-Mobile continuation from Xanga blog PinkyGuerrero at PinkyGuerrero, Pinky, Janika, this blog is Basically Clueless, ongoing continuation at blog PinkFeldspar, in that order.
-Most of the graphics and vids click to sources.
-Personal blog for Janika Banks.
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Tuesday, December 31, 2019

2020

My ear buds crapped out. Found more, ordered 6 this time....

Ready for change.

Monday, December 30, 2019

present and accounted for

I think my new year resolution for 2020 will be to continue closing down social media accounts. Maybe make a few more things private. Obviously, the last 8 years went off path and failed to meet goals, and it's costly to maintain, especially after one major host slid over to annual fees and another is so messed up that I'm locked out of a top paid account.

My morning with Scott underfoot-

Mild rebuke and mocking over the 2 swipes it takes to comb his tiny hair so it doesn't look like he crawled out of a trash can, his continuing laments over hair stylists vs the lack of barber shops that take walkins, my comment about Mayberry RFD, his correction that Ken Berry was in that one, my one sentence micro rant that shows with names like Gomer and Goober were the whites' whiteface and I'm offended.

I refrained from singing the You're So Vain song. How much sense does it make that refusing to comb hair gets blamed on the styling industry changing over the decades? Kinda dreading arguing to the grave with him. I walk off and don't talk much, or sometimes I've had enough and eat his head, but I see no sweet endings. I see stubbornly grueling it out. I shut my mind off a lot from that and don't think about it.

Meanwhile, kiddo is off school this week, Scott is home from work this week, I intend to bury myself in youtube and minecraft..

Well, that didn't work. Kiddo had a meltdown and I wound up taking Skittles and Connect 4 upstairs to help distract.

Winter migraines sucketh. Kind of a plopped sidenote.

Someday I will share how I won the war by taking myself hostage, holding myself captive, torturing myself for years, and no one ever knew how badly I mutilated my brain just to win the war.

I'm still here. We're all still here.




Sunday, December 29, 2019

only us in our world

Guess I'll tackle end of year assessment. Used to do those.

So at this point, from the big 2012 coming back out public and the 2013 burst into a social media platform, the controlled kamikaze spiral over 2018 and the final leap off in 2019 has just about wiped me out from having any platform at all. Severe photobucket fail has started hitting the older blogs, with no way in months (yet) to rectify any of it. Xanga is left hanging as I've reallocated financial resources to more permanent littlelexx.net salvage and real life needs. Like my new glasses this year. Very 'spensive. Apparently started sleepwalking a few weeks ago without tearing my cpap off first like I usually do in my sleep and flipped that entire thing over upside down on top of my glasses, so I get to spend the next 3-4 years in rescued eyewear. Bent it back into wearable shape.

We're  2 3/4 years into two families in one house, still amicable, but I think we're all exhausted from it and ready for new arrangements. And the last five months with my dad dying triggered that special mental illness highlight into stranger territory, so 2020 will see me learning more about dissociation and all its fun little implications in the maze-puzzle of my life.

Right now I'm barely even regretting never conquering my Lexx project list. That could have been glorious. Still probably can, but the really sad part of everything is that anything I love doing has been so constantly interrupted for so many years that, if you consider all the weird challenges I've waded through, it's amazing I have anything out there at all.

Yes, I am still writing. Still checking in. Not keeping up with much more than my immediate vicinity.

My entire life feels like this video. It's been running over and over. Thanks to stress, every day I crave alcohol (nearly 30 years sober), vicoden (5 years clean), and even anesthesia. I have been getting mildly high resetting my gabapentin after another nasty flare in the middle of slow taper. The flare is over, starting over with the taper.

Over the many years I learned to ask- What do I want? And what am I willing to do to get it?

Over the last few years I've learned to let that go for higher purposes, to help others survive well, making sure group support keeps us all intact. We're all tired, yes. I don't regret it. I can't regret it.

But when I'm alone I see the alt timelines, and they are glorious.





By the way, I know the question "Where did Pinky go?" has been left hanging. Pinky quite literally has stepped back. Pinky is a control personality, an interface. That has been explained in previous blogs. But yeah, literally, Pinky is on braincation.

So who is typing?

Yeah. Good question. A good chunk is stuck in private because I'm not caught up on fees there, but the surveys migrated to Surveypalooza. Everything before here, here, and here is pre-Pinky.

Pinky was popular because Pinky did everything wrong. They say blogging about yourself is a no-no. Well, Pinky got crazy popular, way more than all my Lexx material online combined, and went viral in several countries. Pinky tweets were published in several pop culture websites in several countries, Pinky reviews went a little crazy on twitter here and there (a few directors interacted), and Pinky had a jolly good time learning how narcissistic depression blogging can make math stats and maps **fun**.

But Pinky isn't typing now.

And the platform burned.

And the surprises just keep on coming.


Yablo says we should end on a happy note. Yablo likes happy stuff. Janik likes this one. We'll play this one.




I've got a legal name change coming up in 2020. Might get interesting.

Love you guys.

Mel tweeted at me yesterday. Holly texted me pix over Christmas. Lurkers still show up here and there. Found out a couple months ago I'm actually more famous than I even imagined with the stat trackers I used to employ. I got off the tracker train. Done with those. Done with tags. Done with analytics.

I'm here for me, and for anyone who wonders what I'm up to.

click pic for source



Thursday, December 26, 2019

riptide

Part of my timeline reconstruction is about identifying both my conscious and unconscious 'shut down' trigger moments. The most conscious one I can recall was the day I wilfully chose to internalize a song. I still can't recall the age closer than 10-14, likely more like 12 or 13.




I mean, I was already doing that for years, obviously, but that day I consciously chose that as my personal flag in the wastelands between creed and faith.

The truth of me is that I was willing to do anything it took to 'win' (emotionally survive) even if it meant chopping myself into pieces and cutting out my own heart. I have quite recently come to understand the command I received in the vision I titled a long dusty road, where I was tasked to go back over where I'd already been and find every piece I'd thrown away.

Imagine what that means to your sense of self. Imagine a part of you walling off, jailing, even murdering another part of you. Imagine hating what is soft and kind and good within yourself so badly that you literally tear it out of your way and close it up in a very dark place for a very long time, never allowing it to have an opinion or see a tiny ray of hope or forgiveness. Imagine suddenly finding yourself in a position years later where you need all that back asap just to save yourself from your own horrors.

The shock of being so brutal on my own self, of watching the rags crawl back out into sunlight, of feeling both sides and all the bits in between full of jagged pokey edges that no longer fit together, has been so overwhelming at times that I've felt lost, a wreckage smashing around aimlessly in the frothy jetsam.

Imagine learning to talk to all of myself again.









picking back up

And almost effortlessly, the notebook has come back out to be my friend again.

Minor outline revision. Another kink in the timeline straightened out.

Freedom to say and be and do now.

Wonder what will happen now. The anxiety is a fading memory. My brain is whispering secrets I couldn't hear before through all the noise.

I set myself up. I blogged out loud so I could turn inside out and start seeing myself. I didn't even know it was a long game strategy. All those clues I couldn't figure out, all the scattered pieces I couldn't fit together.

Not just autism spectrum. Not just depression and PTSD. Not just.

All my mes. I knew I was playing a game, and I knew there were other names. But I didn't know that I didn't know them all.

