Walk in My Shoes

It's funny how people on Twitter (I'm not on Facebook, but I guess it's the same over there) retweet and like things, but they seldom actually chat. I'm not such a big fan of silence, so I try to talk to people when they send something that touches me one way or the other.

Yesterday, Louise Brealey sent a link to a video about abuse. Even though I'm fine these days (that's a wonder with the amount of stress generated by the launch of our company!), that short video made me cry because it reminded me that my own mother is either in denial about what my abuser did to me or she really believes that I should have been back to normal five minutes after he left.

This is not how it works.

My soul is scratched - but healing.

My heart was broken - but I've found some glue to repair it... though the tiniest pieces are fucking hard to put back where they belong.

When I met my abuser, some people I knew could have warned me against him. They didn't.

It took him six hours to worm his way into my coat of armour and toss me into a tiger trap where I woke up, broken, hurt, lost. Lost... important part of the issue in my case. I couldn't figure out what was going on.

One day, I remember thinking, as it's often the case with victims, 'Why do I allow him to do these things to me?' and then... it hit me. It was the wrong question.

The right question was, 'Why does he think he has the right to treat me like this?'

He had no right to hurt me.

Too bad for me, he was a manipulator, and he'd found all my buttons within hours of meeting me, and he could abuse me all he wanted.

Fast forward a few years, and I'm healing.

Yesterday, someone at @BoxRoomFilms tweeted me with kind words after I mentioned being a survivor. That was quite nice. It was 'Hey! Stay strong, fellow human being!'

And this morning, I got this:

Ah.

So it's my fault if I was stupid enough to pick up a snake. I was bitten, and I'm the only one to blame - because me, myself, and I, we picked up a snake.

That was a lovely punch to the gut.

Miss Valicia thinks victims are the only ones to blame.
Miss Carla felt the need to remind me that I was stupid enough to pick up a snake, so I deserved being bitten.

Thank you so much, sisters.

No wonder my friends in town don't want to hear what I have to say when I feel a bit low because of the long-term consequences of the abuse, and no wonder my own mother wants to forget about the whole thing.

As I told Miss Carla, this is victim-blaming AND my snake looked like a bloody canary when I met him. He was delightful until he morphed into his own version of Mr Hyde. AND, to the rest of the world, he was ALWAYS Mr Charming.

I'm not stupid.

I wasn't stupid back then.

I was targeted by a sick wanker, who, unfortunately, was twisted enough to find a way to control me long enough to do with me as he pleased.

It's frigging easy to say 'Don't pick up a snake if you don't want to be bitten!'. These creatures don't show their fangs until it's too late and the VICTIM cannot escape.

I wish we could eradicate all forms of abuse, but it seems that there's still a lot of education to do if we don't want the Valicias and Carlas of the world to hand out useful advice to not pick up the snake, but it seems that people who haven't been walking in the shoes of a victim of abuse simply cannot understand how devastating and paralysing it can be to find oneself into the clutches/fangs/whatever of a gifted abuser.

We're not stupid.
Our abusers are twisted. They're the ones who must be blamed. To keep working on the snake image, the issue isn't 'Why did the girl pick up the snake in the first place?', but 'Why did that snake think it had the right to bite its rescuer?'.
Victim-blaming isn't nice. There's no need to pile up more negativity on the backs of victims.
I suspect that Miss Carla is in the US. I'll see if she answers when she gets up, but I doubt it...

My first play will be out in June, and I must say I'm 'happy' that it's about abuse and the dire consequences it can generate.

Work Woes (Sort of)

Things are so weird right now, and I must admit I'm tired and tense (and... yea, scared a bit).

College work is okay, which is not normal. In my years of teaching, there's always been one thing that was negative (be it the one student who tried my patience or the merry war between two offices - war that started in the '60s, and that was still being kept active by people who were barely born when it started). Of course, I've got the classroom management snafu, but I do wonder if I should be prepared to face some kind of storm soon...

I tried to find a complementary teaching position, and I'd found something that could be nice... Too bad that the online recruitment form wanted to know so many private things that I had to withdraw my file.

I don't mind answering work-related questions, but they were being properly nosey about things that were completely unrelated to the (temporary!!!) position.

Has it become the bloody norm? Do potential employers want you to give away your soul with a contract signed with your own blood now?

