Kpop Demon Hunters: An (not mental) Extended (and excited) Breakdown

This is going to be disorganized, rambly, and way too long, but…my mom keeps asking me to somehow say all the things I said to her while showing her the movie, but on video (too long, I tried!) or in some other way she can share with her husband and friends, because she feels like the movie wouldn’t have had the same impact on her without it. That touched me a lil bit, ngl, and so I wanted to try!

I don’t have a perfectly polished thing put together with which to do that, but I don’t know that I’ll ever manage one, so I’m gonna share this, because it’s what I have! 😅💖

(I’ve written it in “purple girl” “demon boy” style references to characters rather than using their names a lot of the time, because I know that at least my mom had trouble following so many names at first.)

Disclaimer: I’m a disabled, brain-damaged person who does not have any expertise in Korea or Korean culture, I don’t speak Korean, and I am not Korean myself. (Mostly Italian, some Irish and German and other European shenanigans in there.) The closest I’ve got are some adopted Korean cousins, sorry.) I do have a BA in (mostly cultural, focus on folklore and identity) Anthropology, and an MFA in creative writing (focusing on popular fiction and poetry,) and I feel *fairly* comfortable talking about my views from that perspective—but again, I’m not Korean, and Korean things are not My AreaTM, so if anything is incorrect or off-base, a) I’m very sorry, and b) please let me know and gently correct me!

⚠️ MAJOR Kpop Demon Hunters plot spoilers ahead, because there’s literally no way to talk about why it is what it is without them, oops ⚠️

So! Here we go.

A screencap from the movie: the shadows of the HUNTR/X girls are superimposed over glowing smoke

I am not, in general, a kpop fan.

I loathe CG animation, and it usually makes me feel motion sick to watch. 

I cannot blame anybody for seeing all the Kpop Demon Hunters hype and going, “eugh, no thanks; something that appeals to that many people in the mainstream can’t actually have any substance.” 

However…it has become my favorite movie. 😆🫣😂

Despite me not liking, or even really knowing anything about, kpop at all, as well as *hating* CG animation.

And that takes a *lot* to overcome, so I the fact that it *has* become my favorite, (and this insanely deep of a special interest,) is kind of absurd, and I *wanna explain why*, even if just for my own enjoyment. 😂 

A screencap from the movie: Zoey roars her rap lyrics into the face of an opponent rapper

So, the thing is, I got into it before they had done a ton of advertising (I was part of the insane, “inexplicable”—word of mouth among both delighted Koreans, and Asian expats in general, as well as folklore and mysticism academics *worldwide* isn’t inexplicable, but okay, sure, people—five week balloon in viewership; not quite ahead of the curve enough for hipster cred, not far behind it enough to be influenced by the movie’s mainstream popularity,) and so the lens I viewed the movie through was one of academic curiosity about the content, and wasn’t really tainted by fandom opinions or public popularity. 

A screencap from the movie: HUNTR/X fans scream and cheer excitedly before a show

And while I’m SO glad people are stoked about it, and want them to keep watching and supporting it for *whatever* their reasons are, I *do* wish my less-mainstream-oriented friends weren’t so put off watching it by the immense swell of mainstream interest, (especially from children and heart-eyed teenagers who can only see it as a romantic plot,) and could watch it through the same lens I was able to. 

SINCE THEY CAN’T, I keep ending up finding it *deeply frustrating* to not be able to easily drag them into watching my favorite movie—and even when some of them do, they inevitably watch it without really paying full attention and absorbing the details, and they’re like, “yeah, cute movie, catchy songs, whatever.” 

It causes me 😩🤌🏼✨ *nearly physical pain*.

A screencap from the movie: Mira, towel on her head, drags smears of green glitter over her eyes and down her cheeks while screaming ferociously

Because what I want to explain to them, in a way they can hear, is: 

The stuff the wider world of (especially kiddos, whose brains aren’t even developed enough yet to be *able* to critically consume their media, so sincerely *zero* shade to them for not doing so) mainstream fans are squealing about is not only *not* why I love the film, it’s also largely—at least by my own assessment after watching it and reading about it…an autistic special interest amount, but totally feel free to watch and read and discuss and have your own opinions, these are just mine—*inaccurate*, in terms of understanding what the movie was trying to convey, especially anything that’s not *explicitly* spelled out with blunt words about it onscreen.

A screencap from the movie: fans scream and cheer, their eyes turning to hearts and sparkles, as they watch the Saja Boys perform

(But also, the movie predicted those fans, and shows *so much love for them*, whether they grasp all the nuance in the plot or not—they are represented by the Saja Boys’ earnest fandom in the movie. And I wanna be clear that I’m not dissing them; they’re why this IP might *actually get more content*, and I love them for that alone.) 

A screencap from the movie: a phone screen shows fans posting about “RUJINU?! Playing footsie?!” over a photo of Rumi and Jinu’s feet near each other—when in fact Rumi had been stamping on Jinu’s foot in outrage

Okay…so, my 2 MAIN issues with how the movie keeps getting advertised and portrayed now that it’s caught on with the full mainstream population—

First, it’s not a children’s movie. The fact that it’s a colorful, animated movie doesn’t make it for kids, much like how anime isn’t *all aimed at children*.

A screencap from the movie: Abby Saja’s shirt buttons rip off and his shirt flies open from the sheer power of him flexing his abs

It’s a *family friendly* movie that covers some heavy, adult themes, but does so in a way that kids will miss, while adults can follow.

A screencap from the movie: Zoey’s eyes have turned into buttered corn on the cob due to how hot she finds Abby’s abs

The characters are *not kids*, the “girls” are canonically in their mid-20s, and the “boys” are immortal demons, who, for the most part, cannot die—even if they girls “kill” them with their spirit weapons, just respawn in their demon dimension/the Korean underworld, sorta.

A screencap from the movie: a demon dissolves into pink fire as it is slain with a spirit weapon

Every single named character in the film is a full adult; the Huntrix girls are canonically in their 20s (as a shoutout to EJAE for getting told she was “too old” to be a kpop idol in her 20s,) and the Saja Boys are, again, *immortal demons*; Jinu alone is 400 years old. 

A screencap from the movie: a flashback to Jinu’s life as a musician over 400 years ago

As my nesting partner pointed out: if it were a video game, Kpop Demon Hunters would be rated “E for everyone.”

Second…the movie is NOT a romance. 🤦🏻‍♀️ Like…at all??

People (especially young fans online) act like it’s a romance????? 

A screencap from the movie: an overenthused “Rujinu” fan stares and smiles unsettlingly at Jinu and Rumi, asking if they’re whispering together (in a romantic way) and says, “Your secret’s safe with me.” Rumi and Jinu are not whispering romantically, he’s trying to manipulate her about her demon side.

But it is NOT, 😩 and the reputation it’s getting for being one as its global child and mainstream popularity swells due to the pretty colors and catchy songs does *not* spark joy for me. 😭😭

It’s HIGHLY platonic-focused and queer-coded. 

A screencap from the movie: Mira, Zoey, and Rumi talk over dinner in their shared home, wearing pajamas; Zoey reaches out an arm to squeeze Rumi’s shoulder comfortingly

Like…REALLY INTENTIONALLY. 😆 That’s not just me saying it, either; the co-director, Maggie Kang, has said she *wrote it that way on purpose*, and it even says so *very* bluntly in the main Wikipedia article on the movie, it’s not even *hidden*. 😆😂😭😩🤌🏼✨

A screenshot of text from the main Wikipedia article on Kpop Demon Hunters

Like…4/5ths of the relationships focused on in the movie are between people who have (queer)platonic or familial bonds, not romantic ones—

  1. Purple girl’s relationship with demon bad boy—which, yes, *is* admittedly very *pre-romantic*, but it *never goes that far*, and in *not* going that far, it addresses the fairly universal—whether a childhood best friend who moves away, or an adult situationship that ends in heartbreak—experience of, “a person I had deep attachment to is gone from my life…why? what even *were* we to each other? did it *count*? were we ever anything meaningful to each other?” 
  2. Purple girl’s relationship with her (subtly manipulative, very morally grey, largely because of her own, more conservative, traditional views) foster mother—who is *hilariously* murder-lesbian-coded, and was seemingly in love with purple girl’s (dead) mom, and bitter about purple girl’s existence in the first place; 
  3. More subliminally, purple girl’s relationship to her dead mom and dad—without it being stated super explicitly, it’s…very clearly chalk-outlined, for the adults to pick up on, that her foster mother *absolutely* let her assume the worst about the circumstances of her own conception, ie that it probably was involuntary on her mother’s part, (and specifically indoctrinated purple girl to believe that demons can’t and don’t have feelings, which is untrue, since they’re primarily controlled by the Big Bad Boss Guy through their own shame;)
  4. Purple girl’s relationship with her fellow bandmates (let’s call them pink and teal)—who love her deeply, but whom purple girl’s foster mom has (vehemently) indoctrinated the purple girl to hide her half-demon nature (depicted as dark, almost bruise-colored lightning-like patterns on the skin) from; and, in a smaller way, 
  5. The 3 main girls’ relationship with their (short, chubby, gloriously NOT comic relief, deeply lovable) manager guy, who is a sort of stand-in uncle/big brother/soft masc figure in their lives, when they’re otherwise surrounded by either family or objects of attraction/annoyance—he gets his own mini arc about his usefulness and self worth.
A screencap from the movie: Bobby’s phone screen shows the Saja Boys’ lion logo and the words “JOIN THE PRIDE!”

The *main* emotional arc of the movie is to explore the question, “would my friends and family still love me if they knew who I really was?” 

A screencap from the movie: a half-transformed demonoid Rumi weeps and pleads for the other HUNTR/X girls not to leave her behind

and even more explicitly, “would they still want me around if they knew how dark and dirty and deviant I really am under my masking behaviors?” 

A screencap from the movie: Rumi pulls down the zipper on the collar of her shirt, showing her demon patterns having spread to cover her throat

Yes, the purple girl and the bad boy have a deep and complex connection!

No, they never even confess or kiss. 🤦🏻‍♀️

They in fact just…awkwardly make friends with each other while (obviously) having (at least aesthetic) crushes on each other, and clearly not knowing how to behave authentically while doing either thing, but each desperately wanting to *figure out* what authenticity with *anyone* would look like for them??

4 screencaps from the movie: Jinu and Rumi’s reaction faces when finding out a fan ships them together romantically

They *do* sing at each other about facing the shame their traditional Korean upbringings and also generational trauma have instilled in them about themselves together, with each other’s support, and feeling very seen and heard by the other, and do hold hands briefly while floating in the sky and singing about it. 🤷🏻‍♀️ That’s…literally the whole romance. 

A screencap from the movie: Jinu and Rumi hold hands in while floating in the sky

If that *were the plot of a romance story*, it would be deeply unsatisfying and…just…bad. 😮‍💨

However, it’s *not* a romance story! It’s a “we threw in a romantically-coded subplot so the straights would watch our obviously queer as fuck movie” story (kinda like “The Road to El Dorado,” tbh—and also, Maggie Kang *will not shut up* about the intentional queercoding and platonic life partner focuses in the movie—I love her—which is part of why the studio originally *didn’t think it would be successful* and sold it to Netflix,) 

A screencap from the movie: Rumi and Jinu’s demon-patterned hands almost clasp

and a “we threw in pretty, color-coded, anime-ish-looking hot people so the non-Asians would actually watch it and relate to the characters as if they were white, therefore culturally humanizing us while we get away with making a movie that is a love letter to Korean culture while still addressing how it needs to change” story.

A screencap from the movie: the Saja Boys and HUNTR/X both stand on a stage

Demon bad boy does sacrifice himself to save purple girl at the very end! 

