There is a particular kind of disbelief that Black queer women know intimately. It is not always explicit. It shows up in hesitation, in “both sides” framing, and in systems that require us to prove, again and again, that we are worthy of safety. 

We see that disbelief happening now with the temporary protection order (TPO) involving an individual, D. Pasha. He is accused of repeatedly harassing staff, board members, and volunteers at the Capital Pride Alliance, which led the organization to ask the court for protection. 

The Capital Pride Alliance did not seek this order lightly. They spent over a year documenting his harassment, and several witnesses gave almost two hours of testimony about a pattern of behavior that caused real fear. The organization also spent months working out how to legally protect its staff, volunteers, board, and contractors from this individual. 

At first, the Court agreed and issued a stay-away order that included CPA’s office and other locations, setting a clear boundary to protect staff, volunteers, and community members. 

But that protection did not last. 

After the order was issued, Pasha spoke with a reporter from the Washington Blade and learned that CPA shares office space with the DC LGBTQ Center. It is important to note that he didn’t know this detail before. He then sought an emergency hearing, claiming he needed access to “vital services” from the CPA and DC LGBTQ Center shared offices.  

The Court granted it, allowing access with a 24-hour notice to CPA. According to the Court, the modification was based on Mr. Pasha’s claim that denying him entry to the DC Center would prevent him from accessing essential support services provided there. Although CPA objected and highlighted the lack of recent service usage and the availability of alternatives, the Court determined that his stated need for services warranted an exception to the stay-away order. 

Let’s be clear about what this means. 

There is no record of him accessing services or being at the DC LGBTQ Center in over a year. Numerous organizations across DC provide the same services he cited: food, clothing, computers, Wi-Fi, without placing him in proximity to the people who testified against him. 

And yet, the Court modified the order to allow exactly that. 

Then it escalated. Following the modification, he sent more than 20 emails and text messages in attempts to gain access to our office space, triggering another emergency hearing. At that second emergency hearing, the court maintained its previous decision, allowing Mr. Pasha continued access to the location. 

This is not a technicality. This is a failure of real protection. 

The outcome was shaped not just in the courtroom, but in how it was presented afterward. 

Recent coverage centered the acceptance of a less restrictive order, while giving the person at the center of this case a platform to define the narrative in his own words. He was described as an LGBTQ activist, quoted at length, and presented with his name, voice, and image, including statements like “I am happy with what we have accomplished so far,” “even if I lose this case, I am glad that I spoke up,” and that “the truth will come out.” 

That framing does not exist in a vacuum. It omits important context about the pattern of conduct that led to this case, including the history and the events that followed the Court’s initial order. It also gives weight to claims about access to services that are not reflected in actual usage. 

At the same time, the hours of testimony describing a pattern of conduct that caused fear, serious alarm, and emotional distress are reduced to a small part of the story. The individuals who came forward are largely unnamed, unseen, and unheard. The record that was built in court is condensed, while his narrative is expanded. 

When one side is given visibility, voice, and narrative, and the other is reduced to summary, that is not balance. It is distortion. 

We also need to be honest about who is being asked to bear the consequences of that failure. 

Two Black queer women testified. They followed the process. They showed up, told the truth, and trusted the system to do what it is designed to do: protect them. 

Instead, the system created a pathway back to proximity, back to fear. 

That is not a neutral outcome. It is a choice about whose safety matters most and whose safety can be compromised. 

This is not an isolated incident. It reflects a broader pattern in how systems fail Black women, survivors, and LGBTQ+ people, especially at the intersections of those identities. 

According to the Human Rights Campaign, data shows that over 60% of bisexual women and more than 40% of lesbian women experience physical violence or stalking.  

Violence does not start with homicide. It starts with being dismissed, with being minimized, and with systems that do not act fairly or quickly when harm is reported. 

It starts when people question the credibility of Black queer women. 

When access is granted to those who cause fear, instead of protection being fully extended to those who experience it. 

And it continues when we treat these outcomes as unfortunate, rather than unacceptable. 

Capital Pride Alliance believes in access. We invest in it. We help sustain the very services being cited in this case. But access cannot come at the expense of safety, especially when alternatives exist, and risk is known. 

The question here is not complicated: what does protection actually mean, and who deserves it? 

If a court acknowledges harm but still allows proximity, is that protection? 

If Black queer women testify and are still placed within reach of the person they testified against, what message does that send? 

We cannot keep calling these systems fair if they keep putting the same people at risk. 

Courts need to think about safety in a broader sense, one that reflects real life rather than just following procedures. This means looking at not only direct threats, but also ongoing harassment, intimidation, and the real fear survivors feel when they must share space with someone who has harmed them. 

