#mental

noblepeasant:

:

enbycourse:

Everyone who uses that “well 90% of rape is committed by men,” bullshit is forgetting that female rapists are rarely reported because male rape victims aren’t taken seriously and are made fun of and when they actually are reported it’s RARELY taken seriously and goes through court.

Women rape plenty. You’re not pure. You’re not the victim. Anyone, ANYONE, can be a victim, regardless of gender.

Women also rape other women, but a lot of people either outright ignore it, thinking that it’s “not real rape,” or they try to silence survivors because they think that reporting on female-on-female sexual abuse is homophobic.

Study after study has shown that lesbian relationships have the highest levels of abuse per capita. This can’t be ignored any longer.

I had no idea. That’s awful.

Lgbt people aren’t innocent and incapable of being abusive or rapists. f/f and m/m relationships aren’t inherently more pure and wholesome than m/f couples.

Rape isn’t a female issue caused by men and it’s FAR from exclusive to heterosexual couples.

I am throwing my own body in the ocean full of giant whales with sharp teeth to rip my body off as if it never existed. I want to let the wolves have the big sacrifice and feast on it as they’ve been longing for. Here, in this place where they kill, I found love. I’ve found it where it wasn’t supposed to be.

My main trigger is when people get mad at me.

Alls you gotta do it yell at me and next thing you know I’m downing laxatives and purging my guts out. I don’t know why, but I can’t handle anyone being unhappy with me. I can’t handle being fussed at or being disliked, even though, it doesn’t hurt anymore, it’s like my mind just immediately goes to “well, time to throw up” in those moments, even if I’m not sad.

I get confused and irritated, but it doesn’t scare or hurt me anymore. Just, gotta make myself throw up and starve for a few days then I’m a-ok again

Another “I really hate myself/I don’t want to be here” kind of day. I feel like a stain in this social fabric. Ugh.  

“Kids are crazy these days”, we’ve all heard it before. I’d even put money on the fact that some of you catch yourselves saying it from time to time (those of you that are parents anyway). I tend to shy away from saying things like that because, to be very honest, I did some pretty stupid stuff myself when I was young. Like, ridiculously stupid. But, for the most part, people considered me a “good kid”. I listened to my mom (while she was watching), I got descent grades, I respected my elders, all the basic stuff. But at the same time, even today, if my poor mother knew some of the crap I was pulling when I was a kid… lord. Lets just say she’d probably be very disappointed in me. Hell, when I look back on those days I’m often disappointed in myself!

Which brings me to the point of this week’s article. Imagine this scenario (which may, or may not have actually happened…): A colleague of yours confides in you that she recently visited her son who was alway at college. She had braced herself for the worst, a filthy bedroom, moldy shower corners, spoons stuck to plates jammed underneath the couch. You know, gross guy stuff. Instead while helping clean up her son’s apartment, what catchers her attention is a toy gun. It didn’t have a barrel, but it had a handle and a trigger, but this toy-gun was just so odd looking, so she had to ask him what it was. “It’s a party roulette gun, mom. It’s a pretty sweet game!” her son answers. What happens next is an explanation of the game: Party Roulette.

The “rules” of the game are simple:

1. Pass the Party Roulette Revolver (with a balloon in place) to a friend.

2. Your friend cocks the hammer & then pulls the trigger (hoping they can take their shot without popping the balloon).

3. If the balloon doesn’t pop, the Party Roulette Revolver gets passed to the next person.

Onewebsite goes on to suggest:

“It’s just like Russian Roulette, except that the unlucky person will only have a water balloon explode on his face. Or you could fill up the balloons with pig’s blood; that way someone – i.e. you – will still end up looking dead.”

Your first reaction to this “game” is likely something along the lines of “Eww. That’s not good”, which is exactly what I said to myself when I learned about it. But, taking a step back I asked myself, “is this game just in poor taste or is there something more than that to the story?” I mean think about it, sure suicide is obviously no laughing matter, but it isn’t like this is a “gateway game”, right? Surely nobody is going to play this game and have it be the reason they actuallywent out and played Russian Roulette (RR) with an actualloaded gun, right?