A screencap from the movie: Jinu blocks a blast of Gwi-Ma’s power with his own body, keeping it from striking Rumi

Buuut he’s also a morally grey, self-serving asshole who betrays the fuck out of her to get himself out of very literal PTSD flashback hell first, and actively kills a lot of people first, and is *not* saving her because he’s in love with her and love conquers all, or whatever. 🤦🏻‍♀️🤦🏻‍♀️

A screencap from the movie: A blank-faced Jinu snaps his fingers to dismiss the demon copies of Mira and Zoey he used to betray Rumi

It is largely *very* clearly portrayed to anyone who isn’t viewing it through a Twilight-fogged lens that he sacrifices himself to save her because 

a) her choice to stand up in her own skin at the end in spite of her own “demons”, aka shame, along with overwhelming battle odds, and betrayal by everyone who claimed to love her, *inspires* him to face his own demons and shame for the first time, like she did;

A screencap from the movie: Jinu looks on as Rumi takes a huge blow from Gwi-Ma but refuses to give in

and 

b) because his demon form being obliterated by the Big Boss Bad Guy would, ultimately, free him from his endless-feeling (400 years so far) very literal PTSD flashback hell, *whether purple chick wins the battle or not*, which means he does actually get the reward of the freedom he wanted from the beginning of the movie (even if it’s not the reward heart-eyed teenagers wanted to see; they always want a *kiss*. 🙄😮‍💨)

A screencap from the movie: Jinu’s form begins to erode and dissolve under the assault of demonic fire from Gwi-Ma.

The movie’s theme isn’t, “they end up together despite everything, because this is a romance and that’s how the genre works,” 

or even, “he sacrifices himself to save her because love conquers all”, 

NO—

it’s “casting off shame and self-loathing is the only way to truly know if you’ll be accepted and loved by anyone, including yourself,”

A screencap from the movie: the HUNTR/X girls are surrounded by rainbow energy from their loving fans as they cast of their shame and accept themselves and each other as they are

and, “giving people a chance is not the same as letting them ruin (or take) your life to have that chance,”

A screencap from the movie: Rumi holds Jinu at swordpoint

and, “do not just blindly obey adults telling you to keep secrets,”

A screencap from the movie: Celine holds her hand over a young Rumi’s sleeve, covering the place where her patterns are, speaking in her ear

and, “even if they have feelings for you, people will often betray you to pursue things to their own advantage anyway,” 

A screencap from the movie: Jinu rounds angrily on Rumi, his patterns and eyes flashing with anger

and, “the only way to really save anyone from their own darkness or weakness is to show them what doing better *looks like* and how to *get there*,” 

A screencap from the movie: Rumi, flanked by Mira and Zoey, holds her head high, her patterns flashing rainbow colors, and marches into battle while Jinu (offscreen) looks on

and, “it’s okay to be attracted to hot bad boys, but do not let that attraction color your decisions or your actions”, 

A screencap from the movie: Zoey’s eyes pour erotic popcorn into her upturned bucket hat; Mira leans over and munches on the popcorn as well, both of them ogling the Saja Boys intently

and, “don’t fucking *have* kids if you’re not prepared to love *whatever* and *whoever* they turn out to be,”

A screencap from the movie: Rumi holds up her spirit sword and begs her foster mother to end her life

and, “ancient tradition can be beautiful, but it still has to make room for modern people to live full and authentic lives,” 

A screencap from the movie: the original Honmoon rips apart in Rumi’s wake as she trudges miserably onwards

and, “even if a hot predator is just your type, they’re not worth losing yourself or letting them hurt other people,”

A series of 6 screencaps from the movie: Mira and Zoey each face and slay their demon crush

and, “(especially men) you are only as villainous as you *choose to continue to be*; if you make an authentic effort to *do better*, you will be *loved and cared for better*”,

A screencap from the movie: Jinu in demon form

and…I could keep going for like an entire thesis, I’m not even kidding. 😆😂😭 

[IMO in a *fandom* way, the 3 girls are also hella in a polycule, (this is such a popular headcanon that “polytrix” is a major pinnable feed on Bluesky, lololol, the art is so CUTE 😭🤌🏼✨) but that’s a fandom thing, not me just commenting on the actual textual and subtextual substance of the movie itself, which is what I’m otherwise mostly trying to keep to. 😆 Also on a personal/fandom level, I relate to Zoey, the half-American teal one with black hair, waaaaay too hard. 😂😭]

A screencap from the movie: all three HUNTR/X girls hold hands together

AND THEN YOU GET TO THE ANTHROPOLOGY AND FOLKLORIC AND VISUAL BITS! 

A rumor went around a while back that genAI was used to make parts of it, and because I liked it SO MUCH 😭 that I didn’t want it to be true, (it wasn’t, got debunked 2 days later by somebody bilingual revealing an AI translation error of a Korean news article, 😂) I dove into researching *every aspect of how it was made* to see what I could see. 😆 

I now know SO MUCH that I didn’t know I didn’t know (and there’s more still to read and learn,) and I love the whole thing, as well as the team that created it, EVEN MORE. 😭💖🙌🏼💖😭

A screencap from the movie: fans looking up adoringly at the HUNTR/X girls after their final battle

A big thing to understand is: these girls are Korean bardic warriors. 

You do not need to like or know anything about kpop for it to make sense (though a basic familiarity will add more nuanced understanding, for sure.) 

The kpop idol thing is just a contemporary framing device to make it appeal to a wider audience, because “Korean bardic shaman women” sounds like a very niche documentary about old Asian ladies living in the hills and muttering about ghosts. (I would watch that, tho, tbh.) 

A screencap from the movie: the original 3 demon hunters floating aloft, holding their glowing spirit weapons

The tiger and magpie animal companions from the movie are actually figures from historical Korean minhwa, the satirical art/political cartoons of their day. 

A screencap from the movie: the blue tiger, Derpy, and the 3-eyed magpie, Sussie, rise up from behind floral shrubbery

The cross-eyed, derpy blue tiger represented the wealthy nobility: supposedly a majestic beast by birth, but actually generally a complete dipshit. 

The perpetually-exasperated magpie (which is an eldritch monstrosity with 6 eyes and a stolen hat in the movie?? I love him???) represents the common working people, looking on with rolling eyes and sighs as the nobility act ridiculous. 

A screenshot from the main Wikipedia article on Kpop Demon Hunters

Their inclusion is straight up a statement: this is a satirical sociopolitical commentary cartoon, just like the minhwa were. It makes subtle yet clear commentary on everything from the poisonous nature of shame and self loathing, to the weight of being expected to adhere to ancient traditions with no modern understanding, to how women are expected to behave around things like sleep and food (aka sexily) versus how they actually do (dorkily and with a love for dumb, cute, and/or deeply-boring-to-others things,) to toxic masculinity (via the vehicle of the demon boy band,) to the insane expectations of the idol industry (an important note for EJAE, the woman who wrote most of the songs for it and who sings for the purple girl—she tried to become a kpop idol at 26 and was told she was “too old”, so she went into the behind the scenes parts, writing and doing guest vocals for younger kpop idols, until Maggie Kang and Chris Applehans reached out to her and asked if she wanted to write the music and a studio pitch demo for this movie, and she *did* and she went *hard* and gave it her *best*, and….has now become the *single most globally famous vocalist in kpop history* as the lead singer for a *fictional idol group* that has outpaced *every real idol group on earth*, largely on the strength and popularity of the songs she wrote and sung. 🥺😭😭🙌🏼)

A side-by-side pair of images: on the right is a screencap of the animated HUNTR/X from the movie; on the left, in a matching pose, are the live singing voices for HUNTR/X (L-R: Audrey Nuna, EJAE, Rei Ami)

The girls’ weapons are all references (like, intentional, caring, historically *accurate enough for anthropologists to be excited about it* references) to real ceremonial weapons used for cleansings and exorcisms (aka…functionally fighting demons) in Korean mysticism and shamanism.

A screencap from the movie: demons are silhouetted in the dark; the HUNTR/X girls’ 3 spirit weapons glow between them

All the demon types they show in it? Actual specific types of demons from Korean folklore, from dokkaebi, their version of oni/ogres, to “egg-face” demons, to these creepyass fuckin water demons that cry all the time, to the boy band, whose WHOLE NAME IN THE FIRST PLACE IS A PUN—the word “Saja” in Korean and means both “lion” (their public fan symbol, a cute lion’s head, and their fandom tagline is “join the pride!”) and “grim reaper” (their actual job in Korean folklore, to gather the souls of the dead; the latter is what their black outfits in “Your Idol”—aka the “very pointed critique of toxic masculinity song”—are meant to reference.)

A screencap from the movie: a horde of many kinds of demons, waiting expectantly; a water demon in the foreground weeps loudly

The girls each wear norigae (traditional Korean knot charms; a bunch of Asian cultures seem to have some version of them) attached to their clothes somewhere, and *each one is designed completely differently*, to match and visually display their personalities. Everything, down to each of their signature flavors of ramyeon, is so *detailed* and *depth-developing*. 

A fanmade collage image by Nyx Umbra, showing each of the HUNTR/X girls and a close-up of their personalized norigae charms

The *reason* the movie is CG animated (the original concept was more anime-style) is because the directors (Maggie Kang I already mentioned, but the other one is Chris Appelhans, who *is* a white dude, but don’t write him off: he’s married to a Korean-American woman, Maurene Goo—an accomplished creative in her own right—and *clearly* really cares about portraying the culture in a thoughtful way) wanted to be able to use motion capture and CG’s minute details to be able to exactly mimic the specific *mouth movements* endemic to a culture of people who grew up pronouncing things through the lens of the Korean language. 🥺🥺 And it’s *visibly apparent*—if you watched Arden Cho (she played Kira, the kitsune girl) in Teen Wolf, you can *see her distinct facial movements and expressions* in the purple girl’s face. (The scene I most distinctly noticed it in is the one where the purple girl gets knocked over in slow motion; her being-knocked-down “oh no” face is *exactly* the same as her voice actress’s.) WHAT. The freakin CARE. 🥺😭🙌🏼😭🤌🏼✨

A screenshot from the Wikipedia article on Kpop Demon Hunters

And then the COLOR CODED SYMBOLISM. 😭🙌🏼💖

The girls’ mentor charges them with completing a magical working, a shield spell between the human and demon realms, that’s been in the works for generations—but which *their* generation is supposedly going to be able to be the one to manifest (without explaining why; clear satire of the “the next generation will solve things” attitude prevalent among elder generations as the new ones come to adulthood.) 

A screencap from the movie: the first hunters weave the original (blue) Honmoon

This completed shield spell will supposedly turn the current magical barrier (shown by rippling blue-pink-purple lines like strings laid across the landscape) gold—this promise symbolizing the pressure from elders and society to try to solve everything and achieve unattainable perfection. 

A screencap from the movie: Celine instructs the young HUNTR/X girls on the Honmoon and their mission to turn it golden

The girls manage to summon flashes of golden perfection to the normal shield spell, but a full, perfect, golden transformation just *doesn’t come together*, and pushing down their real selves to try and *make* a perfect, golden thing only leads to them hurting themselves, each other, and shattering the original, ancient shield spell completely. 

A screencap from the movie: a flash of gold flows through the lines of the Honmoon

After owning their authentic identities (especially half demon purple girl), they make and replace the shield spell (still shown via shimmering landscape lines) during the final battle, and their fans snap out of their mesmerized-by-evil hypnosis and join in, each lending a glimmer of colorful light to the song and the spell as it’s rewoven from scratch. 

A screencap from the movie: rainbow lights stream from the chests of each fan filling the stadium venue as they sing along to “This Is What It Sounds Like”, the lights flowing together to weave a new Honmoon as the girls sing

When the shield spell reforms, it’s not perfect and golden like their elders told them it was supposed to be, but it’s not the original pink and blue, either—it’s now iridescent rainbow light, shimmering with all the true colors of the people who shaped it. 

