“It was like my own personal Crying Game.”


Today is flying by so quickly.  I haven’t slept in a while; there are just so many things I prefer doing.  Sleep is a necessary chore I avoid as much as possible.  It’s when my mind attempts to process all the terrible things I force myself to pretend don’t exist while I’m conscious.  (I need desperately to overcome my shame for choosing this self-preservation.)

It’s just that it’s the only way I can stand being alive.  I give myself a pep talk each time I arise.  Life is unbearably painful sometimes.  I endure for the moments of joy.  It’s not elaborate:  I trained myself to recall something fabulous the moment I awaken.  I’m going to see Beyoncè in August, and Fleetwood Mac not long after.  😃 😁

I’m getting astonishing mileage out of the anticipation.  🙌🏽 I’m a bit shaky today because I’m not crying as much as my spirit needs.  I hate crying, but not as much as I hate bursting into tears at the worst time due to emotional constipation; (especially when I know laughing can easily trigger backed up tears.)  Laughing is my favorite thing to do;  I don’t want to ruin it.


Instead, I’m going to cry while I play Schindler’s List theme by John Williams on my violin to some cows.  It’s like crying while crying.  Heh.  I’m not even playing because it’s 2018; the year I believe will lead to drug stores selling FDA approved suicide kits for $19.95.  The Force is out of balance on our beautiful planet.  We all feel it.

I’m overwhelmingly sensitive to the energy of others.  I see your pain before I see you;  (it’s keener than my crappy vision.)  I’m also empathetic by nature.  It makes agoraphobia my shadow.  I can code for days (with short bio-breaks,) and create worlds I can bask in without the heaviness of hatred and ignorance I’m forced to witness and endure every day.

These digital worlds are a poor substitution for fellowship with humans, of course, but at least they don’t hurt so much.  I can breathe, learn, explore, and exist freely there.  I can pursue my passions, hone my skills, and develop new abilities.  I experience a great deal of contentment and know I could more easily survive for a long time in my private worlds.  The temptation to crawl back under that digital rock is intense.

But then I remember what I discovered when I crawled out, not too long ago:  Stevie Nicks.  (Others as well, but she’s the epitome of why I now exist in the world outside my head, despite everything.)  Perhaps you assumed by now I’d calm down and stop being so excited about Stevie Nicks.  You know nothing, Jon Snow.  🙃  I’m off to release some sorrow before it overflows.  ✌🏽

Stevie Nicks

“In times of crisis, the wise build bridges, while the foolish build barriers. We must find a way to look after one another as if we were one single tribe.” -Black Panther


“Did you close with the swirl?”


Look awayI’ve had an exceedingly frustrating day.  It’s not over yet as I’m still waiting for a technical issue to be fixed after several hours of back and forth communication.  At least I can say I didn’t cry about it.  I came dangerously close, but I sucked it up.  I’m confident it will be resolved soon.

I’m still dealing with insomnia but I ordered groceries earlier, and they included a non-addicting sleep aid.  I’m not hopeful for tonight, though.  I figured out what’s going on.  It’s my method of coping with life.  I force myself not to grieve and agonize over how we humans treat one another during my waking hours.

Unfortunately, when I sleep, the bill comes due.  Everything I avoided thinking about plays out horrifically in my dreams.  I feel trapped by this strategy, but it’s the only way I can survive.  Now I’m going further by drugging myself, so I can sleep.  It feels like a chicken-shit option, but so does the alternative.

I honestly don’t know how others can sleep with even more knowledge about fellow humans behaving atrociously.  I avoid the news.  I can’t watch TV unless it’s a cartoon.  The Flintstones and Hey Arnold! are my shows these days.  I’m relieved I can at least read novels, although some of them level me in my sleep.  I just finished reading The Lords of Discipline by Pat Conroy for the second time.  My gut regrets my decision.

My inner asshole has been verbally hazing me for being incapable of coping with reality.  I’ve thought about phlebotomizing myself again, but not seriously.  It’s not a solution, just a concession that exceptional intelligence is more disability than a gift IMO.  (Especially when my avatar is black and female.)

Sad kitty

I’m hoping when I’m well rested, I’ll be able to see the positive aspects of my life as they also exist.  Exhaustion isn’t the same as depression, but it sucks just as much.  Both shine a spotlight on all things negative and exasperating.  I’m reduced to my pathetic facts list to help me cope.  Things like:  At least I’m middle-aged, and no matter what, it’ll all be over soonish.  I’m getting a lot of mileage out of that fact.

