Friday, December 20, 2013

If I ever get off this killin' floor, I'll never get down this low no more.

I am making it. My psychologist, I'll call her Mary because that happens to be her name, says that I am fixable. I have been taking the PTSD cocktail (buspirone with a sertraline chaser from my psychiatrist, Dr. A.) long enough now that I can be reasoned with.

Ha, ha. Never thought that would happen, did you?

We -- Mary and I -- are working on a lot of behaviours, gestures, stances, and speech acts I have that, basically, make me psychopath bait. I am trying. Mary specialises in trauma and anxiety. Dr. A just makes it so I am not beyond talking to. I will probably be on the meds for two years, he says.

One of the problems that I have is the question of this whole Greater Good thing; I am not supposed to internalise and/or solve other people's problems. Ok. Fine. Other people are adults, and are in charge of their own mistakes, oversights, mis-steps, and failures in Life. Ok. Fine. I am not obligated to have empathy for everyone; it is not up to me to save the world.

Query: Whose responsibility is it, then?

And no pathetic crapping out with some bullshit about your favourite sky fairy. There is no sanctuary (bonus points for identifying that one), there is no sky fairy, and if you are good all your life, when you die, you are dead just like Adolf Hitler. No one is going to give you a lollipop. No one gave Hitler a lump of coal. The cake is a lie.

I am sorry if that hurt you. Santa Claus isn't real either. People lie and people believe incredibly stupid things; just look at Peter Popoff and the Mormons. Get over it. Try not to be one of them.

I adhere, generally, to a standard of consequential ethics; in other words, the 'right' thing to do is the thing that helps people, brings pleasure, preserves Life, and so forth. The greatest benefit for the most people kind of thing.

As a side note, the antithetical position to my ethical code is that fucked up mess where humans run around killing other humans (including children, sometimes their own) because some god told them to do it, which -- to them -- is a totally legitimate reason to commit any form of fuckery, regardless of the injury it may bring to other humans, including children, sometimes their own.

I am not going to pretend that I can even begin to wrap my mind around that point of view, I just thought I'd mention it.

Butsoanyway. If I had been all detached and making other people shoulder their own burdens, well... Harry would probably be dead or a homeless bum. Mummers wouldn't have had a chance once she started getting sick. And I could go on for hours; my point is that *someone* has to care. *Someone* has to help. If I am not helping, how am I any different from the narcissists, sociopaths, and psychopaths I am supposed to be arming myself against?

I do not want to ever have an evil person in my life again. I am trying to change what I can. Yes, Mary is right, but...

...who is supposed to be fixing things if the ones who are able won't because that is what makes them appear as prey to the amoral psychos?

I don't have an answer. I give Mary examples, counter-examples really, of how my being 'over-involved' (as she terms it) has worked, has been for the Greater Good, has helped, and she just shakes her head and tries to get me to see that if I fought and did for myself like I do for others, I would be so happy, successful, and scaring the bejeezus out of the sociopaths so badly that they would be racing to get *away* from me. And of course there are examples of where I have failed miserably.

I would still like to hold on to my belief that The World to Come is actually something that could be had -- by us, right here, in this lifetime.

Or maybe that is just a stupid superstition, as well.

- Posted using Speak-n-Blog from my Fisher-Price Chatter Pull Telephone

Sunday, November 24, 2013


I am watching a lot of Xmas movies on Netflix. It calms me down. So I guess that I am off the Columbo, Disappeared, and 48 Hours Mystery kick I have been on for months.

Yes, atheists can so too enjoy silly holiday movies. It's not like I'm saying I believe in Santa.

Sweetie stays with me a lot because I believe she thinks we are cats together. I'm just a funny-shaped cat who uses a laptop. I guess I am the Head Cat in Charge.

Everyone else is fine, even though I am still upset over Weebie dying. Things aren't the same without her. I hate losing family so much, I just have no words.

I've been in therapy for a little bit now, and it is helping, I think. I have a psychologist whom I see once or twice a week, and a psychiatrist whom I am down to seeing once a month for meds maintenance. My dx is PTSD. :-/

I have a hard time talking about my feelings, partially because a lot of the time I am not sure what they are, and partially because I feel like I am whining when I do.

Work is, well, work. I am trying to make that better. More on that later.