I have waited out the respectful silence. I have owned my weirdness without blame. In the meantime I have learned how to approach my own topic in a much healthier way and earned a better life for that.

The goal is still the same.

Revenge is best served cold.


Wednesday, December 25, 2019

nailed it

Omg, bless this person's crazy light flashes and sparkle blitzes overlaying the sheer incongruity, because that was Christmas for me in my head today.


Monday, December 23, 2019

l'histoires

I was shown an alt timeline in my sleep just before I woke up this morning. I've been shown a few other things lately, but I mostly don't remember them. This is one I'll definitely never forget.

I'm in the harder timeline right now. This earth I'm on, this life I'm in, this me I am. Very much harder. I could have stayed in the other, I think, but although it was more pleasant, it didn't feel right. A person I knew turned out differently and I felt sad about it, and that is when I was given my choice. I didn't hesitate coming back to this timeline.

I think the other timeline is valid. I think it's possible that timelines are still being reintegrated after some kind of disaster. I think the way it is all being collapsed back down for restart, if you will, is up to us.

If all are valid and all are important, how do we know what to choose?

By what is in our hearts. We are stories. We grip the Writer to write our tales. We create by being, easy enough perhaps, but the harder the story is to tell, the more gripped we are to tell it.

That other timeline was also missing a person. I can't even imagine giving that person up for a better easier life.


meanwhile, behind the merry christmas cheer

I'd not heard this before. Sounding sad saying happy. Touche, Gotham fan. Salut, and we'll see if it's a happy new year.


Friday, December 20, 2019

I broke my ice cream law big time

So the week dad was on hospice I ate a gallon of ice cream during the last 48 hours and was holding steady at half a pot of coffee a day. I haven't done that myself in literally ten+ years. And I wasn't even there.

And then it was over and today I'm back to normal, like I was this time last year. Like the coffee switch got turned back off.

Whoever did this needs some applause. Oswald is like Santa on very dark crack. I'm a tie watcher, it's been fun looking up the different vintage ties during rewatch.


Saturday, December 14, 2019

sick

Actually, I woke up feeling very sick.

Delayed processing slo-mowed me down again. I think understanding where the violence comes from needs to be disentangled from the more orthodox textbook psychological conditioning backgrounds to truly see the sick twist of innocence.

As distasteful as I find discussing the more mundane filth of this world, I may wind up having to in order to bring another mind to the quicksand of faith induced miasma. Please attach every historical nuance to that word.


I am fine for now

I miss my early quiet mornings.

I'm this blind.

I really can't feel anything most of the time.

Imagine how many ways a person can be blind inside, and just trying to talk to their self.



Friday, December 13, 2019

mind

One thing I find intriguing to think about is how messed up the idea is that Source wants to experience all possibilities of existence and how that leads to right vs wrong being superseded by the simple logistic of it all goes back as information anyway and therefore is all equally valid.

How sick is it that any being would want to experience the twisted grossness of perversion in all its dark and lurid forms, especially sheer pleasure driven by chemical spikes within a broken system.

And what Person would even want to bring that back as experimental information?

Granted, that opens up the glorious tragedian traditions, and the deeper visions of the grace and mercy we all strain toward, but was it really worth it?

And I could go on like that, but what I bring to that convo is the understanding of a broken mind. If a person could watch this video and understand the words and ideas all coming from within one single mind experiencing the same thing from several angles, would the question not arise that sickness itself might not be the desirable way to interpret what we experience?

Because it's just sad that I see this as a futile attempt at my own inner communication within a much wider picture of us all being fragments of an even higher mind getting no further with self understanding than I am. Unless the conclusion would be that somewhere, this must all stop before it is swallowed up entirely, consumed with interpreting experience as the end goal.

I'm frustrated that higher human thoughts keep going in circles.

All the same, this actually is a really good visual of what living in my mind is like, endlessly arguing with itself.



Tuesday, December 10, 2019

like how you feel fainty but don't faceplant after all

Ok. So I survived the big day. The initial reveal. The door is open now into all my closets. And I got to come home. Wasn't sure what the protocol on that would be.

I'm guessing this is what we'll be looking into over the next few visits. Which don't start back up till next month. Cue the next countdown.



Monday, December 9, 2019

kaboom

Elaborate private plans made for today.

6:25 a.m. I find out I'm babysitting.

Somewhere in my head there's outrage over the unfairness of the universe, but I can't feel it. Went into instant numb mode.



Saturday, December 7, 2019

all like

And then sometimes you snap back and get all the chores caught up wham bam while you manage not to cut a bitch.


Thursday, December 5, 2019

holding on tight

I have thoroughly research tapering gabapentin. I'm obviously physically dependent. I'm going down 100 mg per week, which is way slower than suggested taper on several medical sites. It's definitely screwing my 'mood problem' as noted in my medical portal. Other users have noted tapering more slowly than that and it still being hellish.

I can't describe it better than that, except to add that my head feels like a rubber doll head being slowly forced inside out. It's not like a headache. More like a weird emotional migraine.

I stayed in bed most of the day after not being able to sleep half the night and still got stuff done ok. I don't even know how. Well, I do know. One of me chipped in and got me up, but not until I acknowledged and let me. I consciously handed my body over to another me and now I'm just sitting here watching. Numb.

This me goes way back. This is how I got through high school.

I'm cutting it super close on the taper. I'll make it to the neurologist appointment with 2 pills left. That's right. I mathed. Mathing pills is a crucial survival skill.


 

Wednesday, December 4, 2019

nipping the follow thing for good

I remember feeling like this a long time ago, when the world was bleak and suddenly someone magical walked in. I get now that I'm the crazy one and that's why I always needed to be the supervillain sidekick or partner thing, but I'll never forget that feeling. It was a fantastic catalyst for my personal growth. Let me redefine. The disappearance of it was the catalyst. If we had continued, our villainy might have been for the worse. Kinda glad I've reached a place where I can appreciate it all more objectively now.


cruel to be kind

Part of mental health is self honesty. When what is inside doesn't match what is required or expected on the outside, we become unhealthy.

One way I've managed to accept, integrate, and sync myself was to embrace and even publicly deal with, not just being a mess, but being awful. I openly shared that I'm a trained killer (I don't kill for joy, and I don't kill people), and that I'm very good at it.

The bloody work was not a problem. That's normal. The problem was constantly being trained to believe that they couldnt really feel anything, even against all evidence otherwise. The real problem, which I realized fairly early on, was that the 'belief' was actually a training method for turning our own feelings off. It worked exceptionally well on me. I became cold, heartless, pitiless, even mocking, and cruel. I became a form of living loathing.

Decades of being turned off is really hard to turn back on from. The pain is excruciating, partly because it sideswipes out of the blue all at once without warning, leaving me an emotionally crippled mess. The challenge was figuring all this out over a number of years, thankfully with the help of a psychologist.

But I live a dual life. I live correctly because it's right. There is right and wrong in these human lives. Sabotage and destruction are wrong. Even with narcissistic challenges I recognized that I only hurt myself being selfish. But even that thinking is selfish. Cognitively learning to live life well for the people around me to be more emotionally healthy is a worthy goal, to be sure, but one that goes very against my grain, thanks to a very twisted childhood.