I'm not built for that.

We're still in the process of launching our company, and... specialists (the guys who get paid to register what needs to be registered) don't even know what to tell us, where to send us, or what bumph they need from us... I'm going to end up with an ulcer, and my cousin is considering upping her stress meds.

We had to choose a particular status. It exists. It's on paper. We've read pages and pages on the net about that (yes, rather new) status. The specialists look at us as if we were speaking Etruscan.

It's exhausting.

My cousin's in charge of the bumph, and I think she's planning to send everything we've got to the appropriate office and tell them to deal with it and contact her if they need anything else. I can't blame her.

The whole situation really feels like this:

May we avoid Bedlam...
ô.O

It Would Be Funny If...

... it were not so sad.

My cousin and I are spending a few days with our friend DeForest.

We've been observing the world together and trading plot bunnies, and it's been great.

And then the world's nuttiness caught up with him.

Nothing bad, but it makes you wonder how silly bipeds can be...

For a few months, some idiot in California has been giving De's address to several companies (Microsoft, Netflix, a dating site, a car seller, etc). He even gave De's address to a charming woman apparently quite fond of him, who contacted De (being the gentleman that he is, he pointed out the mistake - and didn't even get a "Thank you!").

De's address is "yadda" dot "yadda" dot "yaddayaddayadda" @gmail.com, and since the bloody geniuses at Google don't care about the dots and they don't make any difference, De's been getting messages sent to yaddayaddayaddayaddayadda@gmail.com, which is the address that the Californian idiot has been distributing around.

Seriously, that bloke's lucky that my friend's nice or he could have completely messed up with his dating profile since the company had sent the non-encrypted password to De.

After getting yet another message from the car selling company, De blew a fuse and e-mailed them to point out the mistake made by that guy.

He quickly got an answer... with an offer to help him if he wants to buy a car (he'd said that he isn't in the US!).

Gosh! He turned the sarcasm font on, answered the message, and unsubscribed himself from everything he ever received from that company (they're one sandwich short of a picnic in my book).

I'm a good friend. I gave De a plot bunny inspired by the incident, and he's having fun on my laptop...

We're writers. We turn the strangeness of the world into stories.

Bonus for me: I get to edit the story, and he'll probably never spot this post since he's mostly only reading newspapers online... *mwaha* (if he spots it, I'll give him another plot bunny... ^_^)

Who Wrote THAT?!!! [Criminal Minds: Beyond Borders s01e05]

I am not going to do a full necropsy of the plot (like I did for this unfortunate episode of NCIS), but too many things bugged me, and I need to growl.

When I read about the idea for this series, I was quite happy, and the casting's really fantastic.

The first episodes were rather nice (even if the studio "make-up" for the lots during the few outdoor scenes can be somewhat clumsy), but when they gave us an episode in "Paris", I started growling from the start.

Spoilers from now on, and I'll just make a list of the things that need work (Oh, and yes, I would do better, because I avoid clichés, and I always do my homework. Ta. Muchly.).

- Stop showing massive landmarks like the Eiffel Tower or the Champs-Élysées. Have "Paris" written on screen and go for something more original.

- Stop using accordion music. In everything that's supposed to be French. Always.

Do you know where one can listen to accordion music in France? In places that are tourists' traps because the (non-native!) musicians know that this is what tourists are expecting.

Accordion music is a bloody cliché.

- Stop using songs by Joséphine Baker or Edith Piaf.

CLICHÉ!!! (Oh, and there's good French music that was released... since the end of WWII - sheesh!)

- Stop using that bridge in Los Angeles. You know, the one that's so conveniently right behind the studios. It's supposed to be approximately all over the world.

You can't afford to travel, we understand, but that bridge is becoming ridiculous. Find something else.

 - Hire French people to play French characters.

Some in the cast were okay, but others would have made me die with laughter (if it were not so pathetic) the moment they spoke and pretended to be French.

- If you're going to show something written in French, don't use the Internet to translate it from English.

I didn't read everything that was supposed to be in the French ME's report, but I did catch a "femelle" translating "female". Sorry, guys, but "femelle" is for a non-human animal; it should have been "femme".

I know it's just telly, but that series could be a good way to educate people about other places, cultures, and traditions. 

