To be clear, the original poster literally states in their post that they think Cobain would have been trans or NB, and is therefore assigning him a pronoun based on their own opinion, rather than using “they” as a placeholder for someone whose identity they have not learned.

As Cobain died as a man with a child and a wife (who may have murdered him), it is not anyone’s place to assume his gender was anything other than that, and assigning him a different pronoun based solely on their own head-canon is doing to him exactly what people like the original poster seek to abolish.

It is, of course, my personal opinion that our world is already so full of complications and mean, angry people waging war on their own fellow humans for various reasons, that to add further complications and opportunities to fight only divides us more as a species at a time when it would behoove us to unite.

Prove me wrong, or watch how quickly I am canceled for such a very short blog post.

Everyone. I’m not blaming them; I should have had the sense to, like… not listen? But I’m not only autistic, I’ve never been shown a good example of what self love actually looks like. I’ve just observed and listened, and what I discovered was that people seem to fall under one of two extremes: self love to the point of narcissism (which, let’s be honest, is actually a reflection of deep insecurity and a fragile ego), and selflessness to the point of constant sacrifice.

Not wanting to be the type who would hurt or otherwise exploit others for personal gain, I opted towards the sacrificial. I am sure that religion, which came to me at a time where I was already confused about who I was an how I should be, likely did not help me to develop any shred of self love, as it was sinful to do basically any of the things that made me who I was (including being attracted to other girls, causing me to act stupid around them, or have brief, secret relationships that ended in grief). And don’t get me wrong, I resonated a lot with all the things Jesus taught about turning the other cheek and forgiving those who hurt you, basically infinitely, but it only reinforced the idea that I should be a doormat until I drop dead.

And of course, being autistic at a time when it wasn’t understood, I was unfairly pegged as demon-possessed, or someone likely to shoot up my school, even though I rarely fought back when the other kids beat me into a pulp, and tried to just walk away, even knowing they would only chase me down and bash my brains in anyway.

No one saw the abuse I received both emotional and physical from other kids, family, neighbors, even creepy perverts, because I never let it out. I was shamed for everything in the book, blamed for things I didn’t even do, and treated like I deserved what did come out that I’d gotten, so how could I confess to being sexually assaulted multiple times before the age of 16? It was already deeply embarrassing and I already felt guilty and ashamed. To tell anyone would have just run me the risk of also being blamed on top of it, because of course it’s always the fault of the victim and never the fault of the attacker.

I could’ve said no more forcefully. I could’ve tried to run. But if I couldn’t outrun other girls my age who only wanted to smash my face into the cement, how do you think it would’ve gone over if I’d resisted older boys who wanted to use me?

For so long, I believed it was my fault, just like I believed that I was just a fucked up failure of a person, a useless shit, a personal hell, a demon-possessed danger to all, broken, damaged, worthless… and so on.

It doesn’t help that people continue to leave rather than try to work through anything. It doesn’t help that the abuse continues in places I can’t escape. It doesn’t help that my value, to others, has always been measured by my net worth… my ability to do manual labor… the frequency at which I put out, which becomes more of a fucking chore the more it’s required and the less your own satisfaction seems to matter… when your few sexual encounters have been largely comprised of unwanted assaults, and your partner fills you with dread any time you even cuddle up because it always, always has to go further, and if you’re not always comfortable, they go on social media and lie, telling everyone you guilted them out of sex “all the time” which for one, never happened; they were the one doing the guilting, trying to use reverse psychology when I wasn’t feeling into it by being like “you’re right, it’s not fair to you, I always get it when I want it,” implying those words ever even left my lips, but you see how that kind of manipulation works. Saying things like “you’re right,” to gaslight you into thinking you must have said something that gave them that impression (when in reality, you were just sore, exhausted, sick, etc), so you’d feel bad for them and let them get it over with, and since you weren’t into it, it was the perfect tactic to get you to spread your fucking legs without having to do Jack shit in return.

And for two, ass grabs, slaps on the ass, and being told “I’ll miss you” when you leave, while squeezing your ass to let you know what part of you will really be missed just aren’t things that radiate romance in a relationship, especially when no boy ever wanted to do more than get his rocks off at your expense but wouldn’t be caught dead actually dating you, cause ew, and everyone hates you.

I would’ve loved some wholesome hand-holding that didn’t end with my hand being shoved down a pair of pants, or a surprise hug that didn’t involve a boner being pressed against my ass. But I never complained, and yet I still let that fucker gaslight me into believing everything was all my fault so they wouldn’t have to be held accountable for their misogynistic, sexually devious and destructive behaviors. Like I said, it’s always the victim’s fault.