Then the nerd in me kicked in, and a few minutes later a quick search through the medical literature turned up a very interesting paper titled Race, Urban Context, and Russian Roulette: Findings from the National Violent Death Reporting System, published in the The American Association of Suicidology. The paper looked at 71 RR cases and compared that to a group of 284 (the “control group”) males who committed suicide by a gunshot wound to the head. And, when compared to the “control group” what they found was that RR suicides were:

• More apt to be African American or Hispanic.
• More apt to be younger.
• More apt to be single/divorced.
• 49.3% of the RR suicides tested positive for alcohol compared to only 22.9% of the control group.
• Only 2.8% of the RR individuals experienced current treatment for psychiatric conditions (e.g. depression) versus 18.0% of those in the control group.

Now, my goal isn’t to have parents freaking out, and rushing in to their kid’s bedrooms looking for toy guns. And, it’s only fair to point out that RR is actually an extremely rare behavior. There were 71 RR cases (of 30,593 reported suicides, from 17 states over 4 years), that’s just 0.23% (less than 1%) of all suicides. Point is, RR is not the new that thing all the cool kids are doing.

However, and maybe it’s the “kids are crazy these days” side of my brain that is making me think this, but kids/young adults drinking alcohol at a party with a bunch of other kids just seems like the perfect storm for some drunk dummy to whip out some real steel and say “Oh yeah, think you’re tough?! Lets go, for real!” (or something made for a TV drama that sounds way more “tough” than that, but you get my point). Without knowing anybody that has actually played this game, I can only assume those who do play are a “few fries short of a Happy-Meal” to begin with anyway. Why would I say that you ask? Just check out the “Customers Who Bought This Item Also Bought” section on Amazon.com when you pull up Party Roulette. That’s right, items included:

1. Offensive Business Cards
2. “Thug Life” Temporary Tatoos
3. Party Pooper Fake Human Poop
4. Barbuzzo Spin-the-shot

See what I’m saying?

I’ll leave you with this, maybe Party Russian Roulette is just a harmless, albeit tactless, game. Maybe. But, life is about percentages and odds. Odds that you’d like to stack in your favor whenever possible. For that reason alone, perhaps it may be worthwhile to have a talk with the loved ones/ young ones in your life about this game (and any game like it) that may attract a certain kind of crowd, a crowd that it may make sense to stay away from. Also, remind them that those who reach out for help in “bad times” are a lot less likely to attempt and/or commit suicide.

The authors of the study also speculated that RR may actually be serving as a more “culturally legitimate” way to commit suicide among members of a cultural group that take a strong stance against suicide (Black and Hispanic men are about half as likely to commit suicide when compared to Whites, while Asians and Native Americans have the highest suicide rates). They suggest that while suicide can be culturally defined as unacceptable, RR might be viewed as more of a “gamble”, and in some strange way a gamble with death may be viewed in a subculture as heroic.

At the end of the day, the facts are 1) Party Roulette is game gaining popularity amongst young adults and 2) of those who unfortunately do commit suicide via RR, a disproportionate amount of them are Black and Brown young men. Now, what you decide to do with that information, well, that’s up to you.

-InjuryDuty Health

[ Questions? Comments? Concerns? Spotted a typo? Hate our work? Whatever the case, we’d love to hear from you so drop us a line!]

I don’t know how to tell you whats on my mind without sounding crazy….

11/2/2020

I’ve come to realize there is something deeply wrong with me and as much as I try not to be, I am a toxic person maybe not to others most likely just to myself but it’s probably the truth. I try my best to be a good person, a good friend but the feeling of being a outcast and the persistent thoughts that I’m not good enough and that I’m stupid control my mind. I hate the way I think, I hate that I don’t get it on the first go, I hate that I always feel like I’m the reason why everything comes apart. The feeling of consent numbness also makes not want to do anything but laying in bed.

Inauguro questo diario con una bella macchia di caffè che, spero, lasci intendere a sufficienza quanto io sia caffeina-dipendente (credo che il termine giusto sia ‘caffeinomane’, ma ha un suono spaventoso).

Avevo deciso già da ieri di comprare una nuova Moleskine (anche se i miei progetti prevedevano che fosse nera) ma non prevedevo che sarebbe stato un diario. Probabilmente questo è quello che verrebbe definito uno «spreco di risorse utili», visto che effettivamente ho così tante agende che potrei adibire a diari. Ma un po’ per questo improbabile tono di rosa, un po’ perché i miei livelli di dissociazione mentale stanno andando particolarmente fuori fase, ho deciso per questa elezione definitiva.

