Why I don't like Insanejournal.
Sep. 3rd, 2007 12:47 pmWhy I don't like Insanejournal.
It's nothing personal, nor do I care about political correctness. I thought the name was funny (and suitable for fandom)... until I actually checked it out.
Don't take this as a plea not to use Insanejournal. I'm cross-posting to it for my HP friends. I think Squeaky has said all the right things and should be rewarded for being nicer to fandom than Livejournal. But whenever I go to Insanejournal, I twitch. It makes me uncomfortable. I edge away.
Why?
In 1988, my brother was a sharp musician, had good scores on his SATs, played basketball even though he was only 5' 9", and was starting to get noticed by the girls for his scruffy-version-of-Ferris-Bueller looks -- complete with the puppy eyes that could talk me out of my milkshake. He was my little brother, but the age difference between us was so slim we learned how to drive at the same time, bought a car together, then fought over it for work. I didn't have to buy tapes because his collection was better than mine, and we gossiped about the same people because we were in many of the same classes. He was friendlier than me, I was tougher than him, and we got along great despite the fact he called me his "bossy big sister" and compared me to Lucy in Charlie Brown. The silent communication between the Winchesters reminds me of us (he's Sam in that equation).
By 1989 the construction job he was working for the summer started to go a little wonky. His foreman, a family friend, said my brother's work was "for shit. He's spacing out." We got him a shrink who didn't understand my brother's tendency for understatement, how he slid out of unpleasant chores by not volunteering key info like "we're out of laundry detergent." In other words, the shrink sucked. Finally, my stepdad (well used to my brother's habits) heard something in my brother's phrasing that gave it away.
"Are you hearing voices?" he asked my brother, point-blank.
My brother never lies. Hedges, but he'll never lie.
The State of Maryland was far more effective in diagnosing my brother. He had paranoid schizophrenia, they said, and it was severe.
Insanejournal has cute little "asylums" instead of "communities." Instead of an info page you're given a "diagnosis." After my brother's diagnosis I learned what asylums are like. The locked ward in Sikesville, Maryland (I'm not kidding about the name) looks like a rather run-down college campus. There are fruit trees and curving lanes. My brother was considered to be a danger to himself when he kept breaking into churches to pray. The voices told him WWIII was imminent and only he could save the world, though they never quite said what he was supposed to do. The T.V. talked to him, and it never said anything nice. He would walk so far that he wore his shoes flat. Before he was locked up, my parents would call me at 10pm and ask me to help find him. I was a Buddhist nun at the time, and through a quirk in his illness that made me qualified on the subject of "saving the world."
My brother told me once that, "You don't understand how humiliating it was. I thought God talked to me, and I was given a wish, anything I wanted. I wished for world peace, the end of war. Later I learned that not only was I not going to get my wishes -- I was making a fool of myself the whole time."
At the ward, they buzzed me in. The halls look like a school, too, only with less windows and no decoration. The door was about four inches thick and made a loud noise when it closed behind you, like it was never going to open again. People scuffed around in a daze and the whole place had a strange smell of fear that made my skin crawl. They had him drugged so far to the hilt that he rocked. He mumbled and stared at the floor, and looked at me with desperate hope when he talked about getting out.
The "asylum" names at Insanejournal give me the creeps. I remember tree-lined lanes and state nurses the size of trucks that my brother was afraid of. I don't like checking my info page -- and finding I get to receive my "diagnosis." It makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck.
He was a model patient and was first-run draft choice to be transferred to a halfway house. I breathed a sigh of relief when I got to visit him in a normal neighborhood. The institution made me feel like I wanted a shower immediately afterward.
So if I don't reply to your comments or join your IJ community, it's nothing personal. I just opened IJ and cringed, that's all. I don't want to go back to an asylum.
It's nothing personal, nor do I care about political correctness. I thought the name was funny (and suitable for fandom)... until I actually checked it out.
Don't take this as a plea not to use Insanejournal. I'm cross-posting to it for my HP friends. I think Squeaky has said all the right things and should be rewarded for being nicer to fandom than Livejournal. But whenever I go to Insanejournal, I twitch. It makes me uncomfortable. I edge away.
Why?
In 1988, my brother was a sharp musician, had good scores on his SATs, played basketball even though he was only 5' 9", and was starting to get noticed by the girls for his scruffy-version-of-Ferris-Bueller looks -- complete with the puppy eyes that could talk me out of my milkshake. He was my little brother, but the age difference between us was so slim we learned how to drive at the same time, bought a car together, then fought over it for work. I didn't have to buy tapes because his collection was better than mine, and we gossiped about the same people because we were in many of the same classes. He was friendlier than me, I was tougher than him, and we got along great despite the fact he called me his "bossy big sister" and compared me to Lucy in Charlie Brown. The silent communication between the Winchesters reminds me of us (he's Sam in that equation).
By 1989 the construction job he was working for the summer started to go a little wonky. His foreman, a family friend, said my brother's work was "for shit. He's spacing out." We got him a shrink who didn't understand my brother's tendency for understatement, how he slid out of unpleasant chores by not volunteering key info like "we're out of laundry detergent." In other words, the shrink sucked. Finally, my stepdad (well used to my brother's habits) heard something in my brother's phrasing that gave it away.
"Are you hearing voices?" he asked my brother, point-blank.
My brother never lies. Hedges, but he'll never lie.
The State of Maryland was far more effective in diagnosing my brother. He had paranoid schizophrenia, they said, and it was severe.
Insanejournal has cute little "asylums" instead of "communities." Instead of an info page you're given a "diagnosis." After my brother's diagnosis I learned what asylums are like. The locked ward in Sikesville, Maryland (I'm not kidding about the name) looks like a rather run-down college campus. There are fruit trees and curving lanes. My brother was considered to be a danger to himself when he kept breaking into churches to pray. The voices told him WWIII was imminent and only he could save the world, though they never quite said what he was supposed to do. The T.V. talked to him, and it never said anything nice. He would walk so far that he wore his shoes flat. Before he was locked up, my parents would call me at 10pm and ask me to help find him. I was a Buddhist nun at the time, and through a quirk in his illness that made me qualified on the subject of "saving the world."
My brother told me once that, "You don't understand how humiliating it was. I thought God talked to me, and I was given a wish, anything I wanted. I wished for world peace, the end of war. Later I learned that not only was I not going to get my wishes -- I was making a fool of myself the whole time."
At the ward, they buzzed me in. The halls look like a school, too, only with less windows and no decoration. The door was about four inches thick and made a loud noise when it closed behind you, like it was never going to open again. People scuffed around in a daze and the whole place had a strange smell of fear that made my skin crawl. They had him drugged so far to the hilt that he rocked. He mumbled and stared at the floor, and looked at me with desperate hope when he talked about getting out.
The "asylum" names at Insanejournal give me the creeps. I remember tree-lined lanes and state nurses the size of trucks that my brother was afraid of. I don't like checking my info page -- and finding I get to receive my "diagnosis." It makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck.
He was a model patient and was first-run draft choice to be transferred to a halfway house. I breathed a sigh of relief when I got to visit him in a normal neighborhood. The institution made me feel like I wanted a shower immediately afterward.
So if I don't reply to your comments or join your IJ community, it's nothing personal. I just opened IJ and cringed, that's all. I don't want to go back to an asylum.