Agent Double Oh Carrot and M

The internet is great for anonymity. I have several user names out there, including the play on the word Anonymous: Anon the Mouse. Over the years I have picked up friends online. Some people scoff at the notion of friends you have never met in person. I used to think it was silly but I have truly bonded with some of these people. I am also aware of their humanity, the text based nature of the internet can dehumanize, leading to bullying. It can also lead to the shy person, or the person with a speaking related disability, or even muteness communicate with equality.

I have a friend, who we will call M. M gave me permission to write about him. Every day we have conversations that are full of little things from his parents all the way to mine. We talk about everything. M also has helped me stave off starvation, homelessness, and has yet to pester me about the money I owe him. He is one of the people I consider great. Great men do not always lead countries. The last eight years taught most Americans that.

M is an Immigrant. He lives over in LA, and is of Indian descent. His parents left India, went to Canada, and he came here. A very lengthy journey. M is shy, he at times questions why he feels things at all. Some of this is a reflection of the stigmatization by the psychiatry industry to feeling at all. Feelings have been medicalized, diagnosed and it gets harder every year to find anyone who doesn’t qualify based on religion, personal food preference, or how often they sneeze as a headcase. (The term headcase is being used here for shock value, and also to illustrate my lack of belief in the psychiatric system.)

Despite my experiences with therapy and torments, I still see some value in even the conversational aspect, though I am anti medication. Few people actually need antidepressants. Most can make enough progress to no longer need the medicine. M and I discuss these sorts of things. For the last few years, which feel to me like a pleasurable eternity, M has been fighting some painful issues.

Everyone has issues. Everyone needs help sometimes. M is very insecure. Every day he has to fight a malignant thought process, he constantly devalues himself, and he relies on outside influence to determine his self worth. I am not the best friend to have if you are dealing with those issues. I can be rather harsh about things when I disagree, even when I do not mean to be.

His parents raised him with Traditional Indian Values. Often, when he comes to me needing help coping I offer the exploration of why this is a problem. Does this solve the problem? Not always. M sometimes cannot handle the discussions and will tell me so. In our five or six year long friendship we’ve rarely fought, even when we disagree. Our conversations started over something utterly anti feminist, objectification of the body.

That objectification was mutual, and did not last long as we discovered the intellect and wonder that is personality. The internet is great for that, if you use full words. Netspeak annoys me, and M doesn’t use it. If he does, he hasn’t with me. I love him for that.

He recently began therapy, partly because of our conversations. We discussed heavy topics, and after a time I no longer felt it was my business to help him. He needed more than I could offer. He has a great therapist and has begun to grow faster than ever. I watch him change, even if it is merely reflected in our conversations.

Year 1: Conversations centered aruond the superficial, and mutual interests.

Year 2.: The first loan of money to save me from starvation came, still owed to this date. The exploration of psyche began. I turned to him when I learned about my broken back, and he helped me to cope. He helped me to accept the permanence of my disability and never once shamed me. A first. He began to reveal his insecurity with women, his fear of failure, and his pain.

Year 3: We had our first argument. I think it was about Wonder Woman. It was silly. I started to become aware of feminism. M coddled me when I would cry about discrimination, he encouraged me to not give up, and when Sprite nearly died from anaphalactic shock due to her poultry allergy, he did his best to help me pay for her medical bills.

Year 4: I began to write again. We exchanged periods of fearful whimpering, expressing our doubts, fears of judgment, and he revealed an inexperience I had not expected. His issues were effecting his ability to thrive. His past and lack of education on how to cope, his experience as a person of color, and his constant stigmatization based on his body were revealed more fully than even I have managed here, as he tried to figure out how to live. He was being disabled by the confusing messages of the White Patriarch and the painful messages his parents gave that also came from the WP.

Year 5. He began therapy after finding a great doctor. This has encouraged me to try and find a therapist I can trust. (Still looking) Our conversations over the previous year and year 5 evolved rapidly from simple coping skill discussions on to political issues such as Obama’s election, feminist theory, self respect and the influence of where you live on your mind. I discovered Ms Wheelchair USA’s program, and was again encouraged by my friend to enter the competition.

Year 6: We are now in year six, and still we grow. Each day holds new pearls of wisdom, he shapes my future as I shape his just by knowing. He reminds me to try and enjoy the little things, and, often manages to cheer me up even in my bleakest moods. Our future is certain in one way, we are life long friends.