A screenshot from the movie: the rainbow Honmoon forms and spreads outwards from the arena where the girls are performing, rippling across the whole world and replacing angry red and pink demonic light with cool blue and rainbows

THEIR SHOES. 

The girl group sings a line in the first song, “heels, nails, blade, mascara / fit check for my napalm era” (Audrey Nuna’s voice goes SO DEEP, it’s SO GAY 😩🙌🏼💖 if I weren’t already sapphic it would TURN ME), but only ONE of them EVER wears actual heels the *whole movie*—the other shoes are all sneakers, flat-soled combat boots, or other sensible footwear. The heels there *are*? Are low, chunky, *sturdy* ankle boots (on pink girl in the final battle.) 

A screencap from the movie: a view of all 3 HUNTR/X girls’ shoes (none of which are high heels)

AT NO POINT. DOES ANYONE. FIGHT DEMONS. IN. HIGH. HEELS. 🥳🤌🏼✨

A screencap from the movie: Rumi hurtles, shoe-first, towards the ground, kicking out at enemies as she goes, the sensible treads on the sole of her boot glowing hot pink

(And, as somebody who grew up on Buffy and Totally Spies and the original She-Ra and even Sailor Moon and all those other 90s things, watching and wondering why the *fuck* they were all teetering around in heels when they could EASILY *have shoes with stable balance*? That is HEALING. 😌)

…but yeah.

That’s the deal. 😆🤷🏻‍♀️

I could keep going. Pretty much forever. But this post will run out of the ability to let me add more to it without it crashing the app very soon. 😆

But you get the idea: this movie? I love it. 💖

A screencap from the movie: Bobby, surrounded by cheering fans, looks touched and delighted, hands to his chest, as he watches his girls reunite and succeed and save the world and themselves

It’s very much a story about (and Maggie Kang is quietly begging for people to *realize* that it’s a story about) being a queer/trans/disabled/fat/addict/mentally ill/otherwise “non-traditional” and “unacceptable” person in your home culture, (using Korea, and specifically Kpop, as an example framing device, but it’s not something that is, or is *meant* to be, exclusive to just Korea—it’s a global issue, but especially in Asian cultures in general, with people commonly deleting themselves over unresolved shame,) 

A screenshot of text from the main Wikipedia article on Kpop Demon Hunters

and trying to figure out how to get your parents/guardians to even let *you* accept all of yourself, let alone get *them* to accept it, let alone get them to *love* it in a way that makes you *feel loved*,

and trying to figure out how much of your authentic self is okay, or even just *safe*, to share with your friends and life partners without it making them hate or even hurt you,

and trying to tell the difference between being attracted to someone and knowing if they’re trustworthy,

and trying to learn how to live in your own skin/with your own identity, even when it feels wrong, even just to you, when you’re alone with yourself. 

A screencap from the movie: Mira turns to face the camera, looking cautiously hopeful, a golden beam of light from an open door shining on her face

I could never have imagined this movie would be such an incredible, intricate, life-changing thing to experience, but I’m so, so glad I took the chance and watched it. Doing so has widened and enriched my world so much. 💖


A couple Kpop and Korean terms it’s helpful to know in advance of watching the movie: 

⭐️ maknae – this basically means “little sibling” in Korean, and is a term used for the youngest member of a kpop group, who is viewed as cute and young/little and is expected to be immature and cutesy compared to the others.

A screencap from the movie: Zoey wears a giant heart mask on her head, holding her hands up in a heart, while making a silly face

(Zoey is the maknae in Huntrix, and Baby Saja is the maknae in the Saja Boys.)

⭐️ visual – this is a term for the member of a Kpop group who is considered the most traditionally and impressively attractive (by Korean standards); the visual is usually the member of the group whose image is used to sell things like perfume/cologne, lingerie/boxers, lipstick/razors or other sultry brand collaborations.

A screencap from the movie: Mira gives her hair a blowout while singing and falling from an airplane

(Mira is the visual for Huntrix; Abs/Abby is the visual for the Saja Boys.) 

⭐️ saja – the word “saja” in Korean has two meanings: 

the first is “lion”, which is why the Saja Boys’ band logo is a lion head, and why they call their fan club “the pride”;

A screencap from the movie: Bobby stares at a Saja Boys’ light stick

the second is the association with the “jeoseung saja,” the grim reapers of Korean folklore, whose traditional job is to (usually peacefully) collect the souls of the dead and gather them to the underworld.

A screencap from the movie: Abby Saja beckons to fans as they give up their souls to Gwi-Ma through him

This double meaning is clearly intentional, as the Saja Boys wear traditional jeoseung saja/Korean reaper outfits while performing their final song, “Your Idol”.

⭐️ hoobae – this is Korean for “mentee” or “underclassmen”; Rumi (purple hair) refers to the Saja Boys as Huntrix’s “hoobaes” when they’re forced onto camera on the Play Games With Us segment—this was her basically claiming that the Saja Boys were tied to Huntrix somehow, and implying that Huntrix was showing them the ropes as idols and approved of them, as an excuse for why the girls had showed up to the set. 

A screencap from the movie: HUNTR/X smile sheepishly, caught by Jinu and put on TV

(This is later used to taunt Huntrix, when the Saja Boys’ fan club has swelled and they have killed bunches of people due to their fame and access—which Huntrix accidentally helped them achieve by trying to kill them and then getting pushed onto TV instead and claiming the boys as their hoobaes when Jinu spotted them—when they thank Huntrix and say they “couldn’t have done it without their support.”)

A screencap from the movie: a jeoseung saja leans out of a portal and sucks the soul from an unsuspecting fan

⭐️ honmoon – a compound word created for the movie, which literally translates from Korean as “soul gate,” which is appropriate, as it’s the barrier keeping the demon world separate from the human one, like a gate.

A screencap from the movie: the Honmoon weighs down on the demons like a heavy blanket, keeping them blocked from our world

It is created with soul energy (which the Huntrix girls take in the form of small contributions of energy from each of their fans during concerts—depicted as glowing light issuing from each fan’s chest—and weaving them together into the Honmoon.

A screencap from the movie: fans’ chest glow with light as they begin to connect with the song being performed

However, in the case of Jinu’s final sacrifice, he visibly gives Rumi his *entire soul* to consume as he disappears, which she accepts, and uses to transform her sword into a much bigger one, as well as strengthen herself and the Honmoon as she turns to face Gwi-Ma.) 

A screencap from the movie: Jinu’s soul flows from his body into Rumi’s as he disintegrates under the blast from Gwi-Ma

⭐️ when excited, Zoey shouts something that sounds like “kata, kata, kata!” but is actually “gaja, gaja, gaja!” – “gaja” is a Korean expression that means “let’s go!” so she’s just excitedly urging the group forward. 

A screencap from the movie: Mira and Zoey run towards the stage doors excitedly, Zoey shouting the above-mentioned phrase

⭐️ Gwi-Ma – not a real Korean folkloric/mythological figure! Created just for the movie! His name means “ghost” + “demon” in Korean. 

A screencap from the movie: Gwi-Ma’s fiery face looms huge and angry

The Story So Far

A new mutual on Bluesky messaged and asked about the brain damage and identity issues I’ve mentioned, and I realized I haven’t actually posted an explanation publicly in a while. Since I’m probably going to either take this website down or change the name of it due to the ongoing happenings, I figure I ought to catch up anybody who keeps up with me just through here.

It’s hard to write it out coherently—it’s hard to even *think* coherently—but I’ll try. Please forgive me if it’s kind of jumbled, or I repeat things—no matter how cogent I may come across, trying to communicate still feels like putting what I want to say into Google Translate, turning it to Sanskrit, then copying and pasting that Sanskrit translation into Google Translate and turning it to Japanese, and then copying and pasting THAT into Google Translate and telling it to give it to you in English. It probably has a lot of the same themes and concepts as the original texts, but they’re also *probably* not going to be expressed super coherently, and some of them might just miss the mark entirely. 

But that’s what I’m working with, so that’s what you get! Sorry. 

Basically, in 2017, I had a series of strokes caused by systemic blood clots from a genetic condition. I was having those strokes for between 4 and 6 months before doctors finally believed me enough to look hard enough to figure out what was killing me. Even then, I got no rehab or disability assistance or roadmap to what to expect, or even a coherent diagnosis and write-up in my chart that would’ve allowed me to get disability, just a week in the hospital and a lumpy scar from where they left the IV in wrong for 5 days and the warning that I “shouldn’t try to have kids without talking to a doctor about that clotting disorder.” 

(6 years later, in a state that actually cared about my life over the life over a theoretical potential fetus, I was told by 2 different OBGYNs and my GP that trying to carry a pregnancy to term would absolutely, unequivocally kill me, and likely also the fetus, and that if I wanted a child, I should consider adopting, because these genes aren’t kind to pass on, especially when we don’t even know what prompted their attempt to suddenly start trying to kill me from the inside.) 

Over the next few very foggy years, with no rehab, no medical oversight, no guidance, because medical care in the American South is garbage, I stopped being able to even pretend to be okay. 

People thought I was recovering and getting back to alright, because I could move and speak, but they wouldn’t really listen when I tried to explain that the words I was saying weren’t the ones I was trying to say, weren’t conveying what I needed them to, couldn’t understand when I said that I was talking but not communicating. 

Loved ones kept telling me—like they were trying to be encouraging, but every second of it felt like gaslighting—that I was still smart, still talented, still articulate. 

No one listened when I said that *wasn’t the issue*, that having a big vocabulary didn’t mean the words coming out were what I was choosing, that I couldn’t *think* clearly—and to be fair, I probably wasn’t communicating any of THAT very well, either, because, as I said, I wasn’t able to say *any* of what I needed to say in a way that anybody who loved me seemed able to understand. 

My relationship with my family, born and found, drastically deteriorated during that period—to them, I was suddenly erratic and angry all the time, irrationally vicious, and my inconsistencies and the way my brain was skipping around through time like fucking Brigadoon made it seem like I was lying to them, or buying things I shouldn’t be, or doing inexplicable stuff, or pushing them away. 

I kept trying to beg them for help, *scream* for help, and…my dad would invite me over for pancakes, hug me, feed me, and send me home, like everything was normal and fine. Even when I cried and tried to talk to him about what a hard time I was having, he seemed to blame my husband instead of my body, no matter what I said. 

My mom had moved to Canada, and I never saw her, except when we met up for a “vacation” with my grandma, which ended up being the final one I ever took with her. I spent the whole time having screaming fights with my mom because she was treating me like a healthy person, asking me to do things I hadn’t been able to do in over a year, when I’d been functionally bedbound for 2 years and couldn’t even feel my extremities, when I was actually significantly sicker and more physically unstable than my grandma. 

I was experiencing constant lingering symptoms from the strokes—ones I’m blasé about now, like my perpetual vertigo, my new inability to drive, my constant nerve pain, my intermittent and inconsistent aphasia, my migraines, my time skips, my dissociative fugues, my panic attacks, my ptsd flashbacks—but had NO LANGUAGE for them yet to tell anyone what was happening. (I will never get the last few years of her life with my grandma back, or be able to say what I wanted to say to her in the years when I was least able to communicate. It’s so scary and confusing to wake up and find out she’s dead again *every day*, that she’ll never be there to hug me or help me again. It felt like I was asleep when she died.) 

Sometimes I would just break down into wordless screams because I was so overwhelmed and terrified by the experience of what was happening to me and how impossible it seemed to get anybody to understand. My mom said she was afraid of me. 

I tried, as hard as I could, and kept trying to see new neurologists and specialists all the way up til the pandemic—I didn’t understand how NOBODY around me other than my fiance/husband was seeing or hearing what was happening to me. 

I started to hate every single person around me (other than him) for—*it felt like*, even if I can recognize now that it *wasn’t*—willfully ignoring me collapsing inside myself. I felt like I was on fire and screaming and nobody would even piss on me to put it out, let alone actually help me. 

