2020

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

Ready for change.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

timing is everything

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.


 

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.

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.