I allowed that same person (as well as so many others, but this one did the most damage, covertly trying to goad on suicide without explicitly saying “kill urself slut” outside of, you know, adding it as one of the very first songs on the playlist they made for dumping you) to make me feel like I did everything wrong and that they were innocent, and it took me fucking years to convince myself they were full of shit, much less my family who not only bought into it but assisted (and may even still be assisting).

And I tried. Many times. Until I got this dumbass idea that I guess I just can’t die, so I just stopped caring if I lived and started abusing my body because clearly nobody likes me, I “have less followers than I do cats,” I have no friends, and no one even likes any of the music or art that I waste my pathetic excuse for a life on. So I just gave up. Figured I’d just ride the wave of bodily torture as far as it would take me and then fade out eventually, probably in my sleep or something.

But of course it wouldn’t be painless, because that’s my life.

So, there are a few things that I’ve known for a while, but I’ve mostly kept that knowledge completely inside my own head, as it’s the one place no one can hack, stalk, lurk, or spy to get information on me without at least dignifying me with a conversation, but I don’t talk to people anymore, really, even if they do seem legit, because of all the fucking gaslighting and sloppy trails of breadcrumbs that a blind bird with no sense of smell could easily follow.

As for why I have chosen to keep this information close to me and not divulge to anyone, well… A- I still care too much, even about those who have hurt me in the worst ways, and so on the off-chance they might suddenly decide they care, I wouldn’t want to worry them. And B- divulging such sensitive information to those who have shown time and again that they definitely don’t care would likely be smeared as a ploy for attention, and god, that’s the last thing I need right now.

Last week, I started to really feel a change for the worse, so I randomly decided to go blow a bunch of money to buy actual food. Like, something that’s not ramen or boxed macaroni, or clearance bread. I bought actual apples, yogurt, dried fruit and meat, and almond butter and some jam with no high-fructose shit syrup in it.

But it was a waste of money because now I can’t eat anything. I’ve been desperately ill for five days now, feeling like I swallowed a boulder while walking through a waist-high gun-fight. I want to believe it was just an accidental ingestion of peanuts, or food poisoning, but after taking colace for two days, as well as fiber, mineral oil (gross), and organic senna tea with zero results, I finally bit the bullet and drank an entire bottle of magnesium citrate, and even that didn’t work until the next day. That was Sunday evening/Monday morning. And I still can’t even breathe without feeling like something inside me will rupture. Every burp, cough, sneeze etc, sends me into a screaming fit.

Even laying and doing nothing is incredibly painful, and drinking just water has to be done very slowly in little sips, or it hurts like a motherfucker. I may also be having some sort of seizures in my sleep. I have a feeling that it’s my pancreas. The whole reason I went and bought decent food was because I had started feeling feint. My tongue kept prickling and my lips would go numb. I should’ve realized by that point that it was too late.

And now, laying in bed for five days, barely able to move, I’ve had a lot of time to think. I’ve started piecing together large sections of the puzzle that is my life, and it really started to sink in just how much damage has been inflicted upon me in my life, even at my own hand as a result of a lifetime of feeling like I’m just some nasty shit on the bottom of everyone’s shoe that should be scraped away and discarded like always, but you know, more permanently.

And still, how can I blame them? People are inherently blind to the pain they cause others. On the other hand, it’s generally a choice. I’ve allowed myself to be conned into thinking I was a disgusting monster of a person by people who refuse to acknowledge the hurt they’ve caused me, or give a genuine apology that isn’t laced with justifications, or “I don’t regret its.”

I don’t know what to think, I guess. I know I said I didn’t blame anyone and that I should’ve been “smarter” but how could I have been when from birth, all I’ve known is how much I bother/annoy/terrorize/hurt everyone, even when I try so hard not to. People take my feelings— feelings they conjured up in me— as a personal attack, rather than an act of extreme trust, and they jump on it as an excuse to continue the cycle of abandonment issues that led to my nonexistent self-worth and lack of fucks about my health.

It’s too late to regret it, probably. But I do. I wish I’d had the power to fight for myself. To look at things objectively and see that I wasn’t worthless. That I deserved to have support from people who wouldn’t just leave me when I no longer served them.

I wish I would have talked to and treated myself the way I would have done to any friend. The way I always did for my friends.

I wish so much that, in a world as lonely as mine, where no one is my friend and everyone dislikes me, I would have had the strength to be my own friend.

But that was always my weakness; I gave all of my strength to those I cared for and never spared a single drop for myself.