This will definitely not be the greatest holiday season ever, but I am hoping it will be ok, and I will come out the other end with a better job and a better life. I am working a lot on Me.

And I know I seriously need to fix this page. Sigh...there is a lot I need to fix, and I am going to do all of it. Mostly alone, which my psychologist wants me to change. I am working on that, too.

- Posted using an app that I drew on an Etch-a-Sketch modified to run Free BSD.

Sunday, September 15, 2013

Your nose is longer than a telephone wire...

In my latest drama, I am still job-searching, and the Rampaging Fucktard (formerly This Guy, now just RF), is STILL stalking and harassing me. His latest stunt had been to put up fake profiles with my email address on dating websites -- two so far. I am not replying to the tragic men who are emailing me, as it isn't their fault. Everyone with experience dealing with narcissists/sociopaths has told me that ignoring him is the best route, unless I have solid proof that he has violated the order of protection I have, and unfortunately the police are not willing to investigate him to see if he did this; I have to have something solid, like from spraying him with mace when he comes near me. I have a feeling he has had protective orders out against him before, because all of the things he is doing are just 'legal' enough that I would look like a crazy woman if I reported it. So I have been going with No Reaction.

I would not wish this idiot psycho on any other person, or I'd be hoping he finds a girlfriend; as it stands, I hope he gets hit by a bus. Ok, truth is that I doubt someone as crazy and narcissistic as he is could ever find someone who would put up with his shit for longer than a few months, and that's if they are charitably-hearted. Like seriously. The biggest mistake I made was feeling sorry for him. Whether it is a man or a woman, learn from my mistakes: if you feel sorry for someone, run like hell. Normal adults do not seem so pathetic that you feel badly for simply stating that you don't want to be around them. And normal adults do not view or phrase things in terms of their self-worth (e.g., trying to prove they are 'good enough' or better with outlandishly transparent lies; statements such as 'you make me feel so great' ...what is going to happen when you 'make them' feel shitty? Also, really, the ludicrous lies and claims of Greatness that just do not measure up to Reality should be a huge red flag).

Anyway, the same soft head...err...heart that rescues cats now has me getting mash notes from guys all over the US because this loser cannot let me be.


- Posted using Speak-n-Blog from my Fisher-Price Chatter Pull Telephone

Wednesday, September 04, 2013

Just for the sake of feeling pain

I am reading something that I shouldn't. And as much as I wish I could quit, I just simply cannot. It's lies, stupid lies. I know this. At least I am not deluded.

- Posted using SomeBlogApp that I don't know how to use. o_O

Wednesday, July 24, 2013

I will not go quietly

Weebie died a little over a week ago. Considering my mental state, I haven't had the ability to deal with it much. It is my fault; I should have taken her in to be looked at instead of assuming she would need surgery and trying to get a little more weight on her. No matter how I try, I still feel as if I fucked up.

It's because I did.

Today I had an appointment with a psychiatrist because my gyn wanted me to have someone overseeing my Buspar dosing, and christ, did I make a bad call there. I chose to go see the same psychiatrist Harry has used because she managed his epilepsy so well.

So much for that.

She did not listen to a word I said, and raged at me that I am not a doctor (well, I didn't say, I did not go to trade school, I have an academic degree, but, umm, yes, I am), I know nothing about the brain (that'd be *two* wrong, for those playing at home), and...let's just wrap it up with 'and so forth'. I spent more time hearing about what a worthless piece of shit I am than talking about what brought me there. And then I left.

I can only assume she feels that I have no business helping Harry, but whatever.

I am tired now. I have to start looking for another psychiatrist tomorrow. The lesson I am learning from this is that there are a lot of fucktard MDs out there with god complexes. And that, in the end, no one really cares unless you agree with them completely, prostrate yourself before them, and take whatever they tell you without question. And after lambasting me for over forty-five minutes (I stayed largely quiet), her 'wrap-up' was to tell me how smart and beautiful I am, and how if I would listen to her, I could accomplish so much; I told her that sounded like hollow, narcissistic love-bombing, and to please just can it.

Probably I am not her favourite patient.

I may be best off just winging this one, like I do with everything else.