If the writers don't do any research and listen to their grandads' souvenirs of their time in Paris in 1945, the festival of cliché is no longer a surprise - but it's a pity.

The conclusion that Paris is a lovely city was cute, but some other things leave a nasty condescending taste around.

Expect a potential additional growl when they go to London... and other places I know.

Dru in April

Life's properly nutty here, but I'm taking a moment to wave and say "Hello!"...

We're approaching exam time for my students, and that's a proper time-thief.

As well, the launch of our publishing company needs us to be involved in time-consuming and bumph-creating things (but things are taking shape). Chi va piano, va sano, e va lontano... Ne?

Our family's rather addicted to Lucifer (the series on telly - start breathing again, for Merlin's sake), and we really hope it's going to be renewed.

By chance, our cousin Jacky lent us her copy of Kingsman - the Secret Service, and it's awesome (the pub fight scene made my month!!).

I have predictions about Kingsman II (well, at least, I know where I'd like it to go on a couple of points).

The casting people must still be giggling (if they're not, what's wrong with them?).

I also watched Lilting (and cried a river), and now I've got this stuck in my head:

Lovely song...

In completely unrelated news, apparently, my hair's turning quite light grey/white.
Just last week, a lovely lady (a pensioner!) gave me her seat on the bus. I may look a bit tired, but I think the hair colour's doing something to the way people interact with me.
Honestly, I hesitate between:
- doing nothing because I don't give a fig
- turning to blond henna (but that's a lot of work)
- trying to turn all my hair white and be done with it forever (recipes that wouldn't kill my hair more than welcome)

I'm going to post a specific post about the latest (as I write) episode of Criminal Minds: Beyond Borders, coz I need to growl... and I think that's about it.

If I'm silent again, it'll be that I'm launching a company, making books, or writing them...

Cheers!

Random Dru News

I've been rather silent recently.

It's not that things aren't making me growl (I mean, look at the state of this planet!), but there's been nothing that made me sooooo angry that I had to blog about it. Let's put this in the "Silver Lining" category, shall we?

Work's a bit strange, and so is my health (I've got odd defrosting symptoms, but I'm "just" mostly knackered), but the biggest thing these days is starting a triumvirate publishing business.

Gosh! The amount of bumph is made in hell - and some specialists were unable to give us the answers we need. Okay... we've chosen a niche status, but we're not the only ones - and we're not asking for highly Muggle stuff in the middle of Hogsmeade! We're still looking for the appropriate answers before we launch the ship (we're all ready to bet that any mistake - even one made because of some lousy piece of info - would bite us somewhere painful whilst the bad-info giver wouldn't be in trouble at all - and we don't want to have to bite people).

So... that work is moving slowly, but steadily.

Now that we've put my fantasy novel in its print format, I realize that this baby, born after seven years of research and hard work, is a healthy baby whale (it's not War and Peace, maybe, but it's a very respectable size - not that size really matters). This story is about characters who have to save the world in just a few months, and since I'm its mummy, I hadn't really realized what kind of huge creature I was concluding when I finally typed "Finis".

Its size is by no means linked to the quality of the plot (but it's been tested on an audience, and it works <- yes, I'm delighted with the reactions it got), but we can show that "brick" and proudly justify seven years of gestation.

I'm still letting my Victorian spy plot simmer, but it's taking shape in my head. I have most of the twists and turns in my brain.

What's funny is that my plots are films in my head, and when the plot runs smoothly, I can start typing (a few details may change, but not too many).

Another funny thing is that I make my own casting, which helps with the "film". I don't always cast the minor characters, but the main ones are cast.

Incidentally, after months of living with them in my head and going through various actors who inspired me, I've finally found my Muff and my Sherly (they're going to help the plot bunnies hop faster!).

Speaking of Muff&Sherly, the first novel's ready, the second's with our editor, and I'm working on the third story (this series is still planned in nine stories, plus a prequel and a sequel).

I'd originally planned the prequel to be a children's book, but we've now discovered the joys of registering books, and children's books are three circles lower in that registering hell, so I'll write a fairy tale... for adults!

I've got other plot bunnies hopping around in my head, their films rolling in my head, and their castings being made.

I'll tell you more as they come to life...

One last thing about my life these days: I seem to be addicted to Lucifer (there are worst things that could happen).

