One fun thing about disclosure (I’m being sarcastic, it’s not fun) is that even when the listener believes you, even when they get the severity — there’s a risk that it’ll pan out like giving away your True Name to a sorceress, a carte blanche window into your soul, a contract signed in blood.  Because now they have something on you and by God, that something has summoned an authoritative confidence that knows know bounds.  They have one narrative in their head about what this Means About You and what you’re supposed to be Doing about it, and you, as an entity, cease to exist under the projected image of the character in their head.

They’ll feel entitled to reinterpret your experiences for you.  They’ll feel entitled to tell you what to pursue, what to terminate, what to prioritize, what to feel.  You continue to exist in spite of violation, you survived, you’re still here, but a TV mystery has no room for anything but a dead body — an inert corpse, to be puppeteered by their self-applied authority.  Because the fact of a legitimized violation eclipses all else about you, and you become, again, that object and unsouled mannekin for anyone’s posing.  Because you’re damaged — unwhole — sentience undermined — agency written off like a totaled car.  It’s like a version of the sick role where the ironclad obligation of “cooperating with a treatment agent” features limitless application, and where appointing themselves as treatment agent requires no credentials.  You tell them one thing, and it’s like they own you.


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