I feel like Miss Celie telling Sophia not to fret over spousal abuse because life is a temporary condition in The Color Purple.  Sigh.  I need to decide on a novel to read later.  I’ll probably choose something by John Irving or Charles Dickens.  For now, I’m off to watch Stevie Nicks on YouTube.  She can make me smile even through tears.

“I’m buying the Frogger machine. Now the torch will burn forever.”

It’s a melancholy day.  I’m sad Tom Petty has passed.  I’ve been listening to his music all day.  The massacre in Las Vegas has me in a full body clench.  I don’t understand how anything could lead to such an act.  Nothing is more precious than life.  How can any circumstance negate this fact?  There are no words or gestures of empathy to soothe.  Just the ugly, pervasive knowledge it’s only slightly more horrific than the last massacre.

I refuse to be inured to violence.  I’m pretty sure it’s not possible in my case, anyway.  I still have nightmares from allowing curiosity to get the best of me regarding Game of Thrones.  I read the books.  I should have left it at that.  Instead, I watched it on HBO, up until The Mountain crushed Prince Oberyn’s head.  That scene really messed me up.  I haven’t watched so much as a clip since.

Other extremely violent scenes bothered me, but that scene annihilated my curiosity for the story.  It may have been a cumulative factor.  I don’t watch anything violent, now.  I’ve exceeded my tolerance for life.  I don’t care that it’s acting.  I’ve seen my best friends head beaten to a pulp by her raging husband.  I know what it looks like in reality.  I know what it smells like in reality.  I wish I could forget.

I’m tired.  I finished reading the Mists of Avalon series.  It reinforced my atheism.  I’m reading Reckless:  My Life as a Pretender by Chrissie Hynde, presently.  I’ve only just begun, but am already delighted I’ve found that for which I didn’t realize I was searching:  A woman’s perspective of the time period I’m studying.

It’s well written and so descriptive, I sat on the floor and drew horses with child Chrissie Hynde, while we discussed the state of humanity, (in my imagination.)  I walked with her all over her vast childhood domain in Ohio, and observed intensely with her (without shame.)  I met her parents through Chrissie Hynde’s eyes and understanding.  (It prevented any automatic dismissal based solely on their political inclinations.)

I also grew up in white America.  I too benefitted from white privilege and feel compelled to correct any tainted views born of a sheltered childhood in racial isolation.  (You don’t have to be of Caucasian descent to be tainted by white privilege.  Growing up in America more than suffices, which is kinda the point.)  I’m still learning how to broaden my perspectives to an inclusive and righteous viewpoint.  I don’t allow myself to feel resentment for having to relearn how I think.  (It’s just disguised overwhelm, anyway.)

I visualize it internally as removing a dam in a river one pebble at a time.  Walking into the river, bending and picking up a single rock, then returning it to the shore calms me.  It’s a favorite meditation.  It reminds me the journey is as important as the destination.  I’m girl crushing pretty hard on Chrissie Hynde.  😂  It makes me happy to spend some time in her head and recognize she’s brilliant and thoughtful.

I know songwriters are storytellers.  I just struggle to believe any interpretation of lyrics that don’t come from the mouth of the writer.  Most songwriters don’t tell their fans what the songs mean to them.  It used to piss me off, but now I see it’s more a gift.  What it means to the listener doesn’t have to match what it means to the writer.  It took a while, but I got here.  🙃

I know Chrissie Hynde’s story has darkness ahead.  She foreshadowed, plus I know a bit from interviews.  It helps when I can see it coming.  I’m a bit surprised how well I handled the darkness of Mists of Avalon.  I do feel betrayed by the author for inventing unnecessary horrors that could have been omitted without affecting the story.  If it doesn’t drive the plot, why bother?  Why hurt the reader for no good reason?

It hurts me when creators use violence as a spice.  When I put myself in their figurative shoes, I can’t fathom a positive cause.  The seeking of an edge through violence is to writing what Axe cologne is to frustrated virgins.  Rape is violence.  It’s the act of forcibly stealing someone’s free will.  It’s still barely a crime and becoming less so thanks to the Predator in Chief and his Merry Misogynists.  I guess the book series upset me more than I realized.

I thought I would get past this inner fury from having my free will dominated.  I thought it would lessen and fade over time, like most pain.  I see now it was wickedly unreasonable of me to expect such.  I live on a planet where rape scenes are considered entertainment.  Where the average adult is so numbed to acted violence, they don’t seem to feel despair over the reality.