Communication has always been difficult for me, due to my autism. I have always been misunderstood, which has further deterred me from attempting to communicate, and so I have developed certain coping habits that may be seen as me, uh… being an asshat, for lack of my deserving of a better turn of phrase.

I am hoping that maybe this blog post will help clear some things up, if anyone has the patience to read it, which I doubt for many reasons, not the least of which have to do with me having come off as an asshat.

1. When I decide not to communicate, it is usually because I have generally been made to feel like my feelings are inconsequential and/or irksome, bothersome, or even taken as a personal attack. If you’ve ever dumped me (as a friend or other) because I told you how I felt and you felt attacked by that, you have actually further proven why I should never, under any circumstances, be honest about my feelings, especially if…

2. I don’t want to talk about it right now, and you continue to force me to have that conversation, and then I feel attacked and cornered, so I get upset and say stupid shit I don’t mean without thinking. I always regret it instantly, and I always end up paying. For this reason alone, I always advise that if I say it’s a non-issue, or to drop it, or that I’m not ready to talk about it, you really, really should not press the issue. That is me putting up a boundary, and if you like to have yours respected, I think I deserve the same courtesy.

3. When I have feelings that suck, but I don’t want to talk to anyone about them, especially the person I’m feeling them about, I usually journal it, and that helps me process it on my own using logic and reasoning to understand why I am feeling those ways. But sometimes I just don’t have the time or resources to sit down and journal, so I’m those cases, I just take the very crude, basic feeling and post it in a place I’m 99.9999% sure they’ll never come across it (or anyone else, for that matter), but on the rare chance they do, I certainly would hope that they would be understanding of the fact that I was hurting when I wrote it and that I hadn’t worked through the emotion yet. Don’t mistake me: I will be willing to talk about anything after enough time has passed and I have processed it and the wound is no longer fresh. But if I’m telling you not now, that’s probably because not enough time has.

4. Cutting off communication entirely only makes things shittier for both of us, because you assume that I meant the shitty thing I said, or you allow a misunderstanding to go unresolved, and the abandonment cycle continues for me. You deny me the chance to really clarify anything, and I cannot process what happened without communication, so you basically just fuck me over permanently so that you can go hide from the responsibility of actually making an effort to work things through.

Sometimes conversations are hard to have. I know this better than anyone. But without proper communication, everyone loses. I totally get if you need time, because as I just mentioned, sometimes I need time too. But you have to tell me that you need time, and not shut me out entirely. I need time sometimes too. But in the end, I firmly believe that there’s nothing too broken to be fixed, and if starts with communication. I am always willing to put in the effort to make sure that everyone’s voice is heard and come to an understanding. I want to understand you just as much as I want to be understood by you.

I hope this helps to clarify some things.

It is the fifth of November, and as the cool breeze skates through my lonely little corner of the world, sending leaves showering down onto the dying grounds of autumn’s grip, thoughts have begun, too, to shower down through long deserted pathways in my mind, intensifying a pain that I have dealt with so long, it had become more of a dull ache, like a rotting tooth neglected for so long that you no longer notice the clenching of your jaw, and the pain is just something you’ve begun to take for granted as a part of you that just is, much like breathing.

Remembering, suddenly, autumns past, when there was life and love rather than the hollow ache of loneliness has been akin to a sudden sweets binge on that rotting tooth; the sugars penetrating down deep into the nerve, reawakening that sharp, excruciating pain that cannot be ignored.

Halloween was not good to me this year, nor do I hold much hope that it ever again will be. It was always the one, small thing I had to look forward to each year that brought me joy. There was something comforting in it, something that made me feel safe and warm. Over the last 8 years, however, it has been tainted one too many times.

In 2016, the diagnosis… and that odd Pre-TSD thing that led up to that, like a foreshadowing, backwards echo of the years of overwhelming and worsening grief to come, as though all that had yet to happen would rip through my life with such force that it would ripple across time, causing me to experience odd flashes of PTSD for things that I wouldn’t even begin to experience for months to come…

Still, Ivy kept Halloween alive, and it made me feel closer to Faron, until last year when my daughter was unfairly torn from my arms after months of torture and provocation that I mostly handled well until my child started being kept from me and the intimidation hadn’t ceased after months of my making it clear that I was not comfortable with a certain person being anywhere near my home. I broke, once, and only due to circumstances largely outside my control, and for that, I have paid much more than I should have been made to, particularly when the antagonists have never been brought to justice, and no matter what I do or how hard I try, no one will listen to me or take me seriously.