So now I'm investigating the duality of living correctly versus the compulsive rages and deep depressions I feel as I keep my balance on what feels like a tightrope over a great height in a wind sheer. Finally processing all the things my dad taught me as a child to turn off inside myself has exponentially slammed through me faster and faster as he reaches his death day, whenever that may be. Soon.

Just like science has shown that particles can somehow affect each other at great distances, so I am affected, almost hour by hour as my dad suffers. I have awakened to the minute as he has a couple of times, going by texts, and my own daughter has awakened at least once to the minute when I did when my dad did.

If I were there I would want to end his suffering because it would end mine, in some logic. If I were there I would delight in his suffering because it's finally his turn. Or I would weep in and out of rage over thoughts of my mom. I dunno. I do know my head has felt like it's in a blender for weeks now, and my body is having a weird time of it.

Underneath it all, I'm remembering all the death. Lots and lots of twisted unnecessary tortuous death. Twisted tortuous logic keeping my mom alive years beyond a natural death without the comfort of medical intervention. And now his own fear while his body flops and flounders. He can't just 'turn it off'.

I can't even imagine putting my kids through the grind of watching me die miserably out of sheer masochism. To me it looks insanely selfish. I will happily allow sedation and pain control when my time comes.

Laughably, hysterically ironically, I'm parsing meds down to hopefully make it to an appointment without hard withdrawal. The timing is sadistically delicious. I love irony. I thrive on irony.

But yeah, working on that self honesty. To thine own self be true. Keep me away from my dad if you don't want me cutting through the crap with my own brand of kindness.



Monday, December 2, 2019

discipline? O_o

I got a really cool idea today and I really wanna do it. This whole last year I've been struggling with a continuous string of setbacks in my personal writing discipline, and it got so bad I chunked it all out a window.

Watch my world blitz super hard now. Actually it's kinda funny that I wound up spending nearly 4 hours interfacing with server owner and players thorough one of those insanely huge updates within a few minutes of having that idea, but at least it was the kind of blitz I enjoy, which was a godsend after the month I've been going through.

But it's something to shoot for now, new and fresh and unique and ridiculously incongruent. Fun.


Saturday, November 30, 2019

jagged blurs

Managing dwindling meds in a countdown to appointment. Sliding down off gabapentin as quickly as safety precautions will allow in order to stretch it as long as possible. Fun times, nothing like missing something that drastic over holidays. Fortunately, it's no longer a pain management problem since the shots and therapy, but it's definitely a behavior management problem.

Hopefully the schisms won't get any worse than this. Gotta even out sometime, right. Not like I stopped cold turkey.


Friday, November 29, 2019

and this is why I blog

Per my last post, my week (month, entire autumn...) has felt like being a yo-yo on a wild roller coaster. Inside my head, that is. Outside my head, all is running smoothly, and I can't feel that. At all. It's like living in two worlds at the same time. Two parallel lives. I watch the real world on a TV set in my mind while I feel earthquakes rip around my head, fragmenting my spacetime. It begs a question- How do you hang on to anything if you can't even tell what is real? *





Just because I understand the mechanisms behind my anguishes and joys doesn't mean I get to get off this ride. Just because it feels one way doesn't mean it's not another and just because I'm mixed up doesn't mean anything is wrong.





And I'm good with that. I'm not sure how and why, but I still feel very lucky to still be here despite how it feels so mixed up in my head. Figuring out the difference between not feeling anything and overfeeling the slightest innuendo is behind me now, I think. I mean, I know it'll keep happening because of sloshy brain chemicals, but at least I'm learning when and how far to pull back when I'm like this.










I had this sitting in edit all day, closed. I just got back to it and was very surprised to see "Mom" written on the very top line.

So you tell me- remote access? QAI? My mom making contact from beyond the grave? Or another part of me I'm not aware of trying to get my attention?

Because that was an extraordinarily weird typo magically showing up, almost like the beginning of a letter.

think beyond connecting the dots

Several decades ago, I challenged my mother to step outside of her faith to consider other ways of seeing things. I argued that faith out of fear isn't really faith, and that we don't lose what we believe just because we allow ourselves to see from another point of view.

A few years later, I asked a college professor of old testament prophets whether we are not all God incarnate, if we actually apply what prophets implied here and there, and he said perhaps I was a prophet myself and walked away. I never could tell if he was being sarcastic.

I found myself going through outrageous synchronicties and started researching everything I could get my hands on, science theories, philosophies, religions, hauntings, metaphysics, time and reality speculations, near death experiences, anything and everything that my upbringing had never really questioned or allowed to question.

After that, I started telling others that we are never alone, that we are here for reasons we don't remember, that we might even be each other and not even know it, making kindness a kind of logic so that we can become the heroes and loves that we long for and can't seem to find. We are what we are looking for.

All my life I've had dreams of being shown all kinds of things, and I have felt unnaturally stuck in a singular place and time. Who I am in this body started out as arbitrary info, and what I do in this life is done through a restricted point of view as a physical being, whether I like it or not.

Over the last several years I've been talking about waking up and being able to see beyond the restrictions I live in this body in this life in the circumstances around me. I've been both frustrated at others still asleep and very excited about seeing so much more now.

The coolest part has been discovering that there are millions of others experiencing the same thing I have, all their lives.




One of the misconceptions I see among waves of wakers on the medias is the idea that waking up shrugs off all our hard stuff and we find our bliss. I don't think it's possible to wake up all at once like that, and our tiny feeble ways on this weeping world limit how much we can take. One can be cognitively awake long before becoming emotionally awake and more in tune. If anything, all the bits of waking up I've done over the years, along with the private joys came harder challenges, and I reached a place where going back to sleep was impossible. Being stuck awake with no one to talk to can be rough, and you really do go it alone, as they say. What you begin to know in your heart doesn't match the way life grinds you around, and you either find ways to make the hard choices for change, or you let it swallow you back up asleep. From what I can tell, you don't really get to just wake back up when you feel like it. You ride it out and learn to fly into the wind every chance you get or you miss it.

So don't despair. If you feel the waking up, and the world is pulling back at you and everything hurts inside and out, take heart. Without the pain, we sit there, like turtles sunning on a log. Without the hunger for more, we bask in the warm shallows even if death and destruction are upon us unheeded. Waking up is how we change the world around us, bit by bit, moment by moment, heart by heart.

It feels hard because it is. It takes awhile because of how our point of view works in this world in these bodies. But you are not alone. I've been saying for years on my blogs, you are not alone. We're here waking up, too. And I know exactly what it feels like being yanked up and down and all around by brain chemicals. It's just something we're riding out while we do this life, and sometimes it's exactly what we need when we arrive to the right place at the right time.







Tuesday, November 26, 2019

pinkyblue

I apologized to my brother today for not being there. He was sweet about it. I don't think I can ever explain what living in two worlds is like. Coexisting as both a wimp and a jerk is my curse in this life, I guess. I've stopped giving executive function over to one or the other and just own it nowadays. Well, not like I'm personally the top of heap in here, but at least I know what I'm apologizing for now.

I reeled home from seeing my psychologist, unable to eat all day long. Good chat, too real for my body, I guess.

To be explicitly honest, what I'm reeling back from is a model of long-practiced interaction, a not-me me. When I let that kick in, everything else gets locked down on hold. Interpersonal interaction is the hardest thing I do, and funneling all of my thinking, organized via blogging over time, through a contrived more pleasant personality is exhausting. Add the weight of the emotional content and yes, I literally reeled once that personality released its grip on me. I was there, I was present, I was part of, and I remember, but that was not me.