Real changes could include ensuring stay-away orders are enforced even in shared spaces, working with community groups to offer alternative ways to access services, and asking survivors about their safety needs before changing protection orders. Courts should also get training on the experiences of Black queer women and LGBTQ+ survivors, so their voices and realities are at the center of decisions. 

Our community needs to work toward real safety and protection. Because visibility without safety is not liberation. Protection that can be so easily undone is not protection at all. 

May 28 is LGBTQ+ Domestic Violence Awareness Day.  

#SeenAndBelieved is a call to action: recognize the harm, trust survivors, and create systems that truly protect them. 

June Crenshaw is COO of the Capital Pride Alliance.

Uncloseted Media published this story on May 7.

By SPENCER MACNAUGHTON | In 2025, the global cannabis market size was valued at nearly $103 billion. By 2034, that number is expected to explode by roughly 1,400 percent to more than $1.43 trillion.

In short, as an increasing number of countries legalize marijuana use, everyone is starting to consume a lot more weed. And LGBTQ people tend to use cannabis at much higher rates than the general population. One study found that 55 percent of lesbian and 45 percent of gay young adults use marijuana, compared to about 33 percent and 37 percent, respectively, of their straight counterparts.

As LGBTQ people face a mental health crisis, the mainstream stereotypes that depict weed as an antidote for anxiety, panic and depression aren’t painting the full picture. And that could be exacerbating the mental health struggles so many queer people, and especially youth, face.

Here’s what the research demonstrates about marijuana and its effects on mental health:

• Multiple studies suggest a link between marijuana use and an increased risk of mental health disorders, including schizophrenia, depression and anxiety in individuals who are genetically predisposed.
• One study found that daily marijuana use, especially among younger people, makes some individuals seven times more likely to develop psychosis.

The increase in higher-potency strains of marijuana could pose unknown risks. In 1995, the average content of Tetrahydrocannabinol (THC) in confiscated marijuana was less than 4 percent. In 2022, it was more than 16 percent. Researchers don’t know the full extent of the impact that these higher concentrations can have on mental health and especially on younger people whose brains are still developing.

• A systematic review of studies published between 2013 and 2025 found damning results for the mental health of young cannabis users:

They were 51 percent more likely to experience depression, 58 percent more likely to experience anxiety, between 50 and 65 percent more likely to experience suicidal ideation and 80 to 87 percent more likely to have attempted suicide.

• While the above stats paint a grim picture, there is also some research that suggests benefits of cannabis use:
  • A 2025 systematic review found that “medicinal” weed showed some efficacy in relieving withdrawal symptoms of opioid use disorder. THC use has been associated with improvement of post-traumatic stress disorder symptoms, bipolar symptoms and sleep quality.
  • Other studies found that THC administered in a controlled setting was associated with a decrease of symptoms and adverse effects for a range of mental health disorders, including schizophrenia, psychotic symptoms, and anorexia nervosa.

Beyond what we pulled from academia, there is an astounding lack of information about the interplay between weed and mental health. As we dive deeper into Mental Health Awareness Month, I hope advocacy organizations, influencers and news outlets ramp up their coverage of this important topic that affects the countless LGBTQ weed smokers, many of whom are already struggling.

In 2024, when Richard Gadd’s “Baby Reindeer” became a stock-boosting hit for Netflix, there were few Americans who knew his name.

In the UK, however, the Scottish writer/comedian/actor had already emerged as a talent to be reckoned with, blending autobiographical stand-up comedy with theater to create a reputation as an edgy and provocative creator whose shows tended to be equal parts divisive and successful. One of these, his fictionalized true-life story of being stalked and sexually harassed by a female fan, became an Olivier Award-winning hit in the London theater; that was “Baby Reindeer,” and – in the form of a seven-episode miniseries adaptation – it became the vehicle that carried him to wider fame.

Two years later, Gadd has returned with another high-profile miniseries, this time for HBO Max, and like its predecessor, it’s a story that deals with queer sexual repression, unhealthy attachments, and a central relationship that can safely be described without exaggeration as “toxic” – and it’s an even darker (and more twisted) ride that stretches across decades. 

“Half Man,” which debuted on April 23 and continues with one episode per week through May 14, is the story of two “brothers” – Niall (Jamie Bell) and Ruben (Gadd) – whose mothers (Neve McIntosh and Marianne McIvor) have become a lesbian couple after leaving their relationships with the boys’ respective fathers. They are seeming opposites in personality; Niall is quiet, sensitive, and secretly unsure about his sexuality, while Ruben is tough, rebellious, and prone to violence – and unsurprisingly, it’s a match made in hell.