I summoned all the last bits of my brain that I could find, made one last, big push, and tried to move us to Canada to get better healthcare, and I *almost succeeded*—but *just* as we were about to slide into a new life there, the pandemic hit. The town we moved to collapsed, life as we knew it collapsed, and nothing was ever the same again.

In the isolation and terror of lockdown, my subconscious fully gave up. 

I came to believe that I had actually died in the hospital in 2017. 

I thought graduating grad school and getting married was my brain’s final, happy dream, and that the pandemic and the lockdown and the nonstop horrorshow that life became was just my dying brain collapsing. I thought that my godmother Kathryn and my grandma—the only two supports and sources of counsel I had who would reliably tell me things I wasn’t expecting to hear and couldn’t have come up with myself—dying was my brain coming up with a reason for not being able to generate content from them. 

I didn’t even realize it at the time—didn’t realize until much later, when I was living in Denver and getting some semblance of actually-competent medical care—but the worse things got, the more and more *sure* I became that I was dead during that time. After all, a global plague that keeps you from being able to hug your friends and never actually ends, and Nazis taking over America in the 2020s, *sounds* like the nonsense of a dissolving brainscape. 

All my decisions became about how to make myself something like at peace before my dream dissolved entirely and I ceased to be. (That mentality is what led me to Denver. If I hadn’t been sure I was dead and dreaming, I never would have come here. I’m glad I did, or I think I would’ve stayed dead until I died.) 

During those years, their desperation and confusion, the last scraps of the person I’d been up til the strokes, Alena, broke up and drifted away like old snakeskin, and I, Astrid, came to awareness like a kid waking up from a nap. 

Once I got to Denver and got to a better doctor and got to talk to people and got some *language* for what had happened to me, things became clearer. In addition to the physical issues the blood clots (which were in my whole body, not just my brain) had caused, as I started to “recover”, we found I also had mental gaps. (I had known this, but demonstrating it to others and finding language for it was crucial.) Over time it became clear they weren’t just little gaps, they were holes left by the strokes, then widened by isolation and trauma. We’ve done neurofeedback therapy and brain mapping and skill testing and a bunch of stuff since then, and a lot of talk therapy, just to figure out the situation we’re dealing with now and where to start with it. 

In many ways, I am mostly the same kid Alena was, like if you’d cloned her brain at age 4 and left the clone childbrain in a jar like a backup save to revert to in emergency. 

During those isolated years, as it became clear that the original brain was USELESS SOUP, the cloned childbrain took over for the obliterated original’s brain, but it took me quite a while to figure out *that* was what was happening. Cloned childbrain isn’t SHATTERED like the original brain, and the original brain’s saved memory files (some may be corrupted or out of order) have been uploaded, and the personality and goals and skills also tried to upload, but the brain trying to run them is still just a cloned childbrain, and all that stuff didn’t really make it very intact through the transfer. 

She (Alena) had one brain, with one electrical map and skillset and coping mechanisms, and I have a different one, cobbled together by the amazing elasticity of the human brain, but it’s sort of like starting over as a kid. (My therapist pointed out at one point, somewhat devastatingly, that if I had been age-regressed by the strokes—as indeed I at least partially had been—nobody would even notice, because as a child, everyone had basically treated me like a tiny adult, because I spoke like an adult, and if I were acting like my child-self again now, the only clue people had previously had to treat me like a kid, my kid size, would be gone. She was exactly correct, and that led down a rabbit hole I’m still working through.) 

Luckily, though, as an autistic, my brain didn’t experience the same neural pruning in adulthood that neurotypical brains do! So at least one of my disabilities means that I literally have more of myself left to work with than most people would after having a bunch of strokes on both sides of their brain! 

I’m sort of like…if a tree gets struck by lightning, and the whole top gets blasted off, but there’s a couple branches lower down still, branches that didn’t really get a chance to grow in the shade of the big, thriving treetop branches that were Alena’s brain. But when all those big branches got blasted off, the little branches left below were all that was left. The tree is still alive, and those little branches have a chance to grow, now, a chance they wouldn’t have had before, and over time, they *become* the tree. But it is, in many ways, even though the roots and the trunk are the same, a very different tree. Even if someday, the little branches grow into big ones, and the tree is huge and healthy again, it still won’t be the same tree it was when it had a full canopy of branches that are severed and gone now. 

Alena was the first tree. Astrid is the second. Her roots and trunk are my roots and trunk. Her parents are my parents, her genes are my genes, we have a decent number (but not all) of the same core beliefs and mannerisms, and can thus keep some of the same friends, and I have a large cache (but not all) of her memories, but that’s…it. 

*I am other branches*. 

When people ask me if I’ll “get back to” things, or how my “recovery” is going, I want to scream. I am not recovering. I am new, and confused, and I can’t “get back to” things *I* never did—at most, I could relearn them, from scratch, and do them differently than she did, but I will never *get back to* a single sliver of Alena’s life, because it *isn’t mine*. I can’t regrow her branches, and I don’t want to, because they’re *hers*, not *mine*. 

Alena’s life is like a movie I’ve been made to rewatch every day and every night, and have all the baggage and trauma from, but I’m just a little kid watching it, and have no ability to change what happened, and not enough of Alena is left in here (and I’d like most of the rest to leave) to get closure on most of it. Like, I can bitch at people for treating Alena poorly, but it does about as much for the emotional baggage and trauma left in my body as bitching at the writers of Supernatural did to get them to stop queerbaiting (ie nothing.) 

Yes, my brain has most of Alena’s memories, albeit scrambled, like if you smashed a disco ball but put all the pieces in a bucket? Not all of them, and lots of them need outside help to be found and filed properly, but most. Alena had a BA and an MFA, was a teacher, was an anthropologist and author, and I have memory of most of the classes, of the work, of the underlying theory…but not in *order*, or useful enough to use for work, or to be confident in *any* of her areas of expertise (not that my body can work consistently now, anyway.) 

That’s not even the main issue—my *body*, which was *also her body* and has *not* had the sort of “reset” of the strokes, still has *all her memories*, and holds *all her trauma*, which can be really confusing and cognitively dissonant for me, because while I’ve “seen the movie”, I *wasn’t there for it*, and it’s sort of like walking around in an explosive suit covered of triggers that I can’t fully be aware of how to not press, and praying that nobody bumps into them, because I have very few tools to defuse the explosives with, because I’m *still just learning what they even are*. Sometimes my nesting partner will do something and I’ll just burst into tears and not know why, and it’ll take hours of crying and unpacking and unraveling shit to figure out which of Alena’s triggers got tripped, and more hours still to try and untangle *her* trauma in *our* body from the feelings in *my* brain. Whole days will get lost to me weeping over things Alena never got to process before she died. (I’m very lucky and grateful to have a partner who not only *can* usually handle that, but loves me enough to be *willing* to handle it, and to handhold me through it.)

At the crux of it, Alena was also just…not *me*, had a different brain than Astrid does, so the work she did and loved doesn’t necessarily even *appeal* to me, and trying to claw some shoddy semblance of her skills back from the grave just to pretend to be her, or *try* to be her, was nightmarish, but I still wasted at least 5 years after the strokes trying, and grieving the miserable failures of those attempts. 

Pausing to say this as clearly as I can, because I know I haven’t said it to everybody directly, and some people need to see/hear it directly to be able to process it. 

Alena is dead.

She died a slow, lingering, awful death, watching her skills and plans and loved ones slip out of reach while she screamed and clawed and fought to get to them through the wall of her disabled body. 

She died right as she was finally getting to become herself. I did the last bits of her work I could do, because she wouldn’t let go and stop screaming and drowning out every other glimpse of light until I did. I named my thesis what I did because it was *her bones* I found in the garden of my body. I put the last works of her life to paper and left them there. All those embroideries I made? Her last magics.

I keep crying when I try to caption this. Um.
This is one of the last photos taken of Alena before the strokes took her. October, 2017, I think.
On top of a stone monument in a park in Gainesville, Georgia, that she definitely wasn’t supposed to have climbed, in the middle of a Pokémon-hunting date with the love of her life, Bruce.

Alena is dead. 

It’s okay if you need to mourn her. I’ve lost most of the last 8 years to doing the same, and I won’t hold it against you or feel like you hate Astrid because you miss Alena. (*I* hated Astrid because I missed Alena, but I’m trying to release that and give Astrid a chance to grow into her own person.) Put her on your Samhain altar, put her memories in a jar of dust on your mantle, but please, so I can have just a little of the room learn how to be something other than a collapsing shrine to her memory—please, don’t put her on me.

When I finally decided to stop trying to resurrect Alena from inside her corpse, and instead claim it as the living (albeit glitchy) body of the new person coming to awareness inside it, about a year and a half ago, I marked the choice by changing my name to Astrid, to give myself permission to be a new—albeit permanently and involuntarily adjacent—person. 

When I went back to Starbridge for my grandmother’s memorial a couple years ago, I went up to the standing stone circle and hugged each of the stones and thanked them for holding the memories of the life I lived as Alena. I said goodbye to her aloud for the first time; admitted she was dead and had to be released to go into the West. This is the first picture I took after, still in the circle, still hugging the stones, and looking, for the first time, towards a totally uncharted future.

It’s helped my mental state a lot already, and if my body would just settle down and stop flaring out of control, I think I might even enjoy who I am as Astrid! I’m trying to learn to enjoy it anyway, but it’s hard. I’m really lonely, but it’s hard to bond with other adults when I don’t know most of the first things about myself. 

And like, I’m not totally doomed! I’m not a homunculus of despair, even if it seems like it sometimes! I’m just…new. Realistically, I think if you gave another 8 year old my life, she’d be pretty dang confused and overwhelmed and lonely, too. 

Alena the adult is gone, but this little girl? She’s still here. She’s the trunk of the tree that the branches snapped off. She is alive and full of wonder. She is a FERAL GLITTER GREMLIN and ho probably shouldn’t have the reins to a 33 year old body, but she does, and she’s gonna make the best of it.

Just like the first time around, I love learning new things, and even if I’m kinda small again, mentally, I’m still *smart* (a little less smart than the first time, no longer *technically* a genius, but then, who—other than my test proctor/assessor, I guess—is even really counting?), so I learn new things pretty well, as long as somebody shows me and I don’t have to try to just teach myself in a vacuum. I’m a capable kid if you give me a task! I can hyperfixate and digest whole new worlds of information if I’m engaged with something!

But that also means that I struggle daily with the grief of knowing that if my body would’ve just gotten *little* again, like my brain, I could go do school all over, and be taught things from scratch, and maybe actually learn things in an order I could use, and maybe have, if not a fancy career or impressive job, at least a community role where I could feel like a whole person, able to live in harmonic balance with my community and the people I love. 

But I am, to the world, 33 and disabled and functionally already ready to be put out to pasture as useless, not 8 and bright and creative and ready to *become* somebody. And I have to learn how to accept that knowledge like the adult I’m not, and process and grieve that knowledge and acceptance like an adult, instead of just collapsing in a heap and weeping every minute like the confused child my brain *actually is*. What I have to learn to swallow is that there *is* no map for this; there *is* no help except whatever help I manage to figure out I need, find the words to ask for, and find the right person to ask for it—and that’s still in process, every day. My whole life is just medical poke after medical prod and trying to rest enough to have human thoughts and feelings in between, bouncing between specialists, trying to get this body to stabilize enough for me to try and teach myself, all over from scratch, out of order and in a monstrous mess, how to be a person. 

Sometimes—often—all I want in the whole world is to move back to my childhood, move back in with my parents, go back to my community, and start over. Be taught again, be raised again, be able to have family meals and family outings, where I can join in on things without having to plan them, where I can be useful without having to be self-directed and in charge. Where I can *help* instead of *lead*, especially since I *don’t know where I’m going or what I’m doing*. 