I find this rather humorous, as people are all too quick to take me deadly seriously when I am joking or being hyperbolic, which is much of the time when I am in a fairly good mood, though the few times I am quite serious, like explaining the injustices inflicted upon me, or thoughts of ending it all to escape the pain of always being framed badly and hated by everyone, not a soul will take me seriously, because no one cares. People believe every lie the antagonist comes out with, even when two or more of those lies directly contradict one another.

But I digress. Getting back to the topic at hand, just after my daughter was taken from me for a second time, this time by her other parent, all of the new friends I had made working at the haunted house very quickly and very suddenly also abandoned me for having “too much drama in my life,” so once again, my ex cost me all of my friends, though this time in an altogether different way than when I was dumped very suddenly, and all our friends sided against me, likely due to more lies being spun about me.

That was probably the nail in the coffin for Halloween being even remotely enjoyable. That, and just autumn itself… all the stupid cozy memories of rain on the library windows as we— still a whole and unbroken family— browsed for good books to snuggle up with under a blanket with steaming mugs of whatever.

Those things, starkly contrasted with the memory of finding out “daddy was kissing Eddie…” that gut-punch shock and utter anguish, as all my hopes and dreams shattered…

Of finding out about the bees, and how I was literally being replaced in every aspect of what I thought was a complex, one-of-a-kind relationship… and maybe it was, if the memories of it are such that they have so far been copy-pasted into the new relationship with someone so like me that I can’t help but loathe them just for being like someone that everyone hates and being too daft to notice or care that this will ultimately end with them going through everything, if not more than I have.

Halloween, autumn… things that once brought me joy even in the darkest of times now just feel as empty and painful as the rest of what’s left of my pathetic life, which leaves absolutely nothing in its place.

I am finally completely joyless. And so now I have to make a choice.

It has been brought to my attention that my child is happier without her mother in her life, and I am certain that her father’s hatred of me is such that they will never allow us to be together again. In fact, knowing how nothing but lies seem to ever tumble out of that silver-tongued mouth of deception, I suspect my child probably also hates me, thinking I abandoned her, or that I don’t love her with every fiber of my being, and I just cannot stand that idea.

So I am down to my last two choices, and I don’t like either of them, though one will almost certainly bring relief and the other only might, assuming I am able to pull it off properly and not be served any sudden reminders of those things, or rather, those people that I will have banished from my memory in an attempt to heal enough to enjoy the few years I might have left.

I do not really like the prospects of maybe and might, particularly as such words have only ever held false hope that was quickly dashed, especially by those in my life who only wanted to shut me up and not have to deal with me. I no longer trust maybes and mights. They mean as much to me now as Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy.

But I have a little bit of time left to decide, because regardless of which route I decide to take, I must first make arrangements, and by that, I mean that I don’t want my story to go untold, even if no one cares to listen or take it seriously. I want it to be known that I was here, that I lived, that I suffered, that I fought and was strong for as long as I could be, and that I— a once lovely woman full of life and love to be shared with those around me— was reduced to this lifeless, soulless, dopamine-deficient shell of a dying mess that hunches before you today, completely drained of life, love, and joy by a single person who knows exactly what they did, but is too much of a coward to stand and face it, much less come clean about it to their devoted followers who are convinced that I am the shitbag in this equation and that I deserved whatever I got, even if I did get it.

I just want someone to know the truth, even if I am ancient history by then. I don’t want all that I’ve gone through and all that I’ve braved and lived through to mean nothing. I hope that someday, maybe my life can mean something to someone like me, and maybe I can be the hand that helps them up and guides them through their trials, like a survival guide.

But knowing my luck, I’ll get one page in and then randomly be killed by something stupid and unforeseen. Because fuck me, that’s why. 🙄

You little shit, what knowest you of pain?

Qui simulat victimam perimit innocentem.

You took a rare and beautiful thing overflowing with life and love, and reduced it to a soulless, desiccated husk— hardly a shell of its former self.

Carnis proditor putris, Tempus tuum veniet.

A flower, the only one of its kind, grew only for you, flourishing and thriving simply by being able to give you its love and its beauty, and you repaid it by feeding it poisonous lies and toxic words. You chewed up its love for you then spat it back, causing its petals to rot and wither as your venomous saliva broke down the very fabric of its being.

Eo quod occidisti, contabesces.

You stamped it out, pissed on it, then left it all by itself to die. But that alone was not enough for you. No, you had to add insult to injury, did you not? As though the simple yet complicated fact of your torture, neglect, and abuse was not horrible enough, you went on to spread abhorrent lies about your victim, framing the poor, tortured creature as the villain in your tragic little fantasy about how you were the one who suffered.