The Constant Threat of a Relapse

The annoying thing when you're a survivor with PTSD is that you've got to manage the things that could make you jump off a cliff. 

If you're lucky, you've got someone (or many people if you're really lucky) helping you and holding another sword next to yours, and ready to have your back against the Void. I've got a lovely brother who instinctively understands how easily I could snap (he's the only one seeing my seems come loose when I've got an attack, and he's always found the right words to generate some light in my darkness - last December, the Void caught me by surprise, and I collapsed like I hadn't in a decade within a day. He was there as I navigated the Void).

The medication I take against the Void is mostly working, but it's not 100% efficient, and negative incidents can push me towards the Void in the wink of an eye.

Over the past week, I discovered that the business plan we had had to be modified because we simply can't afford to start that kind of business as we'd dreamt it. What's petty and sordid is that we're asked to buy a kind of insurance that we've already got from another source, but noooooooooo! We must have that special one (and whether we're successful or not, we must pay - and we'd get absolutely no advantage since we're already protected). After a few hours when we pictured our lovely plan going down the drain, we found our Plan B, which is going to allow us to work, but within a very different frame (and we're not entirely out of the wood registration-wise, but there's still hope - I think).

Then... a manipulator Apparated to my doorstep, and I didn't spot the trap until I'd already done what that person wanted. Oh, it was nothing bad, but when you've been in the claws of an abusive manipulator, such a tiny thing makes a lovely last straw.

I've had a mild panic attack for not spotting the trap, but I've done everything I could to manage keeping the Void at bay, but I'd rather not have to deal with such bipeds.

It started as a joke on Twitter, but there's a plaque on my door, and I'm very seriously considering writing "By appointment only" there.

As well, I swore to myself to no longer answer the door unless all the building's fire-alarms are going off and there's a brigade of firemen begging me to open the door. Even though I know most of my neighbours (and I've known them all my life!), we never visit one another, so only strangers would come bug me, and the threat of meeting another manipulator is just too scary.

I'm probably turning into a misanthrope light, but allowing strangers in my life's too big a danger with no benefit for me. I need my home to be a safe haven, a refuge where I don't risk being hurt.

I guess I'll feel better after a good night of sleep (or two), and with some lovely sunlight around, but I was lucky that my meds work well and that I spotted the sign of the impending panic attack and did the one thing that works against it.

I bet it's tough to imagine how tiny bumps on the road of life can look like the Himalayas to survivors, but that's how they feel... And it sucks.

Les "bras cassés" de la BNP

Massif ras la frange ce soir/cette nuit.

Je suis à la BNP depuis ma majorité (sans rentrer dans les détails sordides... ça fait longtemps), mais là, j'ai envie de tous les renvoyer en stage de formation.

Depuis que je suis chez eux (dans le désordre) : 

- ils ont perdu ma signature

- ils ont perdu la procuration de ma mère sur mon compte (même pas émus... "Elle n'a qu'à repasser à l'agence" - Ben oui, sauf qu'elle est à 400km maintenant !)

- ils ont crédité un chèque que j'avais déposé sur mon compte sur le compte de ma mère

- le personnel change tellement souvent que je n'ai plus affaire à la même personne deux fois de suite

- ils ont muté mon compte courant sur leur plateforme en ligne sans me prévenir (j'ai dû prendre rendez-vous avec la tête de l'agence afin de récupérer mon compte normal - je n'ai que ça à faire !)

- une stagiaire à l'accueil m'a demandé pourquoi je voulais déposer du liquide et pourquoi j'avais du liquide (on parle de quelques euros, là, pas du budget golf de l'Arabie Saoudite)

- au téléphone, certains s'acharnent à m'appeler "Mademoiselle". Alors, petit un, c'est "Madame" ou "Docteur" et petit deux, on est en 2016, les p'tits gars (il est peut-être temps de limiter le sexisme, non ?)

- j'envoie un message à ma conseillère sauf que... elle n'est plus là. Un conseiller répond à mon message et prétend avoir essayé de me téléphoner (ce qui est un gros vilain mensonge, mais... passons). Dans la foulée, une de ses collègues m'attrape au téléphone (alors que je leur avais dit de ne pas me téléphoner !) et promet de régler mon problème.

Affaire classée ?

Que nenni !