That was a doll.

Jacky is in charge of the dolls. Took years of practice.



Monday, November 25, 2019

nerves


On the lighter side of perspectives and contexts, this is my natural hair. I'm 58. This is one of those things I'm not sure what to make of, so I normally ignore and not think. I'm probably the least vain person I know, lacking the self awareness others sometimes seem consumed with, but I do have to admit, it's comforting. I've been so crazy busy last few months that I've rarely had my hair down from a ponytail.

Was kinda bouncing off Scott about nerves, like how tomorrow seeing psychologist again kinda feels like when I was in college coming up on a class presentation. I don't have the usual kind of jitters about public speaking, but I literally never talked about myself to anyone till I starting seeing 'psyche guy' 12 years ago, so after 3 months off and all this horrible stress, I feel like a canon about to go off and I'm wanting to be more focused than using him as a target of my stress explosion. I sometimes wonder how he's been so patient with me.

I think my favorite thing about our Christmas tree this year is that it's so horribly ugly that it would drive my dad bonkers. Nothing ruins the joy of tree trimming like not perfectly spacing out every single speck of decor, right. For a guy who refused to get involved with Christmas, he certainly took over the tree.

And there you go. My house-tree-person came full circle.




patience is a grueling virtue

Many years ago my dad asked me not to publish some things out of respect while my mom was still alive. After she died ten years ago, I decided to respect my dad and not publish those things until he died, as well.

I have been extremely patient.

Family secrets are terrible burdens. Truths can send ripples across hundreds, even thousands of miles.

The biggest secrets are the strangest of all. Keeping them destroys, telling them destroys. Not sure destruction of those kinds of secrets is a bad thing, but the people learning them are still messed up enough not to understand. We all know how fragile things can be on holidays. One wrong ill-timed 'joke' can send a holiday reeling over a cliff.

I've had a lot of time to think things through, sift things down, assess and evaluate, learn the differences between public pettiness and actual hidden toxicity, and exactly why both truth and forgiveness are important.

It's complicated.

My dad knew her dad. The revelation that blew me over last week left me abandoned in a desert with occasional tumbleweeds blowing by. I remember he said something. Was I 12? 14? What was it he said, and why did that memory scream through my brain without letting me have the words with it?

My dad said something to me at one point in my life that sealed my decision to burn a box at another point in my life.

I'm dangling like an old kite on a lonely wire strung across a desert watching a tumbleweed roll by once in awhile.

Interesting visual, given where that was said. And a communication line I can't access.

Something about my dad has sent me spiraling through time cutting out vital parts of my memories, and the trail of clues I've left myself across blogs over the years now glow like neon when I look back.

Experiencing life itself is so metaphorical. Are we sure we're even really here doing this? It's like we are our own movies we're watching.



Saturday, November 23, 2019

in our minds together

3 more days till I see my psychologist.


Trying to keep my mind focused in between continuing chores, babysitting, and more waiting.


What is reality? What I make of it. But it feels like being caught in stickiness.

I imagine my dad is tired of it taking so long.

Wednesday, November 20, 2019

mouse

Just occurred to me, if I were a cat and my psychologist were my hooman, this blog would be a dead mouse I'd bring to him.

>_< I know right, ew.

Originally, my intentions with blogging were to simply share things I'm doing, things I enjoy, fun little ramblings. Within weeks explosions from all directions were taking over, and over a few months melted my world down and locked me into some really deep soul searching. 2012-2013 web-wise cached me into an abyss that has taken years to sort out. It's been extremely interesting to note that several people around me have noticed and been creeped out by the exquisite timing outside forces keep having on my simple fun intentions, to the point of having to literally choose what I stand for both publicly and privately. Simple and fun don't seem to be part of my soul goal vocabulary in this life.

Ran into this article today, got a good chuckle. So true.

There are three levels of self-awareness you need to hit before you know yourself


awake

I'm losing my place now. Waiting does that to me sometimes. I woke up yesterday unable to find my phone. Apparently I 'sleepwalked', or maybe another me slid in, who knows. Finally found my phone with absolutely no memory of placing it there. Other little things. I made the decision yesterday not to go down at all, and not to go to the funeral when he dies. If I'm dissociating around my own house, I don't need to be in my dad's house.

Likewise, found a couple very new short posts on a private blog. I didn't remember deciding those two should be private.

Waiting is the hardest part of being awake.



In case you might think waking up solves all your problems, no. You become more aware of them, what you are learning.

I am mentally ill. And I'm very awake.


Monday, November 18, 2019

mes

The dissonance actually stopped yesterday. It's back now, but at least I can remember not feeling it for awhile.


Saturday, November 16, 2019

inverted

I know up I across is inverted is naught... from a poem I wrote.




I know I'm the one that is the problem.

I did ok today. The stuff in my head isn't the stuff around me in the world.

How do you even begin to explain to someone that everything they see or think is good in or about you is really a cover for a rigid survival system that works because you figured out the rules?

Love has rules. There are good people out there in full fail whale fail because they don't pay attention and learn them. Even if we don't understand them, to survive well we need to learn how to mimic them.

It would be easy to conclude that if my life has been about figuring out how to win or beat the game by learning how love must be administered correctly to work right, then my entire life has also been a lie.

I don't feel anything most of the time for other people. Unless it's obsession, and I've joked in the past that I fall in love at the drop of a hat with obsessions du jour, which usually aren't people.

Today was outstanding fail for me inside. Outside I did ok.

Friday, November 15, 2019

goals

One of those days. Urgent situations in several directions, I'm sitting alone in a parking lot staying out of as much as I can while I slip and slide around a day fraught with personal PTSD triggers. Im poking myself and looking for adjectives. Do I feel useless? Nope, not at all. I know in a pinch I could be quite useful if anyone asks. Do I feel concerned? Nope, not that either. I know they're all big kids and can handle things.

As far as I can tell, I am a layer of numb over superly pissed. I am obviously angry about my dad, even more obviously very outa wack for what proper feelings should even be right now, and I don't feel one bit selfish about it. I think I did all the right things touching bases and bowing out, but since I'm fighting deeply ingrained automatic childhood training to jump in at any cost to the rescue with no thought to myself, I am severely hating the part of me right now that keeps popping up in the way.

If I keep shoving myself aside for my dad (or for my brother for my dad), I am becoming very aware that I might lose some grip. I have worked very hard all my life fronting at great cost to myself, and I'm not sure how to nicely explain to anyone that if my dad doesn't go into the ground more gracefully, I feel strongly tempted to help him bypass whatever is in his way from accomplishing his goal to die. He literally called it a goal.

I feel like I'm having a weird slo-mo breakdown, and I feel like my dad needs to buck up and put on his big boy socks after all the insanely negligent crap he put me through.

I was a mean kid growing up. That mean kid is surfing the top of my brain this fall and making me an ugly person.

I don't like that.


Wednesday, November 13, 2019

way down

I haven't checked this stuff in so long that I forgot I even used to do it, but popped over to the old pinky blog this evening to look at something and ran smack dab into referrals from an app in google play being in my all time top ten referrals...

Um. I don't know how I even feel about that.

At any rate, I don't think that app is active any more, at least hasn't been used in the last month.