Just don't ever fall for the lies. That's the best advice I can give you. Don't ever listen to someone who says your worth as a human being rests entirely on whether you unquestioningly will drink whatever Kool-Aid they are peddling. Don't ever be that desperate for help or companionship, regardless of what you think it is costing you. The 'sunk cost effect' is real, and it works. Just like love-bombing.

That's all I have.

- Posted using Speak-n-Blog from my Fisher-Price Chatter Pull Telephone

Wednesday, July 10, 2013

And so it goes.

Meg is away, playing poker and doing fun things; I can no longer accompany her because of my current (precarious) financial situation, one which is not being helped in the least by the panic attacks I am having throughout every day any more.

I have an appointment to be screened for PTSD later in the month; I suppose then I will get stronger medication, I do not know. Probably nothing will change. I am trying to not become a bitter recluse, really no-one understands how hard I am trying, and in a way, my months in a semi-dissociative haze, when I was denying everything, were easier. I have always felt that my dissociations, from extreme compartmentalisation to full-out 'non-presence' (which has only happened a few times in my life) were more of a blessing than anything else, and for that reason, I have no need or desire to discuss, dissect, or 'cure' something which I do not feel to be broken.

And for the record, I'm a firm sceptic with regards to DID, I actually think it is an iatrogenic pseudo-disorder stemming from possibly a predisposition to dissociate accompanied by a desire to please and a tendency towards the fanciful and dramatic...on both the part of the pt as well as the therapist. Just my two cents.

There is not much exciting right now; it is hard to sell oneself as spectacular when one is actually feeling Quite Worthless. I also have a sneaking suspicion that my case legally was listed as my declining to prosecute; I base this on an unusual comment from the Advocate to whom I had been assigned, but there seems to be nothing I can do about it now. Nor, really, do I care to. I am tired of fighting.

I am trying to keep to a normal sleep/wake schedule, even though my mind just does not want to cooperate most days. I figure that the more I force normal behaviour and do not engage in self-indulgent stupidities, the sooner my brain will catch on that I do not give a fuck what it thinks, so it can stop having crying jags, flashbacks, emotional upheavals, and making up fake sounds and smells all the faster.

I do believe that things will be better after I change a little more about my life (like my job). I want so desperately to be contributive to things again...that alone will make things better.

I haven't felt very friendly towards some of the old group of friends, so I have been keeping to myself a lot. I don't anticipate this changing because, away from a certain few, I realise that I never much cared for them anyway.

It is time to try to sleep. I am desperately craving thus awesome chicken sauté from a local Turkish restaurant, but I am not up to taking myself. At least not right now; thinking about doing it is exhausting, and I don't know how to stop that feeling. Maybe the PTSD-specialist psychiatrist will have some drug for that, too. I dropped the counsellor I was seeing; in between not listening to me (I don't need this horseshit 'you aren't to blame' PC fuckery when all substantive evidence, including the Ass't DA's own words, spells out pretty clearly that I am the ONLY one upon whom blame rests in this case), she dealt fabulous advice (such as 'be a bitch!') which I found remarkably unhelpful. But the fact is, this isn't her problem; it is my problem, and I am a fool to look to anyone to change things for me.

Anyway...good-night; I will just leave with an archaic thought from Locard, whom no-one appears to read any longer anyway. I think we are all the poorer for it, but...yes; there's that fag talk we talked about, Dr. Lexus.


'Physical evidence cannot be wrong, it cannot perjure itself, it cannot be wholly absent. Only human failure to find it, study and understand it, can diminish its value.'

- Posted using SomeBlogApp that I don't know how to use. o_O

Friday, June 07, 2013

Moses -- Gorgeous

I’m inside out
Up and overrun with doubt.
The price of pain
from self-inflicted wounds again.

The need to feel
this low and lonely.
The need to be
this low.

- Posted using Speak-n-Blog from my Fisher-Price Chatter Pull Telephone

Sunday, May 26, 2013

Curiouser and Curiouser

I am not talking to many...well, any really. My tsouris are nothing compared to what two friends are going through: each has lost *their* mother in this past week.

In Interstitial News, I am on blood pressure medication now. I am changing my life. I will not let this bastard kill me.

