompted, “‘Ich heiße.’ Now pray repeat it?”
Marius mumbled something; Feuilly approximated the sounds. Combeferre patiently repeated the phrase. “Ich heiße Herr Combeferre. Und sie? Wie heißen sie, Marius? Though I should first explain the difference between the more formal address and the more common—”
“I— I do not know if this is….” Marius reddened. He was still deeply embarrassed to be talking to Combeferre. Correction seemed imminent, and Marius was morally certain that it would be as cutting and as mortifying as the last time. And, then, Marius had been talking in his own language, not a foreign one. It would be so much worse this time around. “I am to translate articles for a dictionary.”
“So, learning conjugations will be useful,” said Combeferre.
“You will bore him to death,” complained Jehan. “Why not try for some poetry? Goethe is marvelous, his sense of the uncanny—” Jehan stopped himself, with a gasp, and thrust a particularly hideous cookie into Courfeyrac’s hands. “Oh inspiration can come from the most mundane of discussions!”
He whipped Bahorel’s black coat off of the back of a chair and attempted to turn it into some kind of a cloak. Jehan was small and slender, and Bahorel was large and built more to wrestle bulls to the ground than to sit and compose poetry. The coat was therefore about the proportional size of a cloak on Jehan’s slender form, and it did not look as ridiculous as it should have. Jehan was also wearing a doublet over his trousers, so sartorial expectations were low, anyways.
Marius and Feuilly looked on in confusion.
Combeferre blinked. “Ah… what, pray tell, is this costuming in aid of?”
“Nien! Im Deutch!” Jehan insisted.
Combeferre was not amused. “Fine. Guten Abend. Wie heißen sie?”
“Ich bin der Tod!”
Combeferre sighed. “First of all, we are exploring the use of the verb heißen, to be named, not seib, to be, second of all— der Tod?”
Feuilly did not grasp that Jehan had literally just announced that he was death and persevered with the lesson. “Guten Abend Herr Tod,” he said, very politely. “Ich heiße Feuilly. Woher kommst du?”
Jehan replied that he came from the undiscovered country from whom no traveller returned.
This was understandably too complex for either Feuilly or Marius to follow. They heard the word ‘country’ and were satisfied.
Feuilly motioned at Marius to continue with the lesson.
“Wie geht es Ihnen?” asked Marius. He did this very awkwardly. He seldom asked anyone ‘how are you’ in French, let alone in German.
Jehan replied that he was fine, thank you, but didn’t Herr Feuilly and Herr Pontmercy feel a little sickly?
Feuilly looked blank, like a piece of paper freshly pulled from a notebook. “Euh… enchante— no, what was it again? Freund mich?”
Jehan informed them that it was, indeed, a pleasure, to meet Death.
“You are throwing off Combeferre’s lesson plan,” observed Enjolras, quite mildly.
“We are still going through introductions,” protested Jehan. Then, struck with a sudden idea, he ran over to Bahorel, and whispered to him.
Combeferre clearly hoped to get back to the lesson and began trying to explain how ‘du’ and ‘sie’ corresponded with ‘tu’ and ‘vous.’ His lesson plan was not to be, however; Jehan’s voice rang out through the room, in clearly, manly resolution.“Start again!”
Marius was too shy to start the dialogue. Feuilly gamely began again, “Guten Abend. Wie heißen sie?”
Jehan dramatically swirled out of the way. Bahorel had assumed a rather gargoyle-esque stance, his fingers curled like claws, and wore the most hideous crown anyone had ever seen. It was, in fact, more hideous than any of the gingerbread heads. This was because it was made out of the most horrifying ones, strung together with the laces from Jehan’s doublet.
“Was ist das?” groaned Combeferre.
“Das ist der Erlkönig,” replied Jehan, happily.
The other Romantics in the room found this hilarious. Courfeyrac and Bossuet were near weeping with laughter, and Joly, who was musical, hummed some of the Schubert lied. Marius looked to Courfeyrac for clarification.
“The Goethe poem,” Courfeyrac choked out. “You must have read it! Or heard Schubert’s song setting, it is quite famous! You know, a father on a horse with his young son, the son hears the Erlkönig tempting him away, the father disbelieves him, and there is an inexplicable death four verses later.”
Feuilly had not heard of either the poem or the song, and decided to ignore the Romantic for the practical. He once more pressed on with his lesson. “Guten Abend Herr Erlkönig.”
“Jehan,” protested Combeferre.
“It is German culture!” protested Jehan, in his turn. “Come now Combeferre, you cannot object to the only king that I truly recognize.”
