“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.
Harm reduction means making the medical consequences of substance use clear & widely known, imo - not for scaremongering, but so that people can make informed decisions! It’s very very similar to harm reduction in sex ed. If you don’t know the possible outcomes of a thing you’re doing, you can’t give informed consent.
Teens who get good sex ed engage in healthier, less destructive sexual behavior. It’s different from abstinence-based education because it’s all about empowering people to make their own decisions and take only the risks they’re comfortable with.
I can’t help thinking applying that model to substance use of all types - from coffee and booze to cocaine and heroin - would result in similar outcomes, that is, less overall use and more responsible use when it happens. The US needs policy change to go along with that, but solid drug education would both inform people of the consequences of substance abuse AND destigmatize substance use.
yep!
I’m someone who has OD’ed on caffeine. that was a wild one to wake up in the hospital after—caffeine pills will really do a number on you. (especially when you’re using them to self-medicate for ADHD, lol, don’t do this)
and I’m a former cocaine user. people talk a lot of shit about weed being a gateway drug, but caffeine was my gateway drug—I was safer using cocaine, ironically, than I ever was using caffeine (aside from the fact that I live in a city with a horrifically fentanyl and remifentanil tainted supply)
I’m a big believer in knowing what any drug does to your body before you use it.
It’s about informed consent, and also about the fact that we know scaremongering tactics, in which the impacts of drugs are overblown or exaggerated, (like those used in the DARE program, and many other police run programs), ultimately don’t reduce drug use.
I’m also a big believer in full legalization and a regulated, safe supply.
because no substance user should ever have to question whether what they’re using is going to put their life at risk for reasons unrelated to the drug itself.
there is absolutely no shame, ever, in substance use, in my mind.
but there is shame in a society that doesn’t empower and educate substance users to make the best choices available to them.
and there is shame in a society that doesn’t do it’s best to reduce harm by legalizing drugs, maintaining a safe supply, and supporting substance users who want to end the cycle of substance use through adequate health care infrastructure.
ive spent the past week high as a kite to get through taking care of my grandma and doing what im told without having an emotional reaction, and now im like. hungover or something. and all my feelings are coming flooding back to me while my body feels like an undercooked omelette. ive got stuff i want to do and stuff i NEED to do asap, but i feel like im just gonna float away.
As somebody who was a naturally heavy/large little girl who got addicted to amphetamines in a quest to be “thin and pretty”, Beatrice Horseman may be the most accurate depiction of how little girls like myself develop eating disorders. Not just in terms of what it did to her body image but how she saw others (for example, drugging Hollyhock, which when she admits to it she talks like it was something parental done out of love/to care for her, not malice. It reminded me a lot of how my mother, who struggled with similar body issues throughout her life, wound up passing them onto me). How she acted toward men (she is so swept up and easily manipulated by Butterscotch, likely because she has poor self esteem) and even just the general harsh, critical, nasty demeanor we see her display toward her son in flashbacks (amphetamines make you aggressive and impulsive, which for many people including myself results in a really cruel/biting way of speaking to others). Like I cant gush enough about how well they handled everything about her character, especially shit like eating disorders which hardly ever get an accurate portrayal.
Whumpee hadn’t been punished as severely as they had anticipated for their disappearance. They had been punished for accepting help from Caretaker, however. They didn’t even try to explain that they couldn’t have fought back if they tried— Whumper wouldn’t care.
Whumper had carefully and meticulously reopened every one of Whumpee’s wounds. Whumpee didn’t cry. They didn’t dare. “You don’t fucking deserve to see a doctor. Why did they take you there?”
“I-I don’t kn-know, Master—” Whumpee struggled to get the words out without screaming as Whumper pulled the knife across Whumpee’s arm.
“Me neither. Unless they just wanted to scareyou.”
Whumpee’s mind flashed back to when Caretaker had insisted they see a doctor. Even though Whumpee had pleaded not to go, Caretaker had forced them. Maybe it was to scare them. Their nightmares had started while they were with the doctor.
Whumper stopped cutting them, waiting for a definitive answer.
“I-I don’t re-remember… I didn’t… I was un-unconscious after seeing the… the doctor…”
“You were unconscious the whole time after they took you to the doctor..?”
Whumpee nodded weakly.
Whumper didn’t say anything else. They didn’t need to. Whumpee’s mind was already reeling.
They had thought Caretaker was nice. What if they had drugged them..? What had happened while they were sleeping?
When Caretaker had showed up again two days later, Whumpee had felt a worse fear than they had in years. They were used to people taking advantage of them, but… somehow, they felt betrayed.
Whumper went into the side room with Caretaker and Whumpee stood shaking, waiting for them to come back.
“What’s the matter, kitten?” One of the orcs laughed at Whumpee, making them flinch.
“No-nothing…”
“It’s something.” Insisted another orc.
“No— no it’s nothing.”
“Is it because you’re being sold, kitten?”
“W… what?”
“They don’t know yet, idiot. Didn’t you hear boss say?”
“Oh yeah. Oh well.” The first orc shrugged and sat at the table.
Whumpee felt like they were going to be sick. “T-to… to Caretaker..?”
“Who else, kitten?”
And that was it. Whumper hated them. They didn’t want them anymore. Had they not been good enough? Did they do something wrong?
