Ok Dr. Phil’s wife, Robin, (yes groan, but listen up) has this new app out (iPhone and Android) that’s for people in abusive relationships. It’s called Aspire News and it’s disguised as a regular news app, but when you go to the “Help” section of the app, it leads you to domestic violence resources and also has a “Go Button” that when you press it, if you’re in a compromising situation, alerts local authorities as well as local shelters and starts recording everything that is going on.
Now, if you’re looking up resources on the app and your abuser is near, simply press the X button and it brings you to a random news page. Same goes for the actual foundation site.
ITS COMPLETELY FREE
SPREAD THIS, DONT JUST “LIKE IT”
Select “Reblog as Text” if it comes up as a link, so that the text doesn’t get cut off. The post-type drop-down is just to the left of the setings-gear icon at the top right. (Why Tumblr cuts such a short post in the first place, idek.)
I have to admit, I also really dislike the whole implication of ‘It Gets Better’, that LGBTQ kids just have to wait it out until they are adults, and be miserable for now. They don’t want to have to sit in misery and wait for it to get better in 10 years time, they need people in their schools and communities making sure action is taking place to make things better for them right now.
Maybe you weren’t aware that part of the reason the “It Gets better” campaign was created in the first place was the horrifically high rate of suicide attempts (successful and otherwise) among QUILTBAG teens.
Of course it would be ideal if there was a magic switch we QUILTBAG adults could flip to make the oppression and misery QUILTBAG kids often face in school and/or at home just go away. That would be awesome.
But we don’t live in an ideal world. We live in a world where hundreds of thousands of QUILTBAG kids face bullying from their peers and/or maltreatment from school officials and/or fear of being found out and disowned (or worse) by their families. Where thousands of those kids find it so hard to be trapped in those situations that they think they would rather die than put up with it for one more day.
The point of the campaign is to reach the kids most at risk for suicide, and let them know that it won’t always be as bad as it is now. For someone facing what feels like unendurable suffering, knowing that there is an end in sight is sometimes enough to give them the impetus to keep toughing it out. It’s in no way meant to imply that what those kids have to endure is okay.
There are two main reasons why “it gets better.” The first is that, no matter how bad school (or home) is for QUILTBAG teens, once they’re old enough to go to college and/or join the workforce and/or leave home to live independently, their social environment will usually be much less hostile to their existence / identity. The second is that many QUILTBAG teens grow up to be adult QUILTBAG activists and work to improve things for ourselves.
But they can’t grow up to do that if they’re dead.
There’s already been a huge amount of progress since Dan Savage was a teenager. When I was a freshly-adult QUILTBAG activist over 20 years ago, I actually thought that marriage equality should be a lower-priority goal because there were so many other things that needed to change that homophobic straight people wouldn’t fight as hard against; I never would’ve believed how much progress was going to be made in making marriage equality a reality in the United States if someone had told me back then. In many parts of the US now, kids can openly identify as gay or trans or another QUILTBAG identity and have their school officials, classmates and families alike consider it either unremarkable or worthy of celebration.
There are still lots of places in the US where it’s barely improved since the mid-20th century, if at all, though. And there are still countries where a QUILTBAG identity can be a death sentence.
We need as many of us as possible to make it to adulthood. For themselves, and for the kids who will come after them.
(None of which is to say that teenagers can’t be effective activists! But the kids at risk sometimes can’t advocate for themselves openly because doing so might lead to them becoming another kind of grim statistic.)
Happy Batman Christmas!
The intent is good. Inclusiveness is good.
But… wheelchairs and snow go together like eels in the middle of the desert. They can’t maneuver at all, and they will be stuck there unless and until someone with suitable anatomy / construction shows up to rescue them.
Babs probably has at least one all-terrain chair, because she’s Babs. But the chair drawn here is meant for relatively smooth, dry, paved or floored surfaces. It can’t even handle much sand — the amount on the shoulder of a road at the end of a snowy winter is enough to strand most wheelchairs.
[image moved to end of post]
Tattoo i sketched today that i am getting soon.
holy fuck, this is like a vomit cocktail of cultural appropriation.
I do believe that is the aptest possible description.