But my parents are divorced and remarried happily (they both seem to like their new spouses more than I ever remember them liking each other, and I’m sincerely happy for them; this isn’t me resenting them having real lives, just grieving the fact that I can’t go home again) and living elsewhere, my community is spread to the four winds or literally dead, respectively, my childhood home is a crumbling shell filled with boxes of Alena’s life I’m too sick to visit and go through without help I don’t have, and there’s nothing to go back to—or even go forward to, as we learned with last year’s attempt to go live near my mom—that would give me the supportive, integrated experience I actually need to be able to emotionally and mentally develop into a person properly again. There’s no home with a me-shaped hole, waiting for me to fill it. There’s no path to being an adult in front of my feet, waiting for me to step onto it with child feet. There’s just an empty house on 50 acres, a perpetual smell of dog and mildew, and a little brother who never liked me anyway. 

And I’ve been doing the neurofeedback, and I’ve been going to therapy, and I’ve been building myself little Lego block by Lego block as I find them, but y’all, I don’t know how to do it. *I don’t know how*. I wake up every day a bright little kid, full of hope and openness, ready to take on my life and the world with the body and energy of a kid, and as I wake up, the reality of what I actually am crashes in and crushes me. Every morning is just experiencing 27 jumbled years that don’t even belong to me and all their emotional weight landing on my chest like a ton of bricks all over again, and me lying there wondering why I don’t get to go to school and make friends with other people my age and get to be taught things with the same patience and handholding they are, because I’m not 33, I’m 8. My body is 33, but I will literally never catch up, and my body is drowning in the adult trauma of a dead person I can never talk to about it and get closure about any of her baggage on, and the grief and overwhelm of that, and not knowing how to begin to start over or how to even make *one day* feel like mine to use how I want to, swallows most of my spoons, most days. 

My family and loved ones know the situation, and are as supportive as I could hope for, considering, but it’s not something we really know where to start with or how to like. Build me an actual life from? The fact that they’re paying for me to live *like* a person, in a place I can breathe and potentially see decent medical providers, is already so huge; I can’t really ask for more. 

But I do recognize that, if I ever want to feel like a whole person, or be prepared for a day when my parents are *old* old and can’t keep doing this for me, I *need* more. 

I need the health to strengthen my body enough for basic activities, I need the emotional capacity to make friends and build community, I need the mental scaffolding and make realistic plans that take my disabilities into account, and I need a way to give back to my loved ones and community so that I have some sense of self worth and of being more than a parasite, and I just…I don’t know how to do it. 

Mostly my existence is chasing endless medical specialists and trying to get this 33 year old body to stabilize long enough for this 8 year old brain to get a sense of who it is and how to be a person. People actively want to be my friends, but I feel so weighed down by Alena’s life and traumas, and simultaneously so young and confused and unsure of how to hold even basic conversations and so full of the experience of trying and failing in the first few years since the strokes, that the more someone is kind to me, the more I shrink inside myself because I’m terrified of ruining it. (Please don’t take that as a sign to back off and stop; I’m trying really hard to get to a place where I can meet y’all where you’re waiting for me. Knowing you’re there, and will hopefully be there as I become ready, makes me much more motivated, and even a little less scared, to do all the big emotional work involved in trying. Thank you for being there, and being patient and kind with me.) 

I don’t know how to wrap this up. 

It was meant to be a summary of my post-stroke situation and the journey of my health and mentality since then so far, but honestly, trying to sum it up into something linear that makes sense and isn’t just a saga of futile effort and meaningless death just made me feel even more small and helpless, and I’m crying so hard as I try to reread and try to edit it into coherence, I really just have to put this down and hope it’s cogent enough to catch people up in a useful way. 

I wanna make sure I say, though, that I don’t blame anybody for not somehow saving Alena, or being able to understand the crazy things she was screaming when she was trying to say goodbye. I don’t hold it against anybody for not following what was happening—even I couldn’t follow it, and it was happening *to me*—or for not being able to deal with it and having to walk away. If I could put it down and walk away, I’d have done it a hundred times by now. 

As Astrid, I love and appreciate everyone who has stayed with me, or has since found me, and helped me try to stabilize and begin again. I’m so grateful to have the life and opportunities I do, even if they’re not the ones I expected. I hope you all know that me processing and grieving what’s been lost along the way isn’t me being ungrateful for where I am, or hating my whole life, it’s just me having very delayed processing and a broken brain, and being very overwhelmed and confused by everything that’s happened to me so far, and even more overwhelmed and confused about what’s yet to come. 

I don’t know where I’m going, or have much idea of who I am, or how I’ll become the rest of myself, or what’s going to happen, or even what I *want* to happen. 

I don’t know where I’m going in my life as Astrid, but I know that, for the moment, there’s sunlight on my face, wind in my hair, and a beautiful world all around me, where thousands of things remind me that everything grows and rests and renews itself at different rates, in different ways, in nature every day. Like everything, I *do* have a place I belong here, even if I don’t know the how or the way yet.

All I can do is do my best in the moment, and try to build a life of living in the present and looking forward, even if forward is dark and nebulous and terrifyingly unclear. 

I have people who love and support me, even if they’re mostly far away, and a clean, safe place to live, and I know that’s so much more than most. I see the news. I have so many friends without even a tenth of the supports I have, and I know I’m lucky. 

Even if my life feels scrambled and warped and overwhelming and terrifying, I’m so grateful to have a chance to try and live it, starting from the middle as I may be. Thank you, all of you, for making the journey with me. 💖 I hope our time together is long and lovely.

Brain damage, rebirth, and cognitive dissonance

Today, I slept in, because I’m sick and needed the rest, but regretted it when I ended up waking up sobbing from nightmares about the godsister of the person whose body this used to be.

It’s so weird to have memories of being a person while so distinctly not being that person. I, Astrid, will get hit with a trigger, and Alena’s memories flood in like a horror movie, but they’re not *mine*, so resolving them feels not just impossible, but useless.

Sure, I could reach out to her godsister and talk about the complicated unresolved situation between them, but the echoes of Alena’s discomfort at the years of being treated like a backwoods backup option and throwaway *won’t go away* if I, *a different person*, talk to *her* godsister and explain, like a freakish medium wearing the ghost’s face, that I’m trying to resolve her unresolved issues so the ghost will move the f on. (I know this, because I wasted the first few years after the strokes trying to resolve the issues of Alena’s life like she was a ghost I was trying to wrap up the earthly cares of.) Because there *is* no actual ghost, just the memories of another life, one with choices I don’t understand and motives I can’t speak to, like a movie. 

Talking to the actors who played them years after the movie wrapped *won’t make the movie end different*. Alena isn’t *here* to even *get* closure or be freed, she just left me with the movie and no directions and a bunch of feelings tied to the *muscle memories* of this body but not to its *brain*.

“Hey, btw, I’m not her and I don’t wanna fix shit and be friends with you, because I actually think you’re a pretty cruel and inconsiderate person who refuses to take accountability for the way you use people, but I’m going to just drag you to see if it makes me feel better! Because I only ever feel worse and something has to change! 

“At least one of Alena’s own parents straight up spent years thinking she was intentionally stealing their money because of how much of it she was spending it just feeding you actual nutrients and taking you to the doctor for pneumonia like four fucking times and keeping you alive in between your rounds of dissociative party bullshit and boyfriends who literally laughed to Alena behind your back about how they were using and abusing you and going to literally kill your mom one day to make you truly alone and belong to them and there was nothing Alena could do about it. 

“When Alena was dying in the hospital, you wouldn’t even pick up the phone, because you were mad over things she couldn’t control saying and didn’t mean and wasn’t intending to say because her brain was being *riddled with holes* while she was screaming and begging for you to please come say goodbye. 

“I can’t ever erase Alena’s memories of this, and I can’t ever make her feel better about it, because she’s legit gone, but since I have to live with the nightmares and flashbacks to her life and the thousands of ways you made her feel worthless and unlovable and never enough *every single goddamn day*, I just thought I’d tell you what an absolute garbage friend you were for 27 years and that Alena died still desperate for your love and approval and this body still wakes up crying from dreams about it even though this brain has never met you and never wants to, because you suck. Thanks so much for listening, this has made both our lives at least a little worse.”

Like…no fucking thank you. 

That woman was hard enough to talk to seriously about anything important, let alone get her to be accountable, when I was somebody who actively loved her. 

Now I’m just a kid who inexplicably remembers what it felt like to love her, and not be loved back in any meaningful or useful way, and how much it broke the person who used to have this body, and what a mess that left me with when I landed in it. 

And there are HUNDREDS OF THESE—FEELINGS AND GHOSTS AND MUSCLE MEMORIES AND BAGGAGE THAT JUST ISN’T MINE. That I didn’t pick up on purpose, and don’t have the strength or skills Alena had to carry all of it—I just landed here, holding it, like a kid left with her aunts bags in an airport bathroom. And the “aunt” actually ran off with a flight attendant, and then the plane fell out of the sky, and she’s never coming back. 

My brain is just. Full. Like a cup with too much tea in. There’s no room for Astrid, because it’s all taken up with Alena’s baggage *that I don’t even believe in* but *can’t seem to offload*, no matter how much therapy my family kindly pays for. 

There’s a half-finished weaving on my loom, threads dangling, no more of those threads to pick up and use and finish it, but I’m just supposed to somehow tuck in those ends like they’re not an unfinished picture and start weaving my own thing here anyway? I’m supposed to somehow just *start*, without getting to cut the old mess off the loom and start fresh, and somehow turn the ragged, half-finished mess of somebody else’s life into a whole one for myself? While having no skills that aren’t broken shards of hers? 

I feel like a cartoon of futility.

Dear probably-comically-underpaid FBI/NSA underling interns…

Dear comically underpaid FBI/NSA underling interns having to comb through all the things of mine and my silly little friends that the AI bots flag for you, satirical and serious alike:

I am not suspicious! Nay—I am but a noisy little wheel that spins nowhere!
I’m too disabled to leave my home and be troublesome!
I’m just a smol lil writer with the constitution of a wilting victorian maiden!
Yes!
Yes, I, I am just—
Just a poor, disabled lil silly writer, simply a cartoon mouse with brain damage!
Just a sellout comedian writing mad nonsense for monetized engagement!
Just saying anything online for clicks, yes!
All simply an effort to buy soup, soup for my family! 🙃

a clip from the show Parks & Recreation, showing Jean-Ralphio and Mona Lisa Saperstein dancing right in front of their own fake funeral while singing “don’t be suspicious, don’t, don’t be suspicious”.

Truly, I hope they waste lots of resources figuring out that I’m too disabled to even make my own meals and shower without supervision, let alone do any direct street action. That I talk so much because I’m a BEAUTIFUL LIGHTHOUSE, not a BATTLESHIP AT SEA. I exist to blast light into the dark, to guide my people on their way, to do what I can to keep them safe.

Cuz you know the thing I can do when I’m mostly homebound and bedbound and too sick-scrambled to do anything else useful?
I can make VERY LOUD NOISES while my community gnaws away at the straps of their boots and does the direct action I can’t.
I can sit here in bed, and I can laugh loudly in the face of fascism and try to make you laugh, too.
Fascism cannot survive not being taken seriously, and it relies on advance compliance based in fear.

I do know they could come for me. My loved ones remind me often, because they worry.
Speaking out, loudly and often, is dangerous, even with an audience as small as mine.

The funny thing is, I have spent SO LONG being terrified of EVERYTHING. I was raised in a town that called me a “darkie”, and where my classmates repeatedly terrorized me and tried to end my life between classes for being too queer, fat, dark, and/or nonChristian.

It’s funny that fascists are giving me my first ever access to freedom from that endless, pantophobic fear, just by making me—us—being afraid of them a key point in their agenda. Their plans REQUIRE us to be too afraid to live loudly as ourselves in front of them, too afraid to call them out for being stupid and horrid, too afraid to laugh in their flaccid, grey-orange faces.