I am trying to lose myself in puzzles, mysteries...anything where I can, well, lose myself. My preferred outlets are my work (yes, I will be more forthcoming about this soon), and missing/disappeared/Doe cases. To that point, I have just finished watching one of the most (potentially) elegant solutions, one which only serves to demonstrate that, often, our solutions are presented to us; we just fail to attend to the signal (and I could wear my fingers to nubs were I to try to type out all the names, even the ones that immediately spring to mind, so I shan't). For me, for this reason, the event was not fruitless; far from it, in fact. I have no-one in my life who shares my passion for these cases, I have only those who will tolerate my ramblings occasionally, and I guess I am rambling here. But it is well worth watching if one likes to think. I will not bore anyone with discussion of the advancement of Reason as being a service to a Higher Purpose. People cringe when things like that come out of my mouth, so I will just give a little 'z"l' to be decent.


- Posted using Speak-n-Blog from my Fisher-Price Chatter Pull Telephone

Friday, May 17, 2013

Complex Simplex Complex

I know...buffalo buffalo buffalo... Did you know that? Ha, ha, ha.

I suppose that it is wrong that I am reading pure wish-fulfilment pabulum, but it is all that I can take right now.

I can hardly listen. I can't respond. I just need time. Wearing a fake smile and balancing on a ball for everyone's amusement is tiring. So...that's my complex. What's yours?

Thank you.

- Posted using Speak-n-Blog from my Fisher-Price Chatter Pull Telephone

Wednesday, May 15, 2013


'pit' = 'put'; 'mice' = 'move'. I fail at everything.

- Posted using SomeBlogApp that I don't know how to use. o_O

Don't Panic

I am less panic-stricken since being pit on a maintenance dose of Buspar and Clonazepam. So that is nice.

I am doing everything I can to move on with my life, I really am. I would be lying if I said that I don't have moments of fear, rage, humiliation, shame, disgust...all of that. I do. I have such deeply-seated rage that our district attorney, whose salary I pay with my taxes, can say that virtually every form of acquaintance rape is a 'he said/she said' issue that juries don't 'buy'. There is nothing -- nothing -- that will ever heal that rage.

But I suppose that if that's the logic, I now have carte blanche to myself rape and debase some acquaintance, so don't say that I didn't warn you in advance.

Yes, I am joking and being a bitch. Humour is the only weapon I have. That, and a lot of Clonazepam.

It is hard for me to talk about, or write about, how I feel. I suppose it is easier for me to admit to fear than rage, and easier again to admit to rage than jealousy or envy.

Yes. Covetous envy. I has it.

I keep thinking, besides blaming myself in the first place, that none of this would have happened if I were beautiful. This is how my mind works, and if I can't be honest about it here, I have nowhere on Earth where I can be honest. I have always envied pretty girls, but now even more so because of the illogical thoughts that tell me that, were I beautiful, I would have been more valuable, too valuable to injure, or at the very least, I would have someone who would have made it such that this whole situation was never an event in the first place.

And hate. I have hate. It is for myself. Like the parable of the frog and the scorpion, a predator is a predator is a predator. No surprise there. What *is* surprising is how stupid *I* am. My stupidity renders ridiculous any claim to sympathy, pity, or help. It's not coming, and I do not deserve it anyway. That hurts, but it is the cold, hard truth.

And yes, I think of others, like Leah Peebles, and I understand the rage. As beautiful as she is, I would have thought she would have help, get help...something. But her case was dropped by the DA also. I feel for the rage, the need to just be numb anymore. I understand. I understand the desire to just let the Earth swallow you up.

I have days where I am productive, and days where I am less than so. Today is one of those 'less than' days. I try to distract myself, but it is hard some days. I will not hide and hate myself forever; I do not know when it will end, but it will. All I can do is push it out of my mind like I have been doing. Hopefully soon this will become permanent.

I left Eviljob early today because of the need to hide. I can't explain this need to hide; it is simply irrational. Possibly things will get better as I leave this area and mice on with my life. Everyone says, 'move on, move on...'. I am trying to. I really am.

So I am self-indulgent sometimes, and I hide. I wish there were someone to apologise to for this, but there is only myself.

I promise that I will try to post something more upbeat next time. I really promise that I will try. I guess my always having compartmentalised everything in my life has helped as far as a survival strategy.

Bye for now. I'm sorry to have been depressing.

