So, if you've read that, or if you know anything about my life (which has become fairly fucking public), you should know that calling me an ableist is essentially the same as calling me a misogynist, transphobic, homophobic, or, hell, a fucking rapist. Or lazy. Or rich.
Yes, that's how bad this has gotten.
I have survived. I have, in fact, thrived. And I'm not special. But I have made myself strong. I'm not a victim. I'm a survivor. And I will not coddle.
So add to #readerfail and triggerpunk another neologism: enableist. Id est, someone who facilitates another's inability or refusal to recover from traumatic events by treating them like precious fucking flowers. I've been through almost two decades of therapy, and not once has a therapist – psychiatrist, psychologist, or counselor – advised me to avoid that which scares me, or takes me back to the bad times or events. I have been taught to face my fears, by degrees, and to face every little reminder of my traumas, to stare them down, divesting them of any power over me which I do not choose to grant them.
But that's actually irrelevant.
See, this is my life. This is my journal. You're here by choice. It's public, but you read at your own risk. Life doesn't come with warning labels. Nor should it.
What the hell ever happened to "Take back the night?"
I'm closing this to comments, as I don't need a sycophantic Cult of Caitlín* to tell me I'm right, and I sure as hell don't need people to try and tell me I'm wrong.
Pissed is an Understatement,
* Not that my readers behave in a sycophantic or cultish fashion, but people say dumb shit, and none of us need to hear that.