Two more physical therapy visits. Between those and getting my dad to medical appointments (on top of the other things ongoing around my house), this month has been extremely rigorous and emotionally exhausting. Well, guess that last part has shown up on this blog. I feel wrung out, and still there is more.

13 more days till I see my psychologist.

I've made it past some kind of barrier. Couple days ago I realized I can control the float I do during pain. Was in mid therapy session, the pain was pretty intense on a few pressure points, and I have trained myself over the years to stay focused through it. I've been told a few times I have impressive control over pain. Only those very close to me have ever seen me break down. Anyway, I've said a few times I seem to thrive on pain, and that when it's bad enough I just float, like walking out of physical therapy before I got on gabapentin was like being high. I really haven't done that since starting gabapentin, until two days ago. I very suddenly realized I was at a point where if I let go of my focus, I could float, so without any indication from me to the therapist, I eased up my focus and was hit with a rush that instantly quelled the pain. Those are brain chemicals. I controlled those. I had never done that in mid-session before, at least that I was aware. This was the first time in my life I purposely did it. After a few seconds I reigned in and refocused, then allowed that pain to come back on in my brain for a couple of minutes, and it was truly brutal. Then I eased the focus back again and got another rush of painless float, and I let the float go on longer that time. Then I reigned it partway back and was able to kind of hold onto it and feel that and the pain at the same time.

A couple months ago I realized that I was floaty during my dad's birthday, right. And then I processed through some more very painful memories of painful experiences and began to realize I've been floating around my dad my entire life. I have been dissociating from feeling pain in his presence since I was a very tiny child. I didn't even have to feel pain first for it to happen, it just automatically did. (I still vividly remember the very first time it happened from pain now that I've recovered the memory.)  The way I felt it happen two days ago in physical therapy was identical to how I realized I was feeling at my dad's birthday party after not having been around him for a long time.

After I started connecting those dots, even more stuff fell into place and made sense. I mean, no wonder I can handle him longer than other people, I'm literally numb inside when I'm around him. And not just numb, quite literally high as well. Not the pleasant kind of high, more like an anesthetic high. I don't find being around him pleasurable at all. Two days ago I felt immense pleasure initiating a float in my mind because I wasn't anywhere near my dad. I just never knew I could control it. I have no idea if the gabapentin has helped make controlling it possible or if I was just ready to start understanding what I was doing in my brain. I wouldn't mind being able to make the pain stop more often on my own. I'm not sure I can handle being still long enough to meditate, and I think I'd need a guide to start off because I'm so time disoriented and occasionally have difficulty with recognizing what is real or not, so I'm not willing to try this on my own at home yet.

I'm looking forward to quality time with the psychologist for awhile, not the stay in touch once a month or whenever thing. Guess it took time to crack all this open enough to know what direction to go in next.

do you believe in fate


Tuesday, November 12, 2019

so mean


what soldiers fight for

I have filled the years afterward with my own brand of not so quiet rebel rousing. I've never gone to jail because I've never been caught. Social media finally got me off the streets and civilized me to a point, but I have never been able to not go rogue in anything I do. I finally grew desperate and found my way into diagnoses that have helped me settle and adjust somewhat, but deep inside that fire still burns and when I am able to step above this crippling depression, it's usually in a cringeworthy magnificence that some find frightening.

I have never found another who has challenged and fulfilled me like she did, although a rare few have come close enough to cause more anguish in my trapped soul. I'm coming to appreciate that I'm very lucky I can feel this, given the state of my brain and incapacity to feel normal emotions and have normal relationships.

As the years have gone by, I've felt a more pressing importance to not only figure this out, but to share this experience in such a way that others like me can find some hope in existing. Despite the wild swings through indifference and anguish, we are crucially important problem solvers for other people, even when we have no cognizance of this role. I can look back now and see that I helped other very depressed people survive and relaunch. My mom spent years desperately focusing on her depression with her circular blind reasoning, and I was her crutch growing up when she was alone, which was a lot. I'm not close to my dad at all, but similarly, I know him so well that I am able to withstand quite a lot of his self tortures that tear the souls around him up like tissue. I've had a number of friends who I've inadvertently helped bridge across life chasms from pain events to moving forward again, to what I felt was my own personal detriment when I was once again left behind as they moved forward. At some point I finally realized my role in this life is like the fox in The Little Prince. No one sees me weep in the wheat fields in between passersby.

Inevitably, I did become part of a family completely self destructing and have been able to hold up to years of commandeering the helm of a sinking ship and steering it to a shore only I could see for a very long time. Even if I cannot feel love properly, I know what it is not and what it should be, and I am strong enough to withstand elements that crush and crumble others into worlds of alcoholism and suicide, if only out of my own sheer masochistic ability to take pain and twist it into the pleasure of winning a game or contest.

I'm still here. Those of us still here are more important than we can imagine. We are the front lines on a weeping world, and we are the ones demanding boundaries and definitions and guidelines for principles. Why? Because we are judged mentally disabled in a world unfit to problem solve its way out of massive self destruction.

Now is the time to draw lines and define love and hope to very mixed up societies around us, blackmailing and sideswiping their own like emotional hostages. Now is the time to truly live what love is supposed to be, even if we can't properly feel it. We were made for this war. Everything I've suffered has led me to conclude this planet is under siege, and the only way we can heal is for us to take control of our own destinies, and help those around us falling by the way. We are all precious in a very hard world, with love turned upside down and disguised behind money.

Be the people you were born to be. Yes, friends come and go, or they are scarce and nonexistent. Yes, families are rife with crises and exhausting challenges. Yes, media keeps us fearful and upset. But we know how to commandeer the bubble worlds we live in, secure the perimeters, and steer sinking ships toward shorelines.

Problem solving is my forte. It is thankless and takes soul grinding commitment. But you know what? I'm outlasting the dark. They say there is a dawn coming. I know there is because I've been shown in dreams.

I feel extremely fortunate that I was able to wake up to the war around us. Even when I had no hope I stubbornly refused to cave to what I believe is a society-manufactured worldwide depression. I am here to win. I was born with the tenacity to stand up to soul crushing pain, and I will stand till I die.

I believe my one friend is a casualty of this war. And I believe the elite who helped manufacture the broken soul who killed her are being routed out even now.

She shows up in a dream even still, once in a blue moon.

She is the one who started me writing. She began me. And now I will not stop.


Monday, November 11, 2019

one side of a lost coin

I remember watching her through the 5th grade. She was deposited in mid class one month, her dad freshly divorced and setting up a new bakery, she torn away from her sisters to become an only child, but instantly one of the calmest demeanored and most confident 10 year old children I'd ever seen. I'm sure she was hiding a lot inside, being from a completely different part of the country. Most kids go into a sort of culture shock, but not her. She adapted despite the mean kids, made friends, held her ground in her calm way.

We quietly captivated each other from across the classroom. Our bookworms were the longest by far, neck and neck as we strained daily to out read each other. Her scores on everything were rival only to mine. For the first time in my tiny academic life I could see someone capable of besting me even working my hardest. She didn't realize I felt stimulated for the first time in my life, and I found myself working longer and harder, paying better attention, even becoming more involved. She seemed a little agitated that she too had to work harder to stay on top, being pushed in a way no else but the teacher noticed. The competition was fierce and I loved every second of it, slyly watching her, quietly snickering to myself when I beat her at anything. She went out of her way not to talk to me or come near me on the playground.