Ho deciso di usare uno pseudonimo. Un nome finto, ma non ha importanza, anche se forse è una cosa ridicola: il nome non sarà vero, ma lo sarà quello che è scritto qui. Come diceva Shakespeare (sono banale, lo so; oramai questa è La Citazione per eccellenza): una rosa, se chiamata con altro nome, conserva comunque lo stesso profumo.

Vorrei che quello che scrivo qui fosse reale, anche se nascosto da un nome. La mia vita non è chissà quanto movimentata, ma farò un tentativo comunque: la costanza non è una delle mie doti (e  non è che io ne abbia molte), ma vedremo di farci bastare quel miliardesimo di regolarità che possiedo.

(oggi ho un linguaggio stranamente forbito, tbh di solito non parlo così).

Detto questo, partiamo dal principio.

Chi è Beatrice?

Beatrice Raeli ha 21 anni. Ne farà 22 il 28 novembre. Come deducibile, è nata nel 1994 ed è Sagittario ascendente Scorpione. Questa infelice mescolanza zodiacale la rende un incubo per chiunque conosca un minimo di zodiaco. Soffre di sindrome bipolare e – probabilmente – di sindrome della personalità borderline. Ha un disordine alimentare, così gentilmente (!) ribattezzato ‘disturbo psicofisico’ da suo padre J. Suo padre non è la sua persona preferita. Per quanto Beatrice si sforzi, non sarà mai abbastanza per lui o per sua madre C. D’altronde, C. e J. hanno I. di cui occuparsi. I. è il Figlio Perfetto, il Figlio Giusto. Lui è tutto quello che Beatrice non è. I genitori di Beatrice (suo padre J. in particolare) non esitano a farglielo notare.

Beatrice pesa 113 kg alle ultime stime. Essendo alta 178 cm, non si è trasformata in una palla di lardo rotolante. Vuole dimagrire a ogni costo, perché è da quando aveva 8 anni che è a dieta, e davvero non ne può più. Sente che i suoi ‘disturbi’ la porteranno al suicidio, se non diventa magra al più presto. Se non può accettare la propria mente, vuole almeno amare il proprio corpo.

Beatrice ha iniziato questo diario, sperando che la aiuti a chiarificarsi, mente e corpo. Beatrice ha paura di non farcela, ed è per questo che si affida a queste ridicole soluzioni funzionali da manuale di autoaiuto. Ma Beatrice ha 21 anni ed è a dieta da quando ne aveva otto. Questo non l’ha aiutata a rimanere sana di mente, e ormai deve salvare il salvabile.

Beatrice vuole solo stare meglio. Vuole non aver voglia di mangiare senza avere fame. Vuole smettere di sentirsi in colpa ogni volta che manda giù un boccone. Vuole poter indossare un top e dei calzoncini cortissimi senza che le sue cosce sfreghino l’una contro l’altra fino a sanguinare, e senza un rotolo di pancia che strabordi oltre l’orlo dei jeans.

Beatrice vuole avere la pancia piatta. Vuole avere la pelle liscia e vuole che i ragazzi la vedano. Vuole che i ragazzi la guardino.

Beatrice non vuole vergognarsi del proprio corpo. non vuole perdere le speranze, anche se è a dieta da quando aveva otto anni ed è stanca. È così stanca che a volte alzarsi dal letto e affrontare quel mondo che le urla che finché non sarà magra non andrà bene le sembra impossibile.

Beatrice vuole – disperatamente – amarsi.

Ha iniziato questo diario perché vuole documentare il suo percorso. Benché si prospetti – ancora– lungo e faticoso, Beatrice non vuole averne paura. anzi, vuole amare anche il percorso stesso. Non vuole averne paura. vuole essere soddisfatta di sé stessa. raggiungere quell’obiettivo che inizia a sembrarle impossibile.

Beatrice vuole essere sincera con sé stessa.

Beatrice deve essere la sé stessa che vincerà.

Questo diario non conterrà tanto gli avvenimenti quanto le sensazioni, le emozioni. Forse sarà confuso, pieno di voli pindarici e discorsi senza capo né coda.

Ma magari anche questo aiuta, no?

Ora mi aspetta un dolce senza lattosio per I. da preparare. Visto che sono i primi giorni di scrittura, probabilmente mi ritroverò a scrivere più volte al giorno, ma… non so.

See you soon.

B.R.