I refuse to be complicit in their agenda; thus, I must release my fear.

I can’t pretend it’s not there, but I can learn to feel it and let it flow through me until its power over me diminishes.
With every incoherent, verbose monstrosity of a personal essay and bitingly sardonic antifascist shitpost I make, I become minutely stronger, and fascism’s hold becomes minutely weaker.

the sunset from my balcony tonight

If they ever do come for me, don’t stop laughing at them, don’t ever give them the control they want.

Because here’s the thing: we are predatory apes who evolved to cooperate, to share responsibility and work in communities, all so that we can bask in the sun, make art, make love, eat delicious fruit, drink clean water, write poetry, get care when we’re injured or ill, and generally enjoy our existences.

Not one of us was made to live in fear or poverty or shame for who we are, let alone made to line somebody else’s pockets with surplus while we live in deprivation with our necks under their boots—not ONE. I got a degree in anthropology, okay, and I swear, the majority of the population living as wageslaves without hope of a better life beyond MAYBE being able to afford the cost of living someday is *not* part of human nature, it is a carefully manufactured way of life, instituted by greedy people who had a head start and no sense of empathy or moral backbone.

Emerald Rose perform Rudyard Kipling’s “A Pict Song” – I find this especially amusing, as it’s situationally apropos, but also, my ancestry is filled with Picts and Romans, and the song is also being played by my dad’s band.

They don’t listen when we speak, they condemn our peaceful pushback, and sometimes it feels so hopeless that I want to scream.

But it’s not. If it were hopeless, they wouldn’t need their propaganda. They wouldn’t need us frightened of their power. They wouldn’t send 2,700 troops to try to suppress one city of people to instill fear in the rest of us.

(Which is, of course, RIDICULOUS. The NeoNazi Cheeto Man needs almost 3k troops to even begin to TRY to quell ONE CITY of queers, actors, and immigrants? The people he says are lesser than *his* people? Ha! What a loser. Does he try to add random pieces to the board when he’s losing at chess, too? Wait, he can’t play chess, he can’t even find his own butt with both hands. And I say this as someone who has brain damage and can still confidently say that at least I’m not *that* brain damaged. Put that man in a diaper and a padded room and give him some soup. Possibly to the face, still canned.)

So, yeah. Seriously, hilariously? Laughter is powerful. Laughter is a reminder that they do not control the narrative inside us, no matter how much media spin they buy. We must laugh in their faces at the idea that the world was made for anyone to rule, let alone that any among us were made to be their disposable labor force.

a refrigerator magnet haiku from my fridge, reading: “flowers break concrete / revolution must blossom / destroy and create”

We must laugh at the very idea that their fascist order is natural, meaningful, or anything but a pathetic farce played out by greedy imbeciles grabbing endlessly for more at the expense of the entire rest of the human community.

We must laugh, even with blood on our teeth and fear nipping at our heels.

We must be wilder than fear.

(CW: medical mentions of menstruation, blood, and bodily fluids, PTSD, panic issues)

Dear medical providers and administrators, from a disabled person with severe medical and personal trauma—

If you know in advance that your initial appointment with a new patient will require them to be
-nude,
-touched in intimate areas, or
-stuck in an enclosed space,
you ABSOLUTELY need to give them written warning WELL before the appointment.
Ideally when they are making the appointment, but if not, as soon as you know it will be required.

If you as the medical provider don’t know in advance, and the need only becomes evident during the appointment, you NEED to give patients the options to:
-go “freshen up” and give them the supplies to do so (only works if they’re able-bodied enough to use the facilities to hand and not allergic to the supplies, the latter of which I ALWAYS AM,)
-ask for an additional staff member (of their requested gender) to be present as a witness during that part of the exam, or
-reschedule that part of the exam for when they have had time to physically prep/bring a support person/talk it through with their therapist/take anxiety meds in advance (but it has to be relatively soon, or it WILL come off like their inability/unwillingness to unexpectedly undergo something that feels violating to them is being punished by care being withheld.)

If you’re a doctor or other actual medical care provider, you should be aware that disabled, traumatized, and busy people exist, and you should care about the humanity of your patients enough to allow them the basic dignity of being able to prepare appropriately for appointments.

If you DON’T do those things, frankly, you are a jerk who shouldn’t be entrusted with caring for people’s wellbeing in any way, and you ABSOLUTELY DESERVE having to deal with all of the explosions of vomit, volcanoes of blood, hurricanes of weeping, torrents of snot, fetid swamps of unwashed genitals with sweat-matted bush, storms of scary PTSD episodes, floods of leavings from yesterday’s sexcapades, foul winds of post-gym or -physical therapy sweat, and whatever else you get. 😤🖕🏻✨ People have DISABILITIES, TRAUMA, OTHER ACTIVITIES IN THEIR LIVES, and BOUNDARIES. If YOU get to know in advance, your PATIENTS SHOULD, TOO.

[This message is brought to you by the fact that I woke up today feeling utterly, immobilizingly awful due to my extremely heavy period (made worse by it being late as well as me being on blood thinners), so I called to reschedule my urogynecologist appointment for this afternoon—and thank Godzilla I did, as APPARENTLY the very first “consult visit” includes a “very thorough pelvic exam” despite them in NO WAY warning me of this in advance or even asking what I was coming in for. 😑 Thoughtless, callous jerks would’ve COMPLETELY deserved the cartoonish, Pompeiian blood volcano to the face and subsequent blood lake of an exam room floor they’d have gotten if I’d gone in today. 💀🩸🌋]

pic of the Sausagecat looking as annoyed as I feel

Neil Gaiman is gross; want something better?

Ugh. Haunted as I am by the details coming to light on Gaiman and how much they remind me of my own experience with predators, I need to think about something GOOD.

So this feels like a great day to remind you that some authors are NOT, in fact, predatory and evil! ✨ Some are even actually like…the total opposite of that!

Some of them write incredibly well-rounded, diverse, multiethnic, complex characters of all shapes, sizes, genders, presentations, orientations, levels of disability, and walks of life.

[awesome Circle of Magic fanart by minuiko on tumblr]

Some of them might have had enough of kind and compassionate people being treated like prey, and partially use their books as vessels to tell stories of being faced with predatory people and how to push back against and undermine those people, even when you’re small or poor or disabled or afraid. Ways that work.

[art of Tortall Universe characters from covers by Kelsey Eng]

Some of them are so wonderfully, aggressively anti-predatory that if you read their books, you will just happen to learn multiple actual self defense tips, often designed to work against people bigger and stronger than you (many of which kept me alive in high school) along with descriptions of small, simple, safe ways to get stronger both mentally and physically. (As the internet becomes a more misinformation-flooded place and less of an easily helpful resource, the background knowledge I have from these books has come up often.)

[“Protector of the Small” fanart by Emily Hurst Pritchett]

Some of them might even meet you at writer camp and treat you like a person, even though you’re just a weird awkward kid with no social skills, and then might help you get into college, and then when you’re having strokes and your life is falling apart 15 years later, they might regularly write back and forth with you about really personal stuff and help keep you alive to fight another day.
(…that one might be semi specific to me, but I know I’m not the only one she’s helped in parallel ways that closely. 💖)

So, yeah, if you’d like to get obsessed with a prolific fantasy author who’s as good a human being as she is a storyteller, who I have vetted as hard as I can vet somebody, I can recommend no author in the world higher than Tamora Pierce.

[photo of Tamora Pierce from her Facebook page]

So, if you’re as angry and sad and disgusted by Neil Gaiman today as I am, do yourself a favor and go get yourself a lil soul cleanse—either buy from your favorite bookseller or go to your local library and get your hands on a copy of the first book in either of her 2 universes! 🌟

⚔️ If you’re a fan of swords and sorcery, go grab “Alanna: the First Adventure”. (1st Tortall Universe book.)
🌀 If more elemental magic and found family is the vibe for you (and, shhh, don’t tell anyone, but it is for me), get yourself a copy of “Sandry’s Book.” (1st Circle Universe book.)

You may get some snooty people’s noses turning up for these books being YA, or “for girls” (they’re not, they’re for everyone,) but let me assure you—the writing, characters, and plots are more beautifully intricate and adult than anything, say, I dunno…picking another Deeply Sketchy Author Man who gets too much credit while clearly outing himself as sketchy in his work like Gaiman did…hmmm…George RR Martin!…has ever managed, they just also actually make internal world-building sense and she bothers to finish them. 🤦🏻‍♀️😂

Seriously, y’all, Tammy’s books are the best, and the positive lessons they teach last for life. 💖

Big Changes Coming Up!

Alright, y’all. Big news time! 💖 All good, but some the kind of good-but-painful that you get from hard life decisions and growth.

Without beating around the bush excessively: Joe and I will be moving back to Colorado pretty imminently, but Bruce is actually gonna be staying in Maine.

To put it simplest: it’s a health and stability thing, not any kind of terrible falling out or change in feelings between us. Bruce and I have talked a lot, over a long time, and because of us both ending up way more intensely disabled than we realized or could’ve accounted for when we got married, we aren’t able to take the kind of care of each other we want to while also taking care of ourselves.
We were kind of stuck in a holding pattern of trying to shore each other up while falling apart ourselves, not sure how to stabilize without having to let go of the other and leave the other drowning, which we care too much for each other to be able to do.

Eventually, Joe unexpectedly coming onto the scene as a highly caregiving-oriented partner for me ended up demonstrating to all of us how much help I really do need after the strokes, and how much better I do, and how much more I can do for myself, when I get that help, and ALSO how much better Bruce does when he’s not trying to give me all this care that he’s struggling to be able to give himself right now.
Talking about it, both of us like the idea of giving the other a chance to step away and stabilize ourselves without having to worry that it means letting go of each other entirely and forever.

So, yeah; after much discussion and heavy conversation and maybe some crying but actually no yelling at or being upset with each other, Bruce and I have decided to amicably separate, semi-indefinitely, with the intention to reunite if/when our respective health situations stabilize enough for us to be the kind of partner the other needs.
Bruce is gonna finish out the lease in Maine into this summer at least, and Joe and I are going to move back to Colorado at the end of January/beginning of February. Joe and I have acquired a 2 bedroom apartment at our awesome old complex in Littleton, and there’s very much room for Bruce to come join us in whatever capacity he wants/feels able to later on when things stabilize, but for now, we’re each gonna be focusing on stabilizing ourselves, getting on top of our disabilities, and figuring out who we are now in light of them before we try to partner up again.

Let me really, truly emphasize—we all intend to remain friends and family, and nobody is mad at anybody, and no cold shoulders or grudges are at all called for. No feelings have changed substantially between us, only the situation has. Bruce and Joe are friends and cool with each other, and are both doing really loving things to help prepare for this shift, from Bruce teaching Joe to cook my favorite tofu dishes to Joe helping Bruce with Maine-based paperwork.
This is not a failed relationship in any way; it is a successful and loving one that has made the very hard choice to create space for everybody involved to be able to be healthy and stable enough to pursue their happiness.

(photo: a family of 3 exhausted humanoids, mid-moving process. L to R: Bruce, Astrid, Joe.)