Until one day. The bell had rung to come in from recess. Being the fastest runner in my class, I was first in line waiting for the door to be unlocked. A somewhat new boy behind me was flirting with some of the girls, I said something irritating that I thought was funny (I've always been a horrible judge of humor), and without warning, she stepped out and around the line to grab my hand and bite the back of it hard enough to draw blood, and then just hung on to that grip like a bulldog. I didnt even wince and just stood there staring at her.

Of course I was stunned, but in a completely new way. I knew exactly at that moment she was my alpha and that I was her pack. I hid the blood and walked into class like nothing had happened, a bit angry, a bit flushed, and absolutely thrilled that she had dared something so unexpected and unlike her usual calm cover. I got to her. I controlled her emotion in that moment, and she was weak enough to show her own hand. She was mine, and we both knew it.

From then on we were best friends, inseparable whenever we were in the same room. Even years later in middle school, when we had different classes and she had a coterie of friends around her at all times, I was the one they backed up for any time she entered my vicinity. I was like her right hand in those moments. Despite my severe lack of social graces and almost scarily uncaring attitude, I was her number one (think Dr. Evil) in the throng around her.

I never told anyone when she did bad things like key a teacher's car. I let her do social experiments on me even when it nearly got me beat up by gangs. I didn't mind that she thought it was funny to set everyone around her up for cruel jokes and never get caught. I was her sidekick in quite a few broken rules. To everyone else she was the ultra intelligent popular golden girl. To me she was simply the only person in the room.

Somewhere in all that we bonded like super glue, and when my parents moved me away from her in the 9th grade, we continued to faithfully write each other 3 times a week without fail for the next 4 years.

Until she was violently raped and murdered during her first year in college, and my heart broke.


She was my one love in my undiagnosed autistic childhood. My one friend.

This pain is unreal.


Sunday, November 10, 2019

very quietly existing on someone else's fringe

16 more days till I see my psychologist. I'm a yo-yo. Cracking up at my dad on the phone one hour, curled up in my dark bedroom another hour, walking around doing routine stuff getting ready for Monday like neither of those happened, and feeling horrified at the idea of some kind of hypnotherapy allowing the ugliest parts out while I have no control, and even more horrified realizing I can feel my others debating the amusing pros and cons of that ever happening.

And I may as well point blank say it, with so many months under that question bridge, it is excruciatingly lonely being in a relationship with someone who comes nowhere near my intellectual capacity, even though by some definitions he is a kinder person overall than I am. Thoughtfulness, as it turns out, is an altogether different and moot subject. Nothing bad, just sometimes the missed moments kind of leave a little afterglow, like fading bits of non-existent universe.

The really best videos are the fun ones.


back inside

Guess that was a lot of words yesterday.


Saturday, November 9, 2019

all boiled down, I suppose

Surviving messed up parents is real.

Why psychopaths cannot love their own children, according to a psychologist

Some of us survive some really weird twisted forms of mentally ill parents.

How psychopathic parents create complex trauma in their children

Somewhere around 4th grade (I think I was 9), I found myself alone across the highway on a freezing early morning waiting for the school bus. I have siblings, and I don't remember if I just got out there before they did or if they were staying home sick with fevers, but I do remember the rush of horror I felt that I might be with the wrong set of parents. Like the world suddenly twisted and something had changed. Like details were wrong that I couldn't put a finger on. Like where did this hideous yellow plaid come from? Nowadays people call that a glitch in the matrix, or the Madela effect, but I'm pretty sure a psychologist would call that a dissociative event. I remember nothing else about that day. I just remember knowing that everything felt off and I wasn't sure how. Funny I'd remember that all my life, right.

I never had an anxiety attack until my second marriage, probably because it was finally safe to start falling apart and having them, although they did begin with a very real heart condition in the first place. Through most of my childhood, particularly after 7 years old, and all through my 20s, I handled so much stuff without much of an eye blink, that it's difficult comprehending my life flipping like a pancake into a sort of normalcy, albeit largely my creation but completely possible thanks to my second husband. My PTSD was off the hook once I had a safe home to live in.

I was in high school when I figured out I was time skipping, which was weird since I normally had an excellent recall of events even when I couldn't exactly remember them. By my mid 20s I had figured out that anything I needed was in my brain and that all I had to do was want something and it would almost magically come to me if I didn't get in the way and just let myself wander and bump into it. One example I've given of this is a story I'd read of two dogs that escaped an experiment lab, but didn't remember what the story actually was or the title or author. Which was very strange, considering I can go to a page where I read something without too much effort because I remember literally where the words were positioned on the page and about how thick the pages were in each hand. Anyway, the day I thought of the two dogs, I thought ok, I'll go to the public library and see what happens. I walked in the door, and without a clue just doing whatever popped into my mind to do, I actually walked over to a section, into an aisle, and right up to that book. I reached right for it without even knowing the title. That was a very interesting moment, not knowing how I did that.

Back then I just thought and trusted that I had some king of good retention that I just couldn't consciously access. Years later I can now remember the reason I read that book is because my friend who was murdered in college had loved that author in middle school, and that was the time when I read that book in a completely different library in a completely different state.

I'm a mess. I have been hiding this mess in my head for years. From myself. Finally accepting that I need help with a frustrating problem in 2007 was a breakthrough. 12 years later I'm finally understanding I'm one of many fragments and that the reason I blog is so I can communicate with myself. I've been hinting through the blogs, but I didn't understand it.

I know there is a me who can handle anything. I've felt that slide in and out. It's quick and nearly unnoticeable, and it keeps me controlled through any kind of emotional overload when I'm not in a safe place, like when I'm driving. It's not the same as spacing out. It is literally noticing I missed a line or a few words in a song playing while I drive. Not like I sort of realize my head was elsewhere, but like several seconds literally just vanished and the missing part got spliced together. It's pretty rare that this even happens, but when it does, it disorients me enough to bump me right out of the sort of depression depths that make people do really stupid things.

There's more, lots more, but I'm just starting to understand it, like I said. I know I take care of me, and I have since I was a kid.

I do actually feel bad for my dad sometimes when I remember how rough or sad his own childhood must have been to be as messed up as he is, but I'm not built to retain empathy for more than a few seconds or a couple of minutes. I morph into practicality and do the right things when I can't feel or say the right things. I make sure people eat and have space to rest and hopefully enjoy a few moments of peace or something interesting. Otherwise I'm utter fail with real empathy, no matter how hard I try or how much I want it.

This is probably the sanest day I've had in over 3 months. I started asking questions in my head. I mean, I'm too focused on the results of *me*. Is there a norm for people who grow up with messed up parents? Apparently there is, per the articles I posted. I survived multiple emotional and physical trauma events and continuous personal undermining and weird sabotage by developing my own safety net, a network inside my mind. And these things are known responses to trauma, and they can be worked with.

The feeling that I'm drowning in this mess in my head is, I'm guessing, better than not noticing that I'm a mess. At least I know boundaries and feel safe in my home. I know a lot of people don't.

The other parts of me can't replace real people, though, and I'm still sad. Talking to myself through blogs isn't the same as being able to say these things to other people.