- Posted using SomeBlogApp that I don't know how to use. o_O

Wednesday, May 08, 2013


There are times when I simply cannot sleep. Yes, I am taking my Buspar and Klonopin like a good girl, but sleep just will not come.

As my mother would say, I have been 'unfaired against'. Mummers was big on therapy in the '60s and '70s, and that is one phrase she picked up from some therapist, but it fits. It is not fair that acquaintance rape is hard to prosecute.

Don't believe me? Google it. I had to in order to wrap my mind around this. I think I googled 'why is acquaintance rape not prosecuted?', and the bottom line is that the attorneys believe, however demented it sounds, that juries think that all women who go off with men they know are whores.

Well, that's the Reader's Digest version.

The power went out. It's like three a.m., and the damned power went out, and that doesn't make it any easier to sleep. And I have NO mental health benefits on my insurance (what is covered is if I commit myself), so I have to pull me through this. I am trying to. My gyn thinks I have PTSD and wants me to see a psychiatrist, but that's not covered, and I can't afford the visits with everything else I have to pay. I explained this to my gyn, so she said she will keep refilling the Klonopin and Buspar, but she isn't very happy about it. :-/

I will be ok. I am trying very hard, despite the panic attacks, the insomnia, the weird feelings...I am trying. to try to sleep again.

- Posted using Speak-n-Blog from my Fisher-Price Chatter Pull Telephone

Monday, April 29, 2013

And I can juggle, too

Every day, it seems, at least these days, I feel as if I am walking this ridiculous tightrope. I feel like I am about to lose my shit.

Something has to change. I am getting up determination. I have already changed do much, but it isn't enough. I am tired of the way things have been going, and my life isn't changed enough quite yet.

I will be ok. I just have to stop being so afraid all the time.

- Posted using Speak-n-Blog from my Fisher-Price Chatter Pull Telephone

Sunday, April 14, 2013

My reserved parking spot in Hell

TV Detective: "And he also threatened to kill her in the past."

Ancodia: "He threatened to kill her in the past?!?"

...maybe I needed to not have memorised most of the dialogue from Clue back when I did. I fear it may have contributed to my being an insufferable asshole today.

If I get offed, I'll have my black humour to keep me warm.

- Posted using Speak-n-Blog from my Fisher-Price Chatter Pull Telephone


Physically, I am alive. I am ok. I look like Frankenstein's monster, but not in any way that can be discerned by an outside watcher.

Inside. Inside is not so good, but I cannot tell anyone because they either don't care or are hoping and supporting so hard that I can't bring myself to hurt them by telling them that there isn't any hope.

In-between job applications, I have finished watching Columbo, and have moved on to ID series like Wicked Attraction and The Nightmare Next Door. Even though I wished they showed the executions, it is still nice to see someone get justice. I think that is the point of these shows. Except really, I would rather just watch Columbo and the old Batman series. I appreciate Harry letting me use his Netflix account.

I am not going to speculate on how successful any of my applications have been; as soon as I count on something, it vanishes.

I am doing as ok as I can.

- Posted using Speak-n-Blog from my Fisher-Price Chatter Pull Telephone

Wednesday, March 20, 2013

Still ok

I have to possibly see the creep who assaulted me tomorrow. I waited too long to file a police report, according to the attorney. So at least I still have a restraining order/order of protection. That is civil, it can't be taken away. But...yeah. I am an idiot. I should have done so much differently. Right now, I want to change my look, change my name, and leave.

I wonder if there is something about some people that they broadcast that says 'victim here!'. I think there is. I think I have it.

More later.

- Posted using Speak-n-Blog from my Fisher-Price Chatter Pull Telephone

Sunday, March 17, 2013

I grow old, I grow old.

Met, against doctor's instructions, with my father and step-famille yesterday and had a good discussion, the first since my lay-up that has required thought.

I worry what I will do when I am too old and alone to have a good conversation with anyone. I mean, it's coming. Sometimes it seems nearer than others, like today.

I don't know. I maybe need to take up drugs so that I am at least numbed.

- Posted using Speak-n-Blog from my Fisher-Price Chatter Pull Telephone

Friday, March 15, 2013

A, you're a dopey gal.