“I am not sure I wish to politely greet kings,” demured Feuilly.
“Friend Combeferre, do you know of a less polite greeting than ‘Guten Abend’?” asked Enjolras, leaning against the table of gingerbread heads with Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac laughed and said that he could think of several, but was glared into keeping that knowledge to himself.
Joly was humming Der Erlkönig still, and sang out, “Und bist du nicht willig, so brauch ich Gewalt!” Then, in a normal vocal modulation, he added, “Gewalt! It means ‘force.’”
Jehan, delighted, rewarded Joly with a cookie. Feuilly and Marius dutifully wrote down ‘Gewalt’ on the sheets of paper Combeferre had put in front of them.
“Guten… Gewalt?” attempted Feuilly. Bahorel hissed at him in a suitably eldritch horror sort of fashion. Joly nearly choked on a cookie.
Combeferre had been holding his head in his hands and now put his head on the table.
“I shall raise your head,” said Courfeyrac, coming to perch on the edge of the table. “We are the Friends of the ABC, and must uplift those struggling with the Ah Beh Tsay!” His German pronunciation was not good, and the joke even worse. Enjolras looked puzzled. Courfeyrac said, wincing, “The pun does not properly translate.”
“Neither will Marius if this keeps happening,” growled Combeferre, though without any real anger. “Bahroel, stop hissing. I would not rule out the existence of otherworldly elf monarchs, but I doubt the Erlkönig would successfully lure children to their doom if it hissed like that.”
Jehan staggered backwards dramatically, clutching at his velvet doublet. “Ack! Combeferre, how can you say such things? Does your soul have callouses?” Jehan used the word ‘cal,’ which caused Courfeyrac to start elbowing Bossuet in excitement.
“No Courfeyrac!” begged Combeferre.
Undeterred by this censure, Courfeyrac persisted, “But, Combeferre! With me and Bossuet as the companions of your bosom surely you must have-”
Enjolras had been listening intently and interrupted, “Calembours!” A pun was a “calembour” in French. The beatific smile which accompanied this did much to mitigate Combeferre’s exasperation.
In his heavily accented English, Courfeyrac exclaimed, “Ee ‘as beat us to se pun-ch!”
Recognizing the word “pun” Bossuet pointed at Combeferre and added, “You oughtn’t to have tried to stop us! This is yourpun-ition.”
The much harassed Combeferre dragged over Jehan. “Der Tod, may I introduce you to Herr Courfeyrac and Herr Bossuet?”
“Why?” ased Feuilly.
Combeferre raised his eyes towards heaven. “It is the only way to get the puns to stop.”
Enjolras put his hand on Combeferre’s shoulder and said, with the same smiling mildness as ever, “That is right. You are my dearest friend but even I cannot offer you im-pun-ité.”
Courfeyrac and Bossuet were so pleased by this show of understanding from their chief they piled on him at once, loudly thumping him on the back and tormenting the French language in further puns, going much too rapidly to be intelligible.
“Entre deux maux il faut choisir le moindre,” muttered Combeferre. “Which one shall you take Herr Tod?”
But Jehan was busy explaining Der Erlkönig to Feuilly, and confusedly translating passages of the poem in Marius’s general direction, and could drag neither of the punsters into hell.
“There is only one Meaux present,” Courfeyrac said, slinging an arm around Bossuet’s shoulders.
“I am going to kill you both myself,” Combeferre said.
A pun occurred to Courfeyrac and Bossuet at about the same time, and they began elbowing each other excitedly. Combeferre eyed them both with a harassed expression, and then decided to take off his glasses to polish them, in the improbable hope that if he didn’t see them making a pun, the pun wouldn’t be as terrible.
“We cannot die, you see, since der Tod has turned translator,” said Courfeyrac. “How good it is to see that Herr Tod still concerns himself with the maux—” evils, which sounded like ‘mots,’ words “—of the world.”
“Courfeyrac,” said Enjolras, warningly.
Courfeyrac held up his hands, “My Rousseau pun was even worse. You see? I am keeping track of all the moves in this jeu des maux.”
Even Bahorel groaned.
“Ah ah ah!” Bossuet wagged a finger at them all. “We aren’t done yet! I have advice for der Tod even Combeferre could not condemn: between two mots, one must always choose the lesser.”