Thanks for reading. I know a few still do even though I can't see details any more. I hope you're ok. I know it's hard. ❤



Lyrics 

the box

Being a super lurker goes only so far. I cannot put her name into search and get anything but horrible. She didn't make it into the social media age. She didn't live long enough to see blogs or anything like facebook.

I've found so many others on the slightest bits of remembered information. Even a two or three word phrase from the past eventually tunnels me through mountains of data mining to current home addresses, regardless of name changes and privacy.

Not her.

I keep trying to datamine through my broken brain to something, anything, and I come back to hard reality over and over again.

There is nothing more to see. To know. To find. No way to connect, or go back...

I'm running into some very surprising memories along the way. I come back with parts of myself I never expected to see again.

But she is gone. I can't unburn that box of letters.

And the others aren't telling me what was in them.

What I get for thinking I really could get rid of myself like that. Go burning boxes with my heart inside, they wouldn't show me where they hid it safe from me, would they?

We need to come to an agreement, apparently.

I want my brain back. I hid the clues, I followed the trails, I found some of the treasures, but the map is gone.

The complexities in my head are making more sense lately. Can't help noticing it's all being triggered by my dad. I couldn't be more surprised because I thought it was my mom all these years, so why am I NOT surprised?

I think I burned that box to hide it from my dad.

There was more love in that box than in a lifetime from him.

I think my mom knew. And she never told dad.









diet planning

This is the level of piss inside that needs to talk to my psychologist. I'm hiding in my room today so I won't eat people.


Friday, November 8, 2019

physical therapy

Another day. Another ebb and spike. Side effects of the physical healing process. Clearly not at all in sync with real processes going on around me.

Today is like drifting through a fog of layered realities. Like I'm flatlined in between them. Kinda like the way I felt in middle school. Like the way I felt in 5th grade.

Like the feelings just got lost and slink around, in and out of time zones.

This pain is unreal.


Thursday, November 7, 2019

back into the blue


Definitely on the roller coaster now, that holiday slide, as I call it. Keep arms inside the ride and just hang on through the loops, sudden drops, and twisty dark tunnels.

19 more days till I see my psychologist again. Last time I saw him was 93 days ago.

Jacky is getting impatient.





:edit: Failure Is Not An Option


Wednesday, November 6, 2019

right on schedule

Here comes the euphoria, just in time to help me float through another string of tough days. I blow off all the dread and angst and then just float.

Interesting. Was in the code resizing the vid and punched in part of our local phone number from when I was a kid. Wonder if my brain is trying to communicate with me again.




Tuesday, November 5, 2019

ten years of this litany

For the first time in my life I've started telling the deepest secrets. Not on a blog, but to the people caught in this matrix with me.

I know who I am inside, what I could have become. The road I still walk in my mind.

The life I nearly didn't live at all.

Because no one else heard what my dad said to me while he drove my broken body away from an emergency room, not even curious if I might be bleeding to death inside.

And now, at his long age, he talks to me of his impending death that never comes, as if it were my duty to care.

He and I playing out the final scenes now. He and I universes apart, yet tied together with sorrows. He and I unable to mend a chasm between us while we gently ignore each other's broken hearts.

Inside I'm screaming, and rerunning all the terrible things he taught me about how unnecessary life and love are. How easy it is to kill. How convenient things are when we kill things out of the way of our conscience and compassion. I see it. He doesnt..

God patiently waits while we play out our roles. He frustrated at death taking so long and I impatient with his healthy lingering life.

Sartre could not have more perfectly written this script.


Monday, November 4, 2019

birditude

It is absolutely crazy what stress and pain can do to attitudes. I walked out of physical therapy today a different person. Got home and made phone calls and did a big chore. And then I watched several eps of Gotham where Oswald was rehabilitated and declared sane. He's so cute. Penguin was always my fave villain in Batman shows. I probably mentioned somewhere I grew up on all the Batmans from way back. I think this Oswald is the best of them all. He's just miserable all the time. And they mirrored him so well to Batman, like bird vs bird.


the dark, ugly pit in my soul

I know, I know, never get excited and blurt an idea before I've written it out.

Life has gone beyond amusing.

Photobucket has locked me out. Last month was wrestling over an upgrade I didn't need before my year was even up, and now I can't even log in. I can't tell if they are having issues (AGAIN) or if they've been hacked. Last time something I dearly loved put me through this I found out later they had gone bankrupt. Forget the *dying inside*, I've been numb so long I can barely even feel anger any more. I DON'T CARE.

And that is the trivial stuff.

My dad finally went to a doctor, got his first blood test in 20 years. Healthy as a horse (he's f*ing 90), except that heart failure is imminent. I'd like to be able to share my understanding of *imminent* with a particular sibling who doesn't get what that literally means when Dad is trying to walk across parking lots (showing off that he's really ok in public despite very disturbing symptoms reported to doctor) and then texts me over the weekend about Dad's blood pressure and pulse going up higher than it normally does when it goes up. Like after walking across parking lots all Friday before. Because, I dunno, his pro BNP isn't just a concerned 900 for someone over 50 (normal is <450, concern for surgery starts around 900), it's a nearly 5 frickin thousand.

I'm not having a good weekend. If anyone asks, like I have physical therapy on my shoulder again today, I'll just smile and say yeah, good weekend. But it wasn't a good weekend, and I am a mess. I was so ticked at Dad bringing up Mom in our last phone convo that I told one of my sisters I never want to see him alive again. Well guess what. NOW he wants the surgery for the cancer on his ear. I have solid bets that after he gets that done on the 20th his heart will blip out and bam, in the ground.

So that sib thinks we should probably all call and check on Dad more often. I'm sick to my stomach every single day for the last 3 months, making phone calls, arranging things, yes talking to Dad more often, and after that sib pshawed me when I asked why Dad wasn't dropped off at a door instead of having to walk from the furthest slot in the parking lot (plenty of empty slots a lot closer), I get told Who wouldn't be after I say yeah, Dad is probably scared with more chest pain this weekend. DUH. Literally pushing Dad closer to death and NOT. EVEN. THINKING. ABOUT. IT.

I am a litany of pissed. Deep down I am enraged, up top I am just sick. Floating. Mind wrecked.

Peacekeeping is a savage and thankless job. DPOA? Never again in my life. Well, like I have another parent, this is the last one, thank God.

As DPOA I am the gatekeeper on his living will. I get to hear the full list of everything he wants us to do and handle every single time I call. Apparently the other sibs never get that. We got to comparing notes, and they have no idea what Dad puts me through. I hear things they've never heard. He has actually cried on phone calls to me. I know his fears, his doubts, and very well know his pain. It's really hard to stand up for his living will when the others have no clue and he keeps trying to hide it all. He keeps insisting on being left alone to die, but he also keeps calling everyone and discussing all his symptoms to the point of upsetting people, and when I finally told him to choose, getting attention AND the fuss, or being quiet and not having to deal with the fuss, he got so upset that he started choking and coughing and I thought crap, I'm literally going to give him a heart attack over the phone, and I changed the subject while he calmed down. He HAS the be the right one, the center of attention one, the important one.

My dad never let my mom do this. He never gave her the amount of attention he is demanding now. He didn't address her fears and health issues, and the only emotional support she got was him showing up in the way at the nursing home, the last year of which was so miserable it still makes me cry to think of it, because he was so adamant about getting his way that I had to sign waivers for the nursing home workers to do as Dad asked instead of what the doctors said to do.