I am still alive. Scarred -- literally -- for life and still supposed to be keeping my pelvic area as still as possible, but alive. This world and me, it seems, were simply not made for each other; there is a lot of hurt, hate, and shitty people in it. But...still I live. So that's nice.

I have been watching a lot of Columbo.

Some day, when I feel like putting any thought on it, I am going to have to figure out why some people get weird when they do. Like how they act normal to lure one in and then release the batshit crazy when they think it is safe.

I am also, in-between crying jags, medicating myself to stop having crying jags jags, sleeping jags, sleeplessness jags, and wondering if those pharmacy labels that say things like "may cause drowsiness" are just a lot of wishful thinking on the part of the pharmacist jags, applying for jobs.

Maybe I will apply to be a pharmacy label printer. I would make them like fortune cookie fortunes: Do not operate heavy machinery over the happy bird-song still carried on the wind. 56, 18, 03, 28, 11, 30.

I think my labels would be more popular.

- Posted using Speak-n-Blog from my Fisher-Price Chatter Pull Telephone

Tuesday, February 26, 2013

...and so it goes

My stitches tore, and I'm on restricted movement. I don't remember if I said so before. I'm watching a lot of episodes of Bullshit! on You Tube and feeling sorry for myself.

Being away from Eviljob has really forced me to think about how much I have come to hate that job. I feel devalued, and frankly abused. I am tired of living by their rules, and feel suffocated by their despotic demands; everything should have been 'more'; nothing is ever good enough, and...I am just over it.

I want to find a better place to be. I am tired of begging people who should know better to listen to reason.

I have let my sleep get out of whack, and...this, everything, has to stop. I hand to impose order again. Somehow.

- Posted using Speak-n-Blog from my Fisher-Price Chatter Pull Telephone

Wednesday, February 20, 2013

Appointment Today

Grr. Now I have to complain about this app.

Check up with the surgeon today. More when I am more tolerant.

In the meantime, Retro Wednesday!

Sunday, February 17, 2013

False alarm

...there are two versions of the song.

But that DOESN'T explain the Mountain Dew.

- Posted using Speak-n-Blog from my Fisher-Price Chatter Pull Telephone


I would love to build a conspiracy theory around this except for the fact that it means nothing. It's kind of like the FACT (don't tell me 'no') that the taste and appearance of Mountain Dew has been changed, only no-one but me notices. I feel like I'm trapped in a RPing thread on /x/, but I've now found something else different:

The song Mexican Radio by Wall of Voodoo, is not the same song that it used to be. No, seriously. There are subtle differences from how it really was. I don't know why they would change it, except maybe to take out the ", oleo, radio..." part at the end because nobody found it funny (?). *I* found it funny (I really can't have been the only person on Earth to have noticed this; someone alive and paying attention in the '80s back me up here), but my *point* is that it has been changed...for no reason.

In Other News, I hate my inheritance cat, I may be mortally wounded, and I may have pulled a stitch. :-/ Anyone want a cat?

And no, I AM NOT HIGH ON PAIN PILLS. They really changed the f'ing song. And no, I don't know who 'they' is. Maybe this is all John Titor's fault. He has changed Mountain Dew, given my stupid cat rabies, and changed a song from the '80s to make me sound crazy.


- Posted using Speak-n-Blog from my Fisher-Price Chatter Pull Telephone

Sunday, February 10, 2013

SDC + opiate = dreams

I am having a hard time staying awake. Maybe I did too much yesterday. But every one of my dreams is turning out to be an involved, movie-length event. I have never had anything like this happen before.

See you in a few.

- Posted using Speak-n-Blog from my Fisher-Price Chatter Pull Telephone

Monday, February 04, 2013

Stop, or I will say 'stop' again!

A friend showed this to me (link below). I am more depressed than ever. How do I make this stop?

- Posted using Speak-n-Blog from my Fisher-Price Chatter Pull Telephone

Saturday, February 02, 2013

So much for friends.

I made the huge mistake of telling someone I thought was a friend what had happened, and I cannot believe it, but she has started treating me as if I have leprosy.

What. The. Fuck.

This just emphasises how correct adversarial philosophies are with respect to 'sharing'. Don't fucking do it. Ever. Even when you are bitterly alone and at your lowest, because the knowledge of how weak and incomplete your fellow man is will leave you nauseous. Some people really are filled with falsity and hate. It is revolting. It is better to not know. Just trust me.