This thought was confirmed when Whumper told them they didn’t care about them anymore once Caretaker came out to take them away. Whumpee was nearly paralyzed with fear, but they had to obey. They had to be good— maybe Caretaker would… no. Caretaker didn’t care about them at all. They just wanted to use them like everyone else.
the part in Dune where the bagpipes and drums kick in during the Battle of Arrakis right when the Atreides forces charge the Harkonnens and Gurney shouts “to me!” made me understand why military bitches have always had drummers and buglers and shit in their armies during battles cause that shit slapped if I had been there I would have been ready to fight to the death for my incestous feudal overlords’ cocaine production too
Rufus rarely dreamed - but when he did, they were, like most dreams, an odd mashup of thoughts and memories of absolute nonsense.
Right now, he dreamt of that Gaia-awful fanclub of all things. All of the Turks were members - even the Old Man! All wearing cream-coloured ribbons that shone gold on their wrist.
Even Dark Nation had one on her tentacle tied in a big fancy bow, and she was small again, a bitey, yapping little thing at his feet.
It seemed like they were all merely entertained by his embarrassment at the start - until everyone was staring at him in eerie silence. More people appeared, an uncountable amount to the point where Rufus couldn’t see their faces.
“They all want a piece of you.”
Rufus looked down, and Dark Nation sat there, tentacle wagging.
“Is there enough of you to go around?”
Why the hell did his guard hound sound like his mot -
Rufus hadn’t time to answer when hands were suddenly tearing into him, tearing him apart -
Conscious broke through as Rufus then felt a hand brush his hair back, something… someonecrooning his name.
The drug-induced dream quickly forgotten, Rufus jerked violently back from whatever was touching him - only to be hurriedly hushed.
“Shh shh shhh - easy, my dear, dear Vice-President, nothing to be afraid of, I promise.”
Vision still blurry - and it didn’t help that the room’s lights were dimmed, Rufus couldn’t make out Pedro, but it most certainly sounded like him.
“Oh my, to have you here in my home, in the flesh…”
Rufus cursed inwardly, before looking in the direction he thought Pedro was, “Where’sss…. Ossissss….”
He couldn’t see Pedro’s face, but Rufus knew the man had stilled at the question. It was an immediate opportunity to get him talking, to stall for time, to wait for the drugs to wear off.
Rufus’ first lesson from Veld, all those many years ago: Make them start talking, and keepthem talking.
“I thhought he was your… your friend.”
It was hard to get words out, but it was enough to make Pedro already uncomfortable.
“He’s… he’s fine! He’ll be fine,” Pedro blurted out, “The, the drugs weren’t that strong - but but what’s important right now is that you’re my honoured guest! The others at the club always went on and onabout hoping to meet you someday….”
Rufus had to bite down a surprised noise when Pedro was almost right in his face, and there was an obsessive, wide-eyed glee in his gaze
“But I wanted to.” he said softly, and lifted some strands of Rufus’ hair, “I wanted to meet you so badly.”
Rufus’ lip curled a little, unable to help but lean away, “You could’ve jusst asked for an’autograph…”
Pedro let a laugh, thankfully moving away for a moment, “Oh, such a kidder - I knew you’d have a sense of humour!”
Rufus rolleed his eyes a little, “M’here all night…”
Pedro could only grin, “Oh, I hope so…”
Ossis, please, please be all right…
Into the wolf’s jaws the black sheep prowls. Avoiding teeth and creaky floorboards on its way. With a set purpose that’s feed with betrayal and blood lust. Oh, Pedro will regret his transgression.
It’s easy enough to locate the basement, and thanks to Nunchaku’s background check of the building, he knows right away that something is at miss. The basement is far too small from what was shown on the blueprints. Nunchaku spends a full four minutes searching for any clues or hidden passages. Nothing. Just a regular poor-man’s storage space with the smell of moisture damage.
Growing up with money, Nunchaku knew that rich folks loooves secret spaces with hidden entrances. As a child he took great pleasure in discovering hidden doors whenever he was invited to someone’s property. The bigger the estate the more likely it is for the existence of these hidden spaces.
His search leads him to Pedro’s bedroom. Nothing appears out of normal at first glance, just what one might expect how a bedroom of a middle age hairdresser, an eccentric man from downtown to look like. Nunchaku takes no enjoyment navigating through Pedro’s privacy. They weren’t friends. That’s why he remains unaffected when stepping into the walk-in-closet, through rows of colorful garments that conceals the man’s secret obsession. An unhealthy number of pictures, magazines, and trinkets are all gathered alongside one wall. All of them picturing Rufus Shinra. White Gold fan club.
- Jackpot!
Finding what he was searching for, Nunchaku leaves the closet door wide open and his blazer on the floor before descending into the dark… with a dangerous sneer on his lips.
-
Distracted by the talking and the insane fact that he had Vice President Rufus Shinra here, alone, with him! Despite it, Pedro jerked his head up in alarm by the noise of a floorboard over them squeaking ever so lightly. Holding his breath for a few tense seconds of listening before visibly relaxing and turning his full attention back on his honored guest when there’s no more followed up sounds. After all, old wood do creak.
“Now, where were we, Mr. Vice president?” Pedro clears his throat in apology. Sinking back into his false sense of security. One of Pedro’s hands finds its way back onto Rufus’ shoulder…
Leaning closer to the drugged and tied up man, Pedro studies Rufus with an intense look of admiration. The grin is also back, but doesn’t stay on for long—
Snip! Snip!
Somewhere from the dark and unlit corners of the basement, echoes ominous sounds from a sharp scissor.
Losing most of the color from his face, Pedro turns instinctively towards the entrance door, clutching the shoulder of Rufus as if his life depended on it. But seeing no one there…
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