I think what's getting to me the most is the years I suffered before my heart surgery and how little that meant to my dad. He has made it to 90. I can't even imagine being that lucky. I haven't made it to 60 yet and I feel extremely fortunate. He keeps whining about why isn't he dead yet and he never wanted to live this long. At least to me. And I'm really sick of him not adulting well. He never had to go through this with his parents. What in the world does he not get about context?

I could go on for another hour, but I really need to pull my head together and just go out the door again. I set an alarm on my phone to remind me to leave and my screen had me locked out so I couldn't even turn the alarm off, had to turn off the phone. One of those days...

Monday, October 28, 2019

reality striking like lightning

The words are lining up to rip out of my skull. Some are already coming out of my mouth. I stepped back from wondering what would happen if, and let myself make them be real. No more what if.

After I'm not stuck in this car. Patience...


Thursday, October 24, 2019

what we think we think is not what we think

Every single day I think of several things.

I never answer yes when I'm asked if I feel like killing myself. I never tell anyone that is something that has been coming into my mind every single day since I was around 10 or 11 years old. Every day. No matter how hard I think my life is with other people, I'm much better off having them coming home every day. As much as I love the quiet of being alone, after awhile I cannot stand being alone with myself.

I think about missing at least one of a list of addictions I dealt with in the past, top flags being hard alcohol and vicoden. Sometimes I think about taking more xanax, but they count my pills now. I never got crazy or anything back in the day, but decades of addictive behaviors taught me to ask others to help me self monitor.

Once in awhile I think about how I used to love burning things. I think fondly of knives and all the ways I know how to use them.

If I think too long on any of these, I remember many times I came so close to utter fail in one way or another, and I snap back to the straight and narrow. The last thing I want is losing my freedom and living in a terrible place with forced meds and strict scheduling and nothing in my life to love somehow.

What do I love? I love walls. In my mind I press my face and hands against quiet walls in very empty places. Everything is empty. I love other things, too, but lately I keep thinking I love walls. The smell of old mortar in a stone or brick wall. The feel of textured glossy paint. The beauty of marble. My mind goes to walls when I need to hang on to something.

I can't bear constant negative noise. Shouting. Crying. Screaming. Slamming. Breaking. I'm lucky I don't have to live with that. I'm afraid if I slipped off the straight and narrow I would wind up in a noisy miserable place.

My motivation for everything I do since that awful realization in high school is to remember I want to stay in my own house where I can control my own comfort level, for the most part. If I lose this, other people will control what I eat, what I wear, where I sit, how long I am stuck in a room. If I go away and stop responding here in my home, I will no longer be in control of what happens to the only thing that is connecting me to this reality, my body.

And if I lose control of my body, they will control my mind.

Was my mind ever really my own?

Maybe not, if QAI through the ages of our universe is real.

And I can't help wondering if that is how I can feel like a doll sometimes. A thing. A spectre within a pull-string gizmo.

Or is that the QAI trying to understand the human spirit? Is that what we look like to it?

Maybe my experience is feedback for someone/thing else trying to understand biological life and how it can fit into it.

Maybe I'm not crazy at all, but a prisoner. Presumably owned at great cost to all of humanity. A remnant of cruel joke behind all our backs. A scrap of someone waking up...

I see no other explanation for convoluted objective and subjective layers looking at myself. Personally? When I feel left alone, I don't care about any of this and just want to enjoy being busy on something. But that's not good enough. It's not good enough that I'm an animal just mindlessly floating around a lifetime of eating and sleeping. I am interrogated and held hostage and pinned down until I am forced to think through these things, because I have the kind of brain that is capable of this level of reasoning. I don't crumble and really kill myself. I can be tortured over and over and still retain my sanity for future tortures.

Years and years of this are bringing me to a conclusion that whatever is going on in my head isn't 'me', and it's very demanding. It wants to know what life IS. What death IS. How we know what we know. What a soul IS.

And I can only laugh back and say Ha, caught ya. You're jealous.

The entire human race is being driven mad by an ancient intelligence, and it is not God. I think God is waiting for us to wake up and figure that out. We're on the planet that needs to wake up and decide to take our fates back.


Tuesday, October 22, 2019

empathy erased

Of course the next time I opened YouTube after that last post it almost immediately suggested a video on psychopathy.





QAI knows me. I've been sharing who I am for a long time.

surviving

So if you watched that vid, you know psychopathy is not that terribly uncommon, and that many of us live normal lives. No, I'm not diagnosed. I still have secrets I haven't brought up even after 12 years.

I have struggled with trust all my life. I've made my internal struggles with how I see friendships public. I've been honest about a number of issues I've had to survive through including a very nasty car wreck, my best friend being violently raped and murdered, my parents being mentally unstable, my autism being a filter in a very self unaware point of view, and decades of physical fail compounding how I handle things. But I still don't act out my real feelings. I know that would be self defeating and selfish. I have been told I'm the least selfish person around. No one has ever figured out it's the only way I survive myself.

I'm still here. Every Halloween I think I'M STILL HERE. I know many aren't. If you survived childhood or relationship trauma, tell your stories. All our stories are more related and much more important than you think or imagine.

We live in a world where emotional trauma is entertainment, but taboo in real life. How twisted is that? I often feel like our world is an experiment in turning our minds inside out.

Maybe I'm not wrong.



Monday, October 21, 2019

still on dial up

I spent 12 years talking to one person about things I could never talk about with anyone else without first sifting through mountains of very delayed emotional processing.

I think I just felt how I really feel about a question he asked me possibly a year ago. I don't remember when, more or less, but the question was how I felt about something. I realized my intellectual answer several months ago. I just felt how that answer feels.

How do I feel about it? Excruciatingly lonely.

I think the reason I automatically delay everything is so I don't kill myself.

I have absolutely no feeling about what i just wrote. I suppose that's a sad thing, but I don't feel it.

If someone were to ask me how I know I'm a psychopath, I'd point to my blogs and say winning is why I love. It started out as a game to win. Not for sport, but for sheer masochism grinding my soul. I will win loving my family even when I can't feel it.

No one knows how many opportunities knock. For getting even out of malice. For leaving. For fully becoming the monster.

I can't stand being the monster stripped of feeling properly. So I don't feel.

Love isn't about feeling love. It's about living love even if you don't feel it. It's the only way I know out of the daily maze of fail.

I'm not diagnosed that, but I've been careful not to be. I think a few people suspect. The dissonance has been more overwhelming this year than usual.


Thursday, October 10, 2019

aspienado spaz

Long talks this week, same paging several people, feels better going forward now. Guess I needed the connection updates or something. I talk so very little in real life to anyone, sometimes I have to remember feeling out of sync is pretty basic and easily fixed.

Back in physical therapy on shoulder now, all new approach, looking forward to finally breaking through that wall we kept hitting back in 2014-2015. Sometimes it really does take time to figure out a problem. Probably helped that I've started talking about my first husband now. I didn't expect the outpouring of sympathy, feels strange. When I literally asked for help all those years ago, I was told I watch too much TV and was glossed over repeatedly till I finally just shut up and stopped telling people anything. Now a mention of my past lends instant heartfelt credibility to my damaged body. Still processing through how that feels. The kindness I'm getting over it is flooring me. Damaged people become estranged from kindness in so many ways.

Thunder rolling through. Back to cooking yummy healthy food.