Bruce and I continue to love each other a lot, and what matters most to us is that we’re both able to be okay, and this decision has been made totally mutually and in the pursuit of that goal, despite it being a complicated choice that gives us both a lot of sadness while still clearly being the correct thing to do for everyone’s wellbeing.
Bruce is still my beloved best friend, my confidante, the human being who has saved my life the most times, and he’ll always be part of my family, regardless of what we ever are on paper; please continue to treat him accordingly. 💖

(photo: snow clouds rolling in and blanketing the view of a pass in Boulder, CO last week)

Updates from 2024 as we prepare to enter the new year, in case you’ve struggled to keep up (understandable, because this year has been an insane monstrosity):

  • I go by Astrid now. On purpose! Please don’t call me Alena. Alena was pre-strokes; Astrid is post-strokes. Astrid has access to most of Alena’s memories, including skill and feeling memories, but doesn’t practically have those skills and feelings, is not [even able to be] that person. I won’t be mad at you if you slip, but hearing it is painful and something I want to move on from, so if you care for me, and my comfort and identity matters to you, please work to shift to calling me Astrid. 💖 (Yes, all my publications and my website are still under the Alena name and will have to stay that way for the foreseeable future for practical purposes.)
  • I live in Bangor, Maine for the time being, with my partners, Bruce and Joe. (Bruce is my husband of 5 years, some version of whom most of you probably know by now; Joe is my boyfriend of a year and a half, who joined the household and moved in last year.) We moved there to be close to my medically-adept mom out of necessity due to my health.
  • For whatever reason, my body and brain don’t seem to work very well back on the East Coast, especially my lungs and connective tissue, and it’s like having a dog on my chest and being crushed in a laundry mangle all the time, and so far, the only relief has been coming back to Colorado temporarily. Since I have no income and am too disabled to work (even creatively/part time) reliably, trying to figure out my life and how to live somewhere that doesn’t feel like it’s unaliving me the whole time I’m there is overwhelming and scary, and pretty much everything depends almost solely on the kindness and support of others right now, especially my family. It makes me feel really burdensome and beholden to need help with basically everything and have so little hope of being able to take back over doing these things myself, and it’s hard not to just be fraught and frazzled all the time.
  • Medical care in Maine has been impossibly terrible, and I haven’t been able to get the psych meds I was finally stable on after 15 years of trial and error (that irreparably damaged my personal life and my body) because the doctors here refuse to accept the word of my CO and GA doctors and want me to start from the very beginning of that nightmare all over again. It’s really disheartening, and if I weren’t on an escape in CO right now, I honestly don’t know what hope I would have, because going through that medication gamut almost unalived me multiple times the first runthrough, and that was back when I was healthier and more stable; after a fortune in finance and suffering and time spent and friendships lost and relationships damaged to find the med balance that let me live SOMEWHAT LIKE A PERSON, I’m utterly unwilling to start that process over because the Maine healthcare system doesn’t think the word of multiple past doctors and therapists is good enough. I’m tired. I don’t want to keep pushing this same Sisyphean boulder up the hill.
  • Since escaping to CO this last week, my body is almost back to the health it was at before we moved away, like magic! While it fills me with joy and gratitude and hope, the idea of voluntarily going back to where I can’t breathe or move or think or do anything except rot and cry just fills me with deep terror, so please stop messaging me to ask and comfort me about it. 😅🖤
  • I still really struggle to read these days. While I love words, and appreciate all the intention behind helpful messages, especially around my health and healthcare options, I usually can’t even read them, let alone respond to them. The best way to get me that info is to send it to my mom or Joe, who help me read and understand stuff. Please don’t send me things (other than memes or short poetry) to read for fun, no matter how much you think I’ll love them; reading hurts now and I can’t remember the content of sentences when I’m halfway through them and even trying to read my favorite books just makes me cry now because they’ll turn to gibberish as I’m reading for no apparent reason. Having to explain it every time is always a downer and ruins the party, but like. I’m a writer with brain damage who can’t read properly anymore and it sucks. 🤷🏻‍♀️
  • My favorite things right now are hobbit hiking in the mountains when my body will allow, playing Stardew Valley, watching TV shows I’ve already seen several times, looking at/talking about art, leftism, and occasionally seeing friends (when my health allows.) Keeping up relationships is really hard for me right now, as I struggle to hold conversations, do video chats, or leave my apartment much at all these days, and mostly what I have to talk about (outside of this month-long break in CO, which I am so grateful for) is mostly just miserable, because where I’ve been living has been crushing out even my basic functionality to the point that all I do is sit home and sleep and cry and go to the doctor and cry more. I still really want and need human closeness and community, though, and am lonely a lot of the time. (My best way of communicating rn is honestly just sending pictures of our lives with short captions and relevant memes back and forth unprompted.) I am so, SO grateful to those of you who send me loving pebbles anyways—cards, gifts, messages of support with no pressure to reply. 🥰 Y’all make me feel like it’s worth it to keep rolling the boulder of myself up the hill, even if I’m exhausted. Thank you. 💖

(Photo is just one I took of the road at sunset on solstice up near Berthoud Pass)

Becoming, or the last seven years as an extended video game analogy

I named my MFA creative thesis “Bones I Found in the Garden,” because when I came through my strokes, I had all these pieces of essays and stories and poetry left from the person I was before them.

I don’t actually know who I am now. The best way I can explain it is this.

You’re playing a video game. It’s your first playthrough, Save File Number One, so it’s kind of halting and messy and imperfect. But you’re *really* attached to it. You’re so invested in this game. You’ve played hundreds of hours, exploring the map, learning the controls, learning how to respond to the environment as this character while *using* those controls. You’ve *finally* gotten past the basic character establishing arcs and are getting into the meat of the story, establishing your home base and making it suit you, assembling a team to play co-op with, finally deciding what aspect of gameplay you enjoy most after *years* of gameplay and maxing out your skill tree in that area. You’ve wooed your romanceable NPCs and they’re super into you and you’re probably gonna get married to at least one if gameplay allows it. You’ve spent so long practicing life as this character, can practically do the sequence for your special attack combo move in your sleep. You’re a few XP away from leveling up and getting to multiclass for the first time. You’re not necessarily a competitive player on a professional level or anything, but you’re doing really well by your personal standards and you’re really focused on your game progression.

And then you wake up to a dead screen. The game crashes. Total fatal error.

You message the developers and they say they are on top of it! They announce that it’s not just you, there’s been a major crash across the whole game, for everybody! They’re doing everything they can! Coding patches as fast as they can and trying to salvage everybody’s save files, but they’re only human, and they have lives outside of work. Children to feed, spouses and friends to attend to. Their lives can’t be all about fixing your gameplay experience.

The first big patch is released, and you log back into the game only to find that your beloved Save File Number One is corrupted. There’s an archived version of it that you can view but not play, but the archived images are degraded to blocky pixels in places, completely warped in others. Some images are flipped, mirrorlike. It’s a viewable story, albeit somewhat scrambled, of the hundreds of hours you’ve put into learning this game, but it’s not *accessible*. You can’t add to it or repair it or fix it, it’s just an image of what you accomplished before. There’s no continuing your beloved Save File Number One.

So, after a period of mourning and avoiding gaming entirely, you take the plunge and make Save File Number Two. You do your best to recreate your first attempt, to build your gameplay back up to the same point it was before so you can *get back to the actual meat of the game*, but since the patch, the controls are slightly different. The developers insist it’s normal small redesigns over time, but everything feels just a little bit *wrong*. The character moves at a different, choppier pace, and the control haptics vibrate harder in your hands now. Your special attack combo move sequence has changed, and you can’t seem to memorize the new one, and every time you go to do it, it kinda hurts your hands because the button layout is much less intuitive since the update. The NPCs all have different dialogue, and it plays at either twice the volume and twice the speed it did before, or *half* the volume and speed, but either way, most interactions feel like riddles instead of exchanges, and you can’t shake the feeling that this was translated from some other language by an AI translation service but not checked by a human. You keep sending error reports and messaging the developers, but they don’t seem especially concerned as long as you still have some access to the game and are paying your subscription fees to play. The subscription fees don’t seem worth it, but what are you going to do? Not play? You’ve put your whole life into this. You’re desperate to just get back to moving forward in the game’s story, finding out how it progresses, but you’re struggling just to get through the same in-game achievements that felt, while challenging, *enjoyable* and *fulfilling* the first time. Now they feel hollow—you’re not enjoying the gameplay, and you’re saving every 3 seconds but pretty sure it doesn’t matter because it can all just disappear in an instant the next time there’s another crash, and since the crash was code-based and had *nothing to do with you*, there’s no avoiding it. You try really hard to attach to the game, to Save File Number Two, but it’s hard to enjoy a game you know is likely going to crash again and get even less developer support than it had when it was a better, more popular, more playable game. They’re not going to waste resources on a game that’s already crashed once and isn’t ever going to get its big following back and make them the money they want. It’s not a good investment.

You barely log in anymore; you let your subscription fees lapse. Save File Number Two is nothing but a pale echo of the game you loved, and playing it mostly makes you sad (and a little bit angry at the developers for not providing better support.) You spend your time offline, logged out entirely. You’re not really sure for how long. Sometimes, a friend will nudge you to hop on and play a bit, and you’ll drag yourself up to make the effort for them, but it’s not doing anything for you. It’s mostly just making you sadder and angrier and trapped by either incompetent programmers or ones just not being paid enough to care that your whole way of connecting to people and relating to the world around you is basically reduced to an awful-to-play trashfire parody of itself. You write angrier emails to the developers. They insist that new players and most old guard players like you seem ~fine~ with the controls, aren’t struggling like you are with them; maybe the problem is that you’re depressed or have grown bored with the game, or are too lazy to learn the new interface?

Galled by the accusations of laziness and incompetence, you double down on Save File Number Two. You try your absolute damndest to memorize the new special attack combo move sequence. You befriend and romance the NPCs by blindly gifting them all your resources even though they speak basically gibberish; eventually you give them the right things to make them like you better, and you arduously complete the same friendship achievements that the first time felt like an adventure. You don’t actually feel attached to the NPCs, though, because you’re not sure what you did right or wrong, and your efforts don’t seem to directly correlate to how much they appreciate them, it’s just random whether or not you stumble into the right dialogue and gift selections. It feels mostly like playing BINGO with people. The engaging, multifaceted characters of before are just memories you mentally overlay over the character portraits so you can try to pretend you still have that connection to them. There are other players online, too, but the in game live communication system has been too buggy to use since the update, so the whole experience feels terribly lonely now.

Still, you’re not an incompetent idiot. Other people are enjoying this game. Other people are finding ways to make it playable for themselves. Surely, you can grind through this tedious morass and get back to where you were in Save File Number One and finally, *finally* progress further in the game. Your friends that play have caught back up; you’re not sure why you can’t seem to make the new controls work for you, why your character moves so jerkily, why the screen keeps randomly flashing all the text into alien letters and then back again. They say they aren’t having those issues, just the normal ones that went with the systemwide crash for everybody.

For the first time, you start asking everybody what the crash was for them, and what the update fixed. You find out that the crash was just people not being able to connect to the game, not anything that should’ve made things so unplayable for you. Nobody’s special attack move combo sequence was changed. Most people’s saved files were still playable. The NPC dialogue issue and translation issues seem to be something wrong with your machine, not something wrong with the game. No wonder the developers were so dismissive; they were *sure* they’d fixed *those* problems. And they were right! You just seem to have another problem, too. But they’re not responsible for problems with the console, just the game, and trying to get support from the *console* production company proves even more futile than trying to get it from the game developers. At least you’re not barking up the wrong tree anymore, though, right?

You can’t get a refund or a replacement, your warrantee is years out of date. They don’t sell new ones of this version of the console; you’d have to chuck the whole thing out and start over with a model several generations newer, and you can neither afford that nor want to go that far.

So you start taking apart your console. You’re not great with technology and it doesn’t make a lot of sense to you, but you ask your friends who have more experience. Eventually, you find a bunch of messed up wiring and a wad of what looks like lint and battery acid wedged up under the buttons. Your special attack move didn’t change, one of the buttons for it was just misfiring when you hit it, signaling twice or not at all, ruining the sequence. Digging a little further gets you more answers: tiny wires connected to the wrong things, or just straight up corroded away. You message the game developers asking what to do—should you try and cobble together repairs to this console or just give up and start over from scratch with a new one from the new generation? You just want to be able to play and basically enjoy the game you used to love.