I’m a little confused, though… where are the ΙΧΘΥΣ fish, tree of life, pentacle, sun cross, seal of Solomon, star-and-crescent and hammer-and-sickle? Maybe those are going to be on the “matching” tattoo on the other limb…
[image description: A drawing, in what looks like dark brown pen or marker, depicting two circles attached by a short thin chain.
[end image description]
It is 2 a.m. I am very sick. I am not sure how long I have been hospitalized. The last two or three days have been a blur, a parade of procedures and people. I had a bloody debridement for a severe, large, and grossly infected stage four wound — the first wound I have had since I was paralyzed in 1978. I know the next six months or longer are going to be exceedingly difficult. I will be bedbound for months, dependent upon others for the first time in my adult life.
As these thoughts are coursing through my mind, a physician I have never met and the registered nurse on duty appear at my door. As they put on their gowns I am weary but hopeful. Surely there is something that can be done to stop the vomiting. The physician examines me with the nurse’s help. Like many other hospitalists that have examined me, he is coldly efficient. At some point, he asks the nurse to get a new medication.
What transpired after the nurse exited the room has haunted me. Paralyzed me with fear. The hospitalist asked me if I understood the gravity of my condition. He grimly told me I would be bedbound for at least six months and most likely a year or more. That there was a good chance the wound would never heal. If this happened, I would never sit in my wheelchair. I would never be able to work again. Not close to done, he told me I was looking at a life of complete and utter dependence.
He went on to tell me I was on powerful antibiotics that could cause significant organ damage. He informed me I had the right to forego any medication, including the lifesaving antibiotics. If I chose not to continue with the current therapy, I could be made very comfortable. I would feel no pain or discomfort at all. Although not explicitly stated, the message was loud and clear. I can help you die peacefully.
Read the rest of the article here.
I have long been a strong proponent of appropriate euthanasia and the right to die. That people dying of incurable cancer are expected — are required by law! — to endure weeks of pointless pain and suffering, often against their will, when to deny euthanasia to a companion animal in similar straits is considered cruelty to animals, has always baffled me.
And, after watching my great-grandmother’s long decline and eventual death from Alzheimer’s, I believe that I would prefer, should I someday receive a diagnosis of incurable progressive dementia, to end my life at a time and place of my own choosing (probably a forest) rather than put myself and my loved ones through a needlessly drawn-out pantomime of pointless “life” where my body would have to be locked away for “my” own protection (and that of others if, like many dementia patients, I become violent); I say my body would have to be locked away because, if it gets to that point, I will have ceased to exist.
After reading the above article, I have second thoughts on this issue for the first time.
I encourage everyone to read Mr. Peace’s article in its entirety, even — or maybe especially — if you yourself are not (yet?) disabled. I do still think that denying right-to-die in all cases will necessarily lead to inhumane and unconscionable torment for some individuals who might wish to avail themselves of that right. But it’s now clear to me that the possibility of people who might wish to fight until their last breath having <i>that</i> choice taken from them, explicitly or otherwise, is part of the equation that must be balanced.
Two separate photos, one above the other. At the top of the image, a birch tree with just a few small, still-yellowish leaves having opened from buds; at the bottom of the image, an evergreen tree. Large meme-type captions appear on each photo, as follows.
Birch tree: “CHECK IT OUT, I’M TURNING GREEN”
Evergreen: “BIRCH, PLEASE”
A small border at the bottom of the image credits Memebase.com where the image was captioned.]
Happy Earth Day, Tumblr!
you really need to make 100yr+ birth certificates searchable for free online, since they’re public records and all and I’M IN FLORIDA. Cause I need my grandma’s birth certificate (from 1907) to try to get my papers together to apply for enrollment. FML. NDN problems….
(for real, what is with records in this country? only thing i’ve been able to find for her is the 1940 census, and that’s long after she moved to ohio to marry my grandfather and have my dad and uncle. Finding crap on my grandfather all over the place, but he’s not the one I need records on, since he’s italian, It’s my grandma who’s the Odawa.)
FYI, obviously it’s not your current concern, but if you have records showing that you’re descended from an Italian citizen, you’re eligible for Italian citizenship and can get an Italian passport and even, if you wanted to, visit Italy without having to leave before your visa expired.
I know because I’m working my way through the verification process myself, having had an Italian grandparent (my mother’s father) also. Hey, paisan’!