We meet them at the top of the first episode as adults, on the day of Niall’s wedding, when Ruben shows up without warning; his appearance triggers what looks like fear in his “brother from another lover,” and a private meeting between them in a barn at the wedding site turns ugly, launching a flashback format that takes us back to their schooldays, when young Ruben (Stuart Campbell) – already in trouble with the law and trying for a new start – comes home from juvenile detention to become roommate, protector, and bully to young Niall (Mitchell Robertson), all in one.

It’s the dawn of a new and epic relationship, despite a history that has made Niall terrified of the older boy; their seemingly opposite qualities somehow mesh into a kind of symbiotic bubble, in which a tense equilibrium turns them into unlikely allies. Ruben makes sure Niall has nothing to fear from the sniggering schoolyard homophobes who target him, and Niall helps Ruben pass the tests he needs to pass in order to stay in school, Nevertheless, their dynamic is equal parts surprisingly tender and alarmingly lopsided. Though they form a bond, it’s a volatile one, and by the end of episode one – after an uncomfortable-to-watch late night incident that amounts to a sexual assault – there is little doubt that Ruben is a psychopath. By then, however, it’s too late; Niall has become hopelessly ensnared by his manipulations, and their dangerous attachment has taken permanent root.

In episode two, the timeline moves the past forward several years (while rolling the wedding-day story back a few hours as well), bringing Niall forward to his college years. Ruben is once again absent from his life, but the bond is still deep. He struggles to make connections in his new setting – including with another student, the openly gay Alby (Bilal Hasna), who recognizes a side of him that he has still yet to accept for himself. Though he gradually begins to adapt to his new social circle, his insecurities get the better of him – and despite warnings from his mother not to do so, he calls Ruben to come and visit. His arrival triggers another escalating series of incidents, this time entangling Niall’s new friends and culminating in a shocking, jealous-fueled explosion of violence.

Without going on with the story – after all, the two remaining episodes have yet to be released, so we wouldn’t want to spoil anything – it’s safe to say there’s a pattern here, and it’s intentional.

Gadd has already been public about his own struggles with repression, which were directly explored (albeit fictionally) in “Baby Reindeer,” and it’s clear that he had more to say about the effects they had on his life and identity.

As he put it himself, in an interview with the Hollywood Reporter, “Themes of, I guess, masculinity, or what it means to be a man, or ‘I’ve gone through a masculinity crisis’ come into [the show] probably because I’ve been through that in my life, and I feel I can write to it and speak to it.

“I always think that the best kind of art is kept close to your chest, kept close to your heart, kept close to your experiences, and I guess with ‘Half Man,’ there’s a lot in it that I relate to. It’s not an autobiographical piece by any stretch, it’s purely fiction, but it certainly borrows from themes and struggles and issues that I understand.”

That understanding translates to the series through its focus on tracing the roots of Niall and Ruben’s relationship by methodically tracking the cause-and-effect chain that links the major events of their lives together. It explores the contradictory combination of worship and terror, the transgressive eroticism that intertwines danger and desire, the power of the forbidden to make us want it more, and the self-loathing that punishes itself through violence toward others. The inverted framework of the storytelling, which works both forward and back to meet at (we assume) some definitive point, makes following it a bit like putting together a puzzle, which also has the effect of building suspense as we wait to see the “moment of truth.”

Of course, those who prefer a more straightforward narrative might not appreciate the additional challenge, especially when the subject matter – which revolves around experiences, feelings, and behavior that might be entirely unfamiliar to many audiences – is challenging enough by itself, in its own way. Likewise, and for much the same reason, there will be viewers who are unable to relate to its characters, as some of the show’s less-favorable reviews have pointed out.

But it would be naive to assume that the themes in “Half Man” – of fragile masculinity, internalized homophobia, misdirected rage, nihilistic rebellion, conflicted desires, projected shame, and the other ingredients that infuse this shadow-boxing psychodrama with such a distinctive musky odor – do not apply to more men in today’s culture of incels, “looksmaxxers,” and “the Man-o-sphere” than any of them would like to admit. We’d wager that its portrait of a same-sex, sub/Dom, borderline incestuous relationship might resonate more urgently there than within a queer community that has been grappling with those issues for generations already and are just waiting for everybody else to catch up.

In any case, Gadd’s newest variation on a theme is a solidly crafted, well-acted, and hypnotically fascinating (if sometimes uncomfortable) exercise in the kind of “can’t look away” drama that makes for a perfect binge watch. Or, at least, it will once all the episodes drop.