I’m long past harboring a desire to fit in on earth.  (The thought alone made me laugh out loud.)  I cling tightly (internally) to those I meet on this journey who are also horrified by the horrors of life.  Knowing I’m not alone is comforting.  Alienation feels a lot like homesickness.  I’ve just never been home.  Too bad it doesn’t lessen the longing.  At least I know it’s a state of mind, not a location.  I’m pleased to share the path with Chrissie Hynde.

Not everybody knows what the crop circles are.

I’ve learned a bit about executive function since joining Autistic Twitter.  I just read my Pocket Sister’s blog describing her adventures with this challenging quirk.  It involves a phenomenon familiar to neurodiverse humans.  The executive function primarily entails the mental ability to manage time and focus.  Mine is spotty at best.  I find the most frustrating aspect to be losing words.  It nullifies my vocabulary acquired from spending so much time reading novels.  It complicates my ability to communicate with others.

Imagine trying to successfully express a complex concept using only the words contained in a nursery rhyme.  That’s as close as I can describe what it feels like to communicate with most other people.  The words I can consistently recall in real time when anxious are the words I had learned by rote before comprehension was a factor.  When I speak of being on auto-pilot, it could also be described as functioning by rote.  It’s my recovery mode.  It’s what happens automatically whenever I’m outside my home, and my anxiety gets triggered.  I suspect I spend more time on auto-pilot than not.

Anxiety is the bane of my social existence.  The worst part; it’s justified based on my history of socializing with others.  It’s absolutely the logical way to feel when attempting something I’ve failed at so many times.  I’m human, and we all need social contact with other people to some degree.  It’s a need I’ve tried to eradicate before, (always striving for efficiency.)  I couldn’t pull it off.  Instead, I just keep trying.  I stopped keeping track of how many times I’ve fucked it up.  It was discouraging.  I’m not seeking fame or popularity, (I couldn’t type that without laughing at the thought.)  I just need enough socialization to prevent my becoming too weird.

By too weird, I mean the way all humans change when isolated from other people.  We start talking to ourselves, and to inanimate objects (Wilson!!!).  When we do finally encounter another person, we tend to overshare overlong.  There’s more, but you get the picture.  I’m trying to socialize with other humans enough to prevent losing the ability.  It’s absolutely a Use it or Lose it skill.  So I put up with feeling anxious and inarticulate.  I’ve gotten used to needing a paragraph to express a sentence.  It’s hard because I value conciseness.  I find it easier to write than speak.  By quite a bit.  I just haven’t been able to convince those in my world to restrict their communications to text or email.

I’m working on a virtual presence device.  My first obstacle is designing one that won’t result in theft, vandalism, teasing, etc.  It’s a fun project, and I intend to use it often once completed.  As long as there is tech, I’ll find a way to fit my square peg in this round-holed planet, and I’ll have fun in the process.  I’m off to beat my drums with sticks.

I don’t even really work here!

It rained all day today.  It’s still raining now.  I don’t like when it’s also windy because it blows the water under my umbrella, rendering my battle to keep it above me futile.  I was drenched by the time I finished my Meals on Wheels route.  My last stop is inside an apartment complex with long hallways to reach each unit.  I’ve gotten lost in this odd complex more than once.  I suspect it used to be two buildings, and they later built a lobby in between, connecting them.  I have to remember which side for each unit because there are two apartments with the same number on each floor.  The division is only noticeable on the ground floor.

All three of my clients have made a habit of meeting me in the lobby for about a month now.  I have a hard time keeping my giggles inside during that stop because I imagine they underestimate my intelligence based on my building navigation skills.  (Or the lack thereof.)  I don’t know why it amuses me so much when people underestimate me.  I don’t lift a finger to dissuade misguided estimations because I can’t imagine a scenario where being more capable than expected is a con (for me).

I need to work out a few bugs in my delivering.  I don’t pull into people’s driveways, I park on the street.  This is because I can’t drive backward (well).  Backing out of that many driveways in a 90-minute window is statistically unwise.  In fact, based on my current record, it’s likely it would result in no less than four incidents a week.  By incidents, I mean me spontaneously rearranging the front yard landscaping by lurching and braking every five feet until I go over the curb and hit the street again.  (And that’s practically a best case scenario.)  Sigh.  I do much better driving forward.  I think it’ll be easier to work out the kinks when the weather acts right.

I’m going to look into volunteering for Habitat for Humanity soon.  I don’t know how to build a house, but I can use a hammer.  I need more physical labor in my life.  I love how it makes me feel, and it’s probably the best option for my insomnia.  (I won’t take prescription sleep meds.)  My body sleeps when it needs it badly enough.  I’d just prefer feeling more rested than what around three hours a night provide.  I’m convinced I’d act more like a morning person if I got up in the afternoon.  I’m off to read.