These are the same people who can look at an infant starving to death in Biafra, think 'they should pray more', click off the television, and drive in their luxury sedan to their resplendent church to enjoy their potluck dinner, and not have a moment's thought about whether the baby they saw is even still alive. Great Jell-O mould. Yep.

I am not religious. I am not even philosophically-inclined. I really have no agenda, no...purpose. I really don't believe there is anything but this life, and if there is, it's too fucking complicated for us to even begin to understand, so we should all, to live a happy life, just keep our heads down, do our own work, and not worry about what somebody else is doing.

And I cannot believe that I was stupid enough, pathetic enough, to expect anyone in my life to offer any sympathy, empathy, or commiserate in any form. Boy, have I learnt.

So if I vent, you are here because you want to be. If you don't want to hear it, leave.

And it hurts that I have lost someone whom I considered to be a friend (how wrong I was!). I am already dealing with enough issues in my head with respect to feeling like damaged goods, broken, filthy, and I am scared and more angry with myself and regretful than I can describe. Whatever. I may or may not go into it here. My *point* is that the LAST thing I need is some holier-than-thou bitch, some former fake friend, judging me as if I am all these horrible things and she is so much better. How nothing like this could *ever* happen to her, because she is so perfect.

That's great. I am vacillating between not giving a damn and being deeply wounded. I don't think that I am capable of feeling hate any longer.

I just wish that she would have the dignity to not try to pry any more details out of me. I came to work today to try to finish some crap up before I go on leave, and she turns out to be here too...and immediately starts quizzing me about my medical concerns, my upcoming leave, and so on. I just turned and walked away; I am *done*.

I may be temporarily down, but I am nobody's freak show. Bitch.

- Posted using Speak-n-Blog from my Fisher-Price Chatter Pull Telephone

Sunday, January 27, 2013

From the Air

Good evening.

This is your Captain.
We are about to attempt a crash landing.
Please extinuish all cigarettes.
Place your tray tables in their upright, locked position.

Your Captain says: Put your head on your knees.
Your Captain says: Put your head on your hands.
Captain says: Put your hands on your head.
Put your hands on your hips.

Heh heh.

This is your Captain.
We are going down.
We are all going down, together.

And I said: Uh oh. This is gonna be some day.


This is the time.
And this is the record of the time.
This is the time.
And this is the record of the time.

Uh, this is your Captain again.
You know, I've got a funny feeling I've seen this all before.

'cause I'm a caveman.

'cause I've got eyes in the back of my head.

It's the heat.


This is the time.
And this is the record of the time.
This is the time.
And this is the record of the time.

Put your hands over your eyes.

Jump out of the plane.

There is no pilot.

You are not alone.


This is the time.
And this is the record of the time.
This is the time.
And this is the record of the time.

I have to get on this blog and change the deelybobs on it. I will, swear.

Ok, to sort-of start catching up:

I am engaged in a life-or-death job hunt struggle. Wish me luck.

I was assaulted a few months ago by a total creep. I am not completely ok yet, but I will be.

I miss my mother.

I am having a hard time staying all compartmentalised, which is usually my only coping strategy. I had a meltdown at the beginning if January, but am better now.

All of my cats are ok.

I am struggling with depression and feelings of guilt and worthlessness. Sorry. Just being honest.

I have realised that there is quite a bit I need to change about me. I am working on this. Much of it has to do with having firm, healthy boundaries, and making certain no-one who crosses them remains in my life. I have been reading and listening to a lot about narcissism, sociopathy, and psychopathy to try to make sense of some people.

When I meet with my father and he starts on one of his rants about Mummers, I just want to verbally destroy him, a trait I picked up from him and try my best to quash. I don't go off on him. He is too old. The person who he used to be is gone, as is the person I used to be. There is no purpose served in hurting him. I have to keep reminding myself of that. We will all grow old and die...ideally.

I've learnt a lot about how to ask for help in the past few months; I am not good at this, I never have been. People are more understanding of weaknesses, fears, and errors than I guess I think they are. I think that I do not expect forgiveness for my mistakes.

I love you. Goodnight--

- Posted using Speak-n-Blog from my Fisher-Price Chatter Pull Telephone