M and I discussed this morning the mistake Obama made, for I discovered it shortly after M’s very own version. We discussed how much ablism runs amok in our world, how it seems so acceptable. Everything can be lame, and if you are offended you are a “tard”.

We discussed the influence of self hatred in his family. Self hatred is something taught in many cultures, especially once the people are conquered. India and their hatred of their own natural colors made me aware of this. I remember sitting in the library, I was very small, and reading about Bollywood. It was newer then, and one actress was being touted for her pale flesh. Confused, I wanted to understand why her being white was more important than her ability to act.

M is Indian. So often our conversations are about body acceptance. He has what I see as an average Indian frame. He is also shaped like my Person. They are both moderately tall, IE average. Both have a good deal of body hair. I find that delicious. Hair should be everywhere. Both have large pectoral muscles. Often the chest of a man, if not flat or followed by a six pack is demeaned, “Oh my gawd he has MAN BOOBS.”

M today related to me tales of being groped because of his chest. He hates himself because the otherness was slammed into his mind again and again. He was assaulted by others in his life, still as an adult this happens, all because his body shape is not flat.

It is times like this, when revelations hit, that I wonder if the media expects us to all become paper dolls, two dimensional cut outs with no personality and the ability to be mass produced. M is my best friend.

Without M, I would never have met my Person. I needed someone like M to come along, to teach me how to trust men. That first year now seems overly long, with conversations that were kept shallow. I was learning to trust. I had never really had the option of trusting someone before M. Everyone else was in my life by the whim of another.

M came along just when I needed him most. I had just broken my back and I was still homeless. He didn’t know that until today,when I asked if I could write this. I am crying when I write again, because I just visualized my world without him.

I would be with the abusive people, trapped alone in my room. I would have no internet, no hope, no Sprite, no wheelchair. I do not think I would be alive. Knowing M opened my life up. He never once did anything to hurt me. When I was afraid, I could turn to him.

I remember the first time I came crying to him. I felt as if I was going to explode. I couldn’t breathe. I was crying and couldn’t stop screaming. I was no longer homeless, but had yet to receive my diagnosis. This was the conversation where I realized he was a friend. I wanted comfort. I wanted someone to trust. I didn’t tell a soul how much I hurt, ever. I told M.

I expected him to tell me how worthless I was for hurting. I expected him to tell me to suck it up. I expected him to tell me how stupid I was for being in pain. Instead he told me this, “It’s okay. You have me and I will be right here. Just cry, do what you have to.” I remember word for word because I held those words in my head and heart for days, I chanted them when each step made me want to puke, I whispered them when I wanted to cry but someone was around. When I cried, those words sometimes made it alright.

I will write about M more often, usually with a tigher focus but first I had to introduce you to him. He is often insecure, he fears being alone, but he never will be. He has me. I love him. He is closer to me than my siblings, he is trusted just as much as my friends who are offline, in some cases more. Without him I would have never let myself date, I never would have found the courage to go back to that first store that discriminated and put them in their place legally. I never felt alone, I knew if I had to vent, cry, or needed a safe space to mourn. I had M.

Every time he comes to me with a bit of pain, I cry for him. Not always literally but I mourn the fact that he hurts. When he forgets to love himself, I do my best to hold up an accurate mirror. M works in the movie industry, he works for a graphics company and they make some of the best modern films happen. He has worked on Batman Movies, he has worked on the Golden Compass. He has dibs on future Academy Awards. M even has movie credits. He fascinates me, he is very unique and I always wish he were here in person.

Even on my bad pain days. M and my Person are the only two in the world I would let see me cry. I hope you find an M. If you have someone like M, then, treasure them. Everyone should be as intelligent, beautiful, and charming as he is. Everyone should be as caring. Everyone should be as willing to learn.

If more people were like M, and many really are a good deal like him, the world would have more equality, more love, and likely no Isms.

Now, just to explain the Agent Double Oh Carrot moniker, that is mine. I play games and one of my online identities is Agent Double Oh Carrot, a rabbit themed super spy. This video is of a 3D program called IMVU (The link is not a referral link, so if you join I get 0 credit. If you are a member feel free to drop me a line, my user name is Anon the Mouse).

I am in the villain’s base, with some of the rabbit themed villains and we are doing the Caramel Dansen. In this game the Villains are turning out to be the good guys.For a HQ variation with some of the same characters, you can check out the video responses.

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