Le conseiller n'a pas répondu au message suivant que j'ai envoyé (mais il a bien accusé réception du bidule il y a quinze jours) et aujourd'hui, je découvre que sa collègue n'a pas fait ce qu'elle avait promis.

Du coup, j'ai transféré le message d'origine au conseiller timide du clavier en lui passant un savon. Oh, et en mettant en copie le conseiller professionnel avec qui je devais (dois ?) faire affaire.

En faisant quelques recherches, j'ai vu que la BNP avait fait près de 7 milliards d'euros de bénéfices en 2015 - et ils ont décidé d'imposer des frais de tenue de compte ! Multipliez 2.5€ par le nombre de pigeons clients qui sont chez eux et grognez en chœur avec moi.

Il est hors de question que je les laisse s'en tirer à si bon compte et ils ont intérêt à me présenter des excuses plates de chez Plate, parce que, là... Basta. J'ai le Vésuve qui me monte au nez.

Oh... et si le p'tit gars me téléphone et me réveille dans quelques heures, je lui passe un savon à faire pleurer jusqu'à ses arrière-grand-mères.

Les banques ne sont peut-être pas des entreprises de philanthropie, mais je n'ai pas "vache à lait" tatoué sur les fesses.

"Caue BNP!"

Smokescreen for the Sheeple

If I could afford it, I'd buy crates and crates of Daniel Pennac's Au bonheur des ogres, and I'd distribute copies at the door of some department stores.

The novel has been translated - and I'm not going to spoil the plot, but let's say that the sheeple I've seen queueing (queueing!!!) to have security guys give a quick look at their bags' innards make me want to cry (and cuff them in the hope to kick-start their three brain cells).

That's Security theatre and smokescreen for sheeple. It's the Man wanting to cover his plump behind just in case the next batch of murderous plonkers take his store for target. *points at Mr Pennac's novel again*
It's the politicos wanting to be re-elected/elected/whatever/something and spreading fear because frightened sheeple are easier to control.
It's sheeple being afraid of their own shadows and surrendering freedom, democracy, and life itself in the faint hope that the bad guys won't hurt them. Maybe the worst guys won't get them (but no one can promise that), but the bad guys are all those bipeds grooming sheeple to surrender liberty in exchange for nothing - coz if the worst guys want to do some evil, guess what? They will; one way or the other.

Pay attention... yes.

But stop asking how far you must bend to please the manipulators.

I've seen what happened in the US. The country went from "only a police officer can legally touch you - if s/he's got some super valid reason or a warrant. Full stop" to "Allow a biped in a blue shirt to be more intimate with you than your last date. It's for your own good. If you mean to rebel, we'll detain you, make you miss your flight, spend hundreds or thousands of dollars - and you can't sue us, coz we're here to protect you from the bad guys, so shut up and don't mind the gloves (used on all the previous passengers, too, coz we're too cheap)".

I don't want that here.

I refuse to have that here.

I'll fight against that for as long as I can.

I pointed out to co-workers that some of the guards who are posted at our school's door touch what's inside some people's bags (which is, still for the moment, illegal: they can look all they want, they can't touch; only a police officer can - if s/he's got suspicions about an ongoing crime or a warrant). The brave guys told me to tell them. Tell them what? 'Hey, guys! You should have a word with whoever taught you because he was an idiot who could get you sued if you ruffle the feathers of the wrong person.' Something like that?

The men to whom I told that work more closely with these guards, and I thought they could have a quiet word with them (all the more since they agreed that touching someone else's property's illegal), but they don't want to make a fuss. They seemed to think that I was overreacting somehow and that I should let it go - to keep the peace, you know.

Next, my co-workers told me to not let the guards touch my belongings. Thanks, guys, but I do not (last time one tried to move his hand closer to the inside of my bag, I jumped backwards). I just don't want the guards to be in trouble the day they do that with someone who does know the law and who's ready to stand her or his ground, and who's got the money to sue.

I find it astounding and properly scary to see so many sheeple accepting what they're told without even checking that they're not being lied to.

- Spread your legs and bend over!

- But I just want to buy some carrots!

- Believe me, it's for your own good. It's for your protection.

- But...

- (losing patience) Obey me or I'll call the cops!!!!!

The worst guys must be rolling on the floor laughing madly. Alas.

Oh, I wish the sheeple would think and stop being afraid.