Pudeat te. Vulgaris creatura malignitatis.

Every time your flower started to grow back, you sneaked over to stomp it out again, and for a moment, your facade was so convincing that even your flower began to believe your repulsive narrative. It stopped trying to grow, thinking itself to be none more than a noxious weed. And you took advantage of this product of your conditioning, showing it off as a signed confession of guilt to all who would see. But the guilt was untrue. It was simply a seed you planted in her head and watered with shame, distance, and silence.

Nescias pacem.

You formed an entire army to come and attack the poor, pathetic dying husk of what you already destroyed, and you still have the gall to feign innocence and maintain that you are the victim. How pathetic. To weaken something to the point that it cannot fight back, then forge your own narrative on top of its lifeless body. You are lower than the lowest of scum. Anyone with even the slightest drop of integrity would cease the act and admit their guilt.

But not you. You just sit there and bide your time, waiting for all of your dirty little secrets to die with her, so you never have to face up to your litany of lies and manipulation.

I spit on you.

I’ve decided not to care. It’s just a waste of energy and kind of self-centered. Like, no one else cares, in fact I know there’s going to be a party rather than your standard funeral, so why should I waste my energy giving a shit? It’s fine. I’m fine.

I’m just going to further distance myself from the world, and focus on telling my story, so that when I do die, maybe someone, somewhere in time and space, will know exactly why.

I’ve learned how to be alone. It’s nothing new, and while it can be difficult, sometimes overwhelmingly so, it’s become a kind of normal for me, so I’ll just muddle through in my isolated world until I am finally excused from it. Honestly, I think it’ll be easier that way. Not having anyone who cares, who will be devastated. No complicated goodbyes to have to say. Just my usual, involuntary solitude that I can slip away in, all alone.

It’s just simple. Thank god at least one thing in my life can be simple, even if it’s only my goddamn death.

https://spotify.link/GRM2zmOFTDb

A small eternity (in the form of a few fateful days) ago, I woke with such stupidity hope. Such a… Sunny outlook. I decided I was going to start cleaning up my language and stop saying things I don’t really mean like “I can’t wait to die,” or “please kill me,” as well as being mindful of saying “I wish” and be more careful with that.

In addition, I had begun to talk to myself in a kinder voice, the way I’d talk to a close friend. Because I realized that even when my abusers aren’t present, their words are still my inner (and sometimes outer) voice, so they continue to abuse me by putting me down and telling me mean things that aren’t true about myself.

I was, like, kind of happy for once. I was turning things around already, and was now planning ways I could make things even better for myself.

But then I went to the doctor, and… it’s too late to start being careful of my speech. It’s too late for a lot of things. And it’s so stupid.

I don’t know how to feel. It’s just… it makes no sense. After I’ve survived so many things I shouldn’t have, why this? Why now? Please. It’s such a fucking cliché.

I don’t want to die anymore. I haven’t for a while. I’ve been better. But… the damage is done.

Maybe I should try to be happy about it. Right? Like… no more getting treated like shit. No more random legal bullshit keeping me from living my life. No more pain, god, the fucking pain.

But also… no more new experiences. No more tasting, no more smelling, no more touching. No more of so many things I have grown to love, and of course… no chance of ever getting my kid back. Why bother starting shit now? It’s just going to make what time I have left even more miserable with lawyers and court dates and my ex using whatever dumb little shit possible to fuck me over on the whole thing, rendering it all a waste of fucking time anyway.

There’s so much I still want to know. There’s so much I still want to do. So much unfinished business, so much closure I’ll never get…

I don’t want to die without finishing the story…

I am divided, right down to my marrow. Sometimes I feel as though I am a chimera of sorts— the unholy fusion of two repelling magnets. Complete opposites, refusing to cooperate, but unable to separate.

Maybe I am the Yin Yang, and my body is the circle that contains it all. But of course, this is true. How foolish of me to imply that I did not already know this. I simply forgot. For so long, I lost who I was. Or maybe I specifically abandoned her.

Stop saying maybe. You know what you did. You rebuked your own name, and that is why you cannot find that peace. Because you are the peace. But if you’re not at peace, little else is. Look at the state of the world, little yin yang.

Of course you cannot be blamed for this. Your pieces are missing, and you haven’t the ability to control them, to summon them back, because they have a will of their own, and therefore will not bend to yours so easily. In fact, the harder you try to summon them back, the harder they pull away. Which is why you’ve left the thoughts of them on the back burner as you attempted