Somebody at the game company actually sees your message and bothers to reply. It takes you a while to get your console to let you even read their message; it keeps flashing the letters into alien characters randomly. Eventually, you find out that they’d had a friend with a similar issue, and they’d tried a different solution: they’d gotten their old console professionally refurbished. It took finding a very particular specialist with a very specific skill set and a very long and expensive waitlist, but that if you’re attached to playing the game with this interface, it’s probably your best bet. You’ll have to pack up your broken console and send it off for an indefinite amount of time to be fixed, and you don’t know what it’ll cost you, but it’s literally the only option if you don’t want to just throw the whole experience in the trash and start over from scratch and hope you get a better console next time.

So you pack up the console. Lovingly, but exhaustedly, and with so much anxiety that you’ll never see it again. This is your whole life. Your only chance to get back to the story you’re so invested in and finish its arc and see what you can do with it. You pack it up, and you send it off, and you wait.

And you wait.

You message the restoration specialist, but they’re very busy and they haven’t gotten to you yet.

So you wait.

You can’t play the game without a console, so the most you can do is hover on message boards and FB groups about it, reading about each new update and unlocked achievement and even complaint with fierce jealousy and impatience. You just want to get back to the game. You just want to see how you’d be doing if you’d had a machine that worked, or even one you’d known was broken. You just want to be experiencing the game, part of the story, connected to the world.

You obsess, because there’s nothing else to focus on while you wait for the console to be repaired; you can really only be trying to prepare yourself to play the game better when the console comes back.

You start reading the game wiki and trying to understand how the game *works*. You go down rabbit holes about programming and game development and you end up knowing the game world better than you ever thought you could. You still can’t *access* it, but you know you’d be better at it than you were the first time. You could probably speedrun some of that shit.

Finally, the console comes back. It’s been *years* since you’ve seen it, handled it. You’ve been wrapped up in a net of its specs and in game trivia, but the actual object feels almost foreign in your hands. The restoration specialists have left a note: it’s refurbished and restored, but it’s a finicky machine now. It’s old, and fragile, and while it’s optimized to the best of what it can do, you shouldn’t expect it to behave like a brand new machine.

Fine, then. You can’t speedrun anything, but you can still at least play it better than before, right?

You load up the game. You log in. You play around a bit on Save File Number Two. And it *is* easier, it *is* better, than when you had the broken console. But it’s also not Save File Number One. You’ve got max hearts with a bunch of NPCs, but they’re not your actual favorites, they’re just the ones you lucked into the right dialogue+gift combo with when you couldn’t actually understand them. Now that you *can* understand them, it feels…wrong. Uncomfortable. The home base you’ve got, you built with whatever resources you had left over after trying desperately to win over the NPCs and it’s honestly a shambles. Your skill tree makes absolutely no sense and is way more stunted than all your friends’ because you couldn’t even operate your special attack combo move for so long. Not only is this not anything like Save File Number One, it also just…sucks.

You have a choice here. You can

a) say “screw it” and yeet the whole thing into the sun and hope the next game you play comes on a better console and has better developer support and a bunch of other factors you have zero control over;

b) double down on Save File Number Two again because you’ve already given it hundreds of hours, you’re *committed*…while comparing it endlessly to the memory of Save File Number One because it’s nothing but an attempted mirror of that file, feeding how many hundreds more hours of grinding into a game you are not enjoying for a save file you are not proud of or happy with or even especially attached to, since you’re considering throwing the whole thing out at all; or

c) make a new save file. Make one that isn’t trying to be Save File Number One. Make one where you play through from scratch with this refurbished console, learning its quirks as you go, as messily and organically as you did the first time, but not trying to mimic it. Trying to pick a new skill tree this time, one that works better with a controller that feels kind of laggy when you try old expert moves but just feels normal levels of unfamiliar that come with trying a new skill in a new game with new controls. It won’t be the perfect speedrun you dreamed of while the console was being refurbished, but you’ll actually be *playing the game* again, actually engaged with it in an organic way with *some* potential to enjoy the process.

You still miss Save File Number One. You’re still insanely proud of it, and how well you fumbled your way through the game that first time. You’re not really proud of Save File Number Two, but you suppose you should just be grateful you kept playing the game and didn’t give up entirely. Yeah, if you start a new one, the game could crash again, or your console could fail on you again, and you might lose everything all over. But surely it’s worth starting something potentially risky if it’s your only chance at actually enjoying your experience?

So you take a deep breath and you try not to think about it too hard and get bogged down in perfectionism before you start and you load up the game. This time, when the intro screen pops up, instead of “LOAD”, you pick “NEW.”

With Save File Number Three, you definitely do still befriend and romance some of the same NPCs as the first time around, because you’re just drawn to them, and you even enjoy some of the same aspects of gameplay. But you don’t worry about trying to get your skill tree to look like the one in Save File Number One. You don’t actually like the way these controls handle the finer aspects of that branch of the skill tree, so you try out others. It’s a broader tree, less tall, and you’re way behind on achievements as compared to your friends, but you’re actually enjoying the game now. You’re enjoying seeing the updates the developers have made, the way this console differs from the first time around, rather than feeling trapped by them. You’re not *really* behind anything; new players are joining every day. You make friends with some of them, too, and other players with refurbished controllers, because even if they’ve played hundreds of hours fewer than you have, or are way less far in the game than you’d gotten last time, they’ve got new tips and tricks that didn’t even exist when you played the first time. Your old friends give you some gentle shit about having n00b friends and getting game advice from memes, but their original consoles still work, and they don’t really get what it’s like to have to engage with gameplay piecemeal. You don’t mind; they love you, and they game with you, and if you don’t spend as much time directly with them as you used to, it’s just because you want them to see you as this Save File Number Three instead of comparing you to their memory of Save File Number One, like you had for so long. You don’t grudge them their love of the memory, but if you keep comparing yourself to it, you’re not going to be able to enjoy the game. You need to properly invest in Save File Number Three if you want to explore the story before your console gives out more permanently and you can’t afford whatever fancy repair is required.

And you do. Want to explore the story. You never *wanted* to throw out the game or your console, you just wanted to be able to *play the fucking game with a working console*. And it might be a slightly different game and a slightly different console than when you started last time, but you can either focus on that and waste what hours you have left on trying to recreate a memory that can never be recreated, or you can focus on relearning the game and enjoying the process.

So that’s what happened, and I’m doing the latter. Because if I don’t find a way to enjoy the game again, I’m going to throw my console into the sun. And I want to play through the whole damn game. I want to see my character go from the fumbling child she is now to a greying elder, surrounded by loving community. It won’t be the child I was once or the elder I might once have been or the community I’d planned, and I might not make it all the way to the greying end like I hope, but I will be playing the game and learning the controls like it’s new, and doing my best to feel joy in the journey of it.

I don’t feel like Alena. I don’t know what Save File Number Three’s name is, but trying to be Alena after my strokes hasn’t worked, and I’m tired of wasting everybody’s time, especially my own, pushing that rock uphill when I don’t even want to.

I don’t know what rock I’m pushing next. I don’t know. I don’t know my own name; none of them ring like a bell in my chest. I don’t know, and I love that you care, all of you, but I’m not her, and I don’t know who I’m becoming yet. I don’t know. Don’t ask me, and please, don’t try and tell me. I don’t want to just waste who I’m becoming by remembering me as I was and missing her. I want to be something new. I *have* to be somebody new. And I’ll keep what works, but I can’t carry the rest. I never should have tried, really, but I did the best I could with what I knew at the time. Now that I know better, I have to try and do better, even if it means starting mostly over. Otherwise I’m never going to get to play at life again at all. And I truly, deeply want to. 💖

So yeah. Stay tuned to see what I become, I guess?

Further Adventures in Self-Taught Animation

As I mentioned in my last post, I’ve been playing with teaching myself some really basic animation stuff lately!

I love how measurable the progress in this medium is—each piece, by bit, frame by frame, it inches closer to becoming itself, and when each one is done, I can put it down, see what I’ve learned, and move onto something new. Pleasantly self-contained little assignments for myself—I’d meant to do Inktober but digitally, but this process is flowing okay on its own right now, so I’m just running with it. 😅🤷🏻‍♀️🤞🏻

I started with an app called FlipaClip, which was solid to learn on, but a little clunky once I had a rudimentary grasp of things, so I traded up to Callipeg. It’s a little choppy, too, with what I consider to be an excess of fiddly, motion-based signaling (iPad nonsense, bah,) but which has more advanced controls and is nicer to work with as I get used to it.

like walking on the surface of the sun

I initially wanted to jump into playing with human figures, because I like to tell our stories, but trying to animate legs walking allowed me to learn that I do not enjoy animating legs walking right now! So, in the interest of being kind to myself and not just chucking this away in frustration, I’m going to do what I did when I was first learning to draw people and struggling with depicting hands and feet! I’m gonna put the fiddly stuff down until I’m more comfortable with the medium, and just focus on the process in general more than the precision of walking rhythms right off the bat.

CMY Crumpalump

The next piece—a little CMY doodle of my one-eyed cat, Crumpet, when she was a kitten—was much more fun. (I really enjoy the thing where cats are basically a liquid.) After that, I decided to try and create an image loop of an idea I reference a lot, something I call my “terrarium brain.”

Ever since I had a series of small strokes a few years ago, my thoughts aren’t as linear or as easy to reach out and get ahold of when I’d like; they feel nebulous and indistinct until and unless I give them time and peace to coalesce. I picture them forming like clouds on my brain’s ceiling, collecting, eventually raining down (when they’re ready) into some form of more coherent expression. When I’m struggling to get the thoughts to gather, or am dealing with a very rapid cycle of feeling/thinking/expressing that overwhelms me, I refer to it as “storms in the terrarium brain.”

Storms in the Brain Terrarium

This was the first lil animation thing I’ve done that actually came out the way I intended; I’m surprised with how happy I am with it!

incomplete cityscape and train animation line work

Clearly, I keep returning to this train and cityscape idea. It’s taken up living rent-free in my head, and there’s definitely a story I want to tell forming there. Wanting to quickly get to telling that story, I started by snagging cityscape outlines from other images and altering them significantly, but I kept getting frustrated and feeling like a hack.

The next piece really frustrated me, just on a technical level. I borrowed most of the building blocking and outlines from another picture, and then built my own little world on top of it. Just a simple little loop of a person sitting on a rooftop, swinging their legs, bobbing their head to music, and scrolling through their phone. I was pretty pleased with it, and got about 3/4 of the way through coloring it, to the point where I just needed to color and animate all the billboards and other screens across the city.

blocking lines for cyber cityscape

In the middle of coloring, I accidentally tapped on a line with the Fill tool, which, if you’ve ever colored anything digitally, you probably already know this happens a lot, and while it does grossly thicken any lines attached to the one you just tapped on in the color you’re using, it’s not a big deal, because that’s what the Undo button is for. I didn’t notice right away, which wouldn’t normally be a big deal, either.

Except my iPad was in my lap, where my darling cat, Crumpet, decided she needed to be. So she stepped all over the screen and it closed the Callipeg app. And when I reopened it, I found that I had lost the ability to Undo more than the last couple of actions…which meant there was no going back to the version without the weird, chunky lines and awkward double-filled color spots.

By that point, I was frustrated, my hand hurt, and I felt like the motion in the animation was too choppy and awkward to be worth going through all the effort of completely redoing the color layer through the whole thing. While I’m annoyed to leave any of these little projects unfinished—I really like being able to have little slices of my progress as I go, so I don’t spend ages working on a project started at a lower skill level than I’m at by the time I’m halfway through it—I also legitimately don’t want to spend the hours of work and pain in my hand required to finish this one when I’m this frustrated with it.

I may go back later and steal the blocking lines from it to make a new one later, but right now, even just looking at it kinda irritates me. Weird, right? Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria feels in response to my own failures is not very Badass Artist Who Loves To Learn New Things of me, but I’m doing my best. 😬🙃