I’m not sure what I find funnier: the guys being these sweet dumbasses who have been going out with fake ids and getting absolutely wasted since they were like fifteen; or them being sweethearts who are very willing to commit literal felonies to get a gig but also adamantly refuse to drink alcohol because they’re underage and that’s illegal!! >:((((
Wait no I made up my mind, it’s funniest if it’s a combination
Julie asks the guys if they’d ever gotten drunk and Luke immediately goes ‘nah man we were too young to drink’. Only for Reggie to bump Alex’s arm and go ‘oh dude you remember when he was out of town so we went on a bender?’, then Alex just sighs and says ‘yeah that was my first time at a gay bar. I miss drinking’. And Luke looks Scandalised
I’m not sure what I find funnier: the guys being these sweet dumbasses who have been going out with fake ids and getting absolutely wasted since they were like fifteen; or them being sweethearts who are very willing to commit literal felonies to get a gig but also adamantly refuse to drink alcohol because they’re underage and that’s illegal!! >:((((
Reggie loves tagging along on Willie and Alex’s dates, mostly because they’re two of his best friends and their dates are always super vibey, but also because he’s got a secret drinking game. He takes a shot every time Alex gets flustered or Willie says something sweet then runs off, and he’s never failed to get drunk
Sometimes I think about how I went from not wanting to text in homeroom Freshman year of high school (due to the fear of getting in trouble) to nonchalantly drinking alcohol in homeroom Senior year with one of my best friends.
die person, die auf die idee gekommen ist, die nrw landtagswahl auf den sonntag nach eurovision zu legen, muss sadist sein, denn das einzige, was grausiger ist, als sich prognosen und hochrechnungen anzusehen, ist, sich prognosen und hochrechnungen mit einem kater anzusehen
Dean Winchester (functioning alcoholic) drinks so much at home that he can’twalk back to his own room and just sleeps on the floor instead… because Cas is gone.
“we need to stop the stigma towards drug users and addicts” and “we need to challenge the idea that being sober makes you boring” and “we need to stop acting like binge drinking to the extent you’re doing medical damage is fun and normal for young people” are all ideas that can and should coexist.
just so we’re clear, the threshold for “binge drinking to the extent you’re doing medical damage” is waaaay lower than you think.
I work in an obstetrician and gynaecologist’s office. we have to tell patients on a regular basis that they are binge drinking weekly when they think they are simply consuming a normal amount of alcohol on the weekends.
having more than 3 drinks in a single sitting if you have an estrogen based endocrine system is a binge that is medically significant.
having more than 5 in a sitting is a medically significant binge for someone with a testosterone based endocrine system.
every time you do this, it significantly impacts your risk of getting breast cancer, and damages your liver. it takes time to recover from that liver damage. if you’re having a 3-5 or more drink binge on a weekly basis, you are an alcoholic, medically speaking, and your liver is not recovering.
again: the bar for what binge drinking is, medically, is so much lower than what you think it is.
alcohol is a really toxic substance and not something you should fuck around with.
again: if you have an estrogenized hormone system (common for most women), then 3 drinks is a binge. if you have a testosteronized hormone system (common for most men), then 5 drinks is a binge.
anything above that number, consumed as frequently as weekly or more, and you’re medically a binge drinking alcoholic.
also, if you’re drinking any quantity of alcohol 6 days a week or more, that’s another threshold at which, medically speaking, you meet the definition of alcoholism. your liver needs more days without alcohol in your system than just one a week to recover and be healthy.
I don’t say any of this to shame anyone—to me, alcoholism or substance use disorders aren’t a sign of weakness or moral failing. and most of us genuinely don’t know this stuff.
rather—I point this out because it’s important to reduce harm, and find ways to live healthier, happier lives. there is a life outside of constant binge drinking. it’s not always easy to find it. but it’s out there. you deserve a life where your emotional needs are met by something other than alcohol, and a life in which your liver is healthy, and the ways you cope and celebrate and find joy don’t put you at increased risk of cancer.
also–even if alcohol is the only way you can self-medicate, or if you choose to go on with your alcohol usage anyway regardless of other options–you still deserve to know what it’s doing to your body.
information is key. you don’t have to stop drinking, but the utter lack of education on alcohol + the normalization of binge drinking in current society leads to many people drinking without any idea of what it’s doing to their bodies.
addicts deserve accurate medical information regardless of what they decide to do with it. for some people, losing liver function is worth the benefits they get from binge drinking, but they can’t make that choice if they don’t know what the consequences are to begin with.
addicts deserve accurate medical information regardless of what they decide to do with it.
Fuck the French gov that refuses to support Dry January or forbid ads for alcoholic beverages.
The “best wines country” ? Yeah, the best alcoholist lobby’s country too.
