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7 notes

fidius:

This young man of color should not have been murdered because he was well-behaved = women should be respected because your mothers and sisters and daughters are women = children should be treated well because they are the future leaders/workers of society

32,299 notes

I think one thing you can do to help your friends who are depressed is to reach out to them not in the spirit of helping, but in the spirit of liking them and wanting their company. “I’m here to help if you ever need me” is good to know, but hard to act on, especially when you’re in a dark place. Specific, ongoing, pleasure-based invitations are much easier to absorb. “I’m here. Let’s go to the movies. Or stay in and order takeout and watch some dumb TV.” “I’m having a party, it would be really great if you could come for a little while.” Ask them for help with things you know they are good at and like doing, so there is reciprocity and a way for them to contribute. “Will you come over Sunday and help me clear my closet of unfashionable and unflattering items? I trust your eye.” “Will you read this story I wrote and help me fix the dialogue?” “Want to make dinner together? You chop, I’ll assemble.” “I am going glasses shopping and I need another set of eyes.” Remind yourself why you like this person, and in the process, remind them that they are likable and worth your time and interest.

Talk to the parts of the person that aren’t being eaten by the depression. Make it as easy as possible to make and keep plans, if you have the emotional resources to be the initiator and to meet your friends a little more than halfway. If the person turns down a bunch of invitations in a row because (presumably) they don’t have the energy to be social, respect their autonomy by giving it a month or two and then try again. Keep the invitations simple; “Any chance we could have breakfast Saturday?” > “ARE YOU AVOIDING ME BECAUSE YOU’RE DEPRESSED OR BECAUSE YOU HATE ME I AM ONLY TRYING TO HELP YOU.” “I miss you and I want to see you” > “I’m worried about you.” A depressed person is going to have a shame spiral about how their shame is making them avoid you and how that’s giving them more shame, which is making them avoid you no matter what you do. No need for you to call attention to it. Just keep asking. “I want to see you” “Let’s do this thing.” “If you are feeling low, I understand, and I don’t want to impose on you, but I miss your face. Please come have coffee with me.” “Apology accepted. ApologIES accepted. So. Gelato and Outlander?”

#613: How do I reach out to my friends who have depression? | Captain Awkward

P.S. A lot of people with depression and other mental illnesses have trouble making decisions or choosing from a bunch of different options. “Wanna get dinner at that pizza place on Tuesday night?” is a LOT easier to answer than “So wanna hang out sometime? What do you want to do?”

(via startrekrenegades)

important.

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362 notes

slaughterhouse90210:

“The “feminine” woman is forever static and childlike. She is like the ballerina in an old-fashioned music box, her unchanging features tiny and girlish, her voice tinkly, her body stuck on a pin, rotating in a spiral that will never grow.” — Susan Faludi, Backlash

slaughterhouse90210:

“The “feminine” woman is forever static and childlike. She is like the ballerina in an old-fashioned music box, her unchanging features tiny and girlish, her voice tinkly, her body stuck on a pin, rotating in a spiral that will never grow.”
— Susan Faludi, Backlash

144 notes

lnthefade:

Screen shot from a New York Times article.
No angel.
When I was 18, I was no angel. Hell, when I was 15, 16, 17, I was no angel. When I was 13, I stole change out of cars that were parked in the church lot for bingo night. By 14 I was smoking pot every day. I got caught shoplifting at Korvette’s and spent an hour being interrogated by security before they called my mother to pick me up. I cut holes in the pockets of my winter parka to make it easier to steal candy from 7-11. I sold joints to my fellow classmates at Holy Trinity High School. I had rough patches. I cut out of school to drink alcohol. I listened to angry and vulgar punk rock. I often got into fights with kids from the neighboring town.
So all those times when Officer Goldberg stopped me as I walking down the street and asked where I was going and what I was doing, he would be justified in shooting me because I was a troubled kid with a questionable past?
See, all those things were not relevant. Because Officer Goldberg didn’t know any of those things about me beforehand. And even if he did, they had no relevance on the fact that I happened to be walking down the street on any given evening.
Someone’s history does not always define their present. Being a “troubled” kid who once climbed over a baby gate or wrote on the walls in their house with pencils does not mean one deserves to die in a hail of bullets at the hand of a police officer. And it’s odious for anyone to imply as such, especially in a major newspaper on the day of the dead boy’s funeral.
The media suddenly seems to be in bed with the Ferguson police, posthumously trying Michael Brown for the crime of being young and black while walking in the street, bringing his past into the present. Calling him “no angel” has big implications, none of them good. 
We’re all “no angels” in one way or another. No one is perfect. No one has a past clear of any transgressions, even the smallest ones. No one should have to carry the burden of their past with them when they’re doing nothing more dangerous than walking down a street. Because Darren Wilson knew nothing about Michael Brown when he confronted him. When he killed him.
And we shouldn’t be learning these things about him now, like this. It’s unfair.

lnthefade:

Screen shot from a New York Times article.

No angel.

When I was 18, I was no angel. Hell, when I was 15, 16, 17, I was no angel. When I was 13, I stole change out of cars that were parked in the church lot for bingo night. By 14 I was smoking pot every day. I got caught shoplifting at Korvette’s and spent an hour being interrogated by security before they called my mother to pick me up. I cut holes in the pockets of my winter parka to make it easier to steal candy from 7-11. I sold joints to my fellow classmates at Holy Trinity High School. I had rough patches. I cut out of school to drink alcohol. I listened to angry and vulgar punk rock. I often got into fights with kids from the neighboring town.

So all those times when Officer Goldberg stopped me as I walking down the street and asked where I was going and what I was doing, he would be justified in shooting me because I was a troubled kid with a questionable past?

See, all those things were not relevant. Because Officer Goldberg didn’t know any of those things about me beforehand. And even if he did, they had no relevance on the fact that I happened to be walking down the street on any given evening.

Someone’s history does not always define their present. Being a “troubled” kid who once climbed over a baby gate or wrote on the walls in their house with pencils does not mean one deserves to die in a hail of bullets at the hand of a police officer. And it’s odious for anyone to imply as such, especially in a major newspaper on the day of the dead boy’s funeral.

The media suddenly seems to be in bed with the Ferguson police, posthumously trying Michael Brown for the crime of being young and black while walking in the street, bringing his past into the present. Calling him “no angel” has big implications, none of them good. 

We’re all “no angels” in one way or another. No one is perfect. No one has a past clear of any transgressions, even the smallest ones. No one should have to carry the burden of their past with them when they’re doing nothing more dangerous than walking down a street. Because Darren Wilson knew nothing about Michael Brown when he confronted him. When he killed him.

And we shouldn’t be learning these things about him now, like this. It’s unfair.

Filed under michael brown ferguson

587 notes

mentakingup2muchspaceonthetrain:

Right now.

One time I got stuck on a plane on the Newark tarmac. I’d just taken an eight-hour flight from Berlin, boarded my flight to Austin, and then my fellow passengers and I began what would eventually be a three-hour-long wait for an available runway. 
My vantage point for the entire three hours looked just like this, except the guy was texting so he had his elbows out too. It was hot and miserable and I was literally trapped in the foot-wide space between my lava-balls seatmate and the side of an airplane. I still don’t know how I kept myself from jumping out of my seat and running up and down the aisle screaming. 

mentakingup2muchspaceonthetrain:

Right now.

One time I got stuck on a plane on the Newark tarmac. I’d just taken an eight-hour flight from Berlin, boarded my flight to Austin, and then my fellow passengers and I began what would eventually be a three-hour-long wait for an available runway. 

My vantage point for the entire three hours looked just like this, except the guy was texting so he had his elbows out too. It was hot and miserable and I was literally trapped in the foot-wide space between my lava-balls seatmate and the side of an airplane. I still don’t know how I kept myself from jumping out of my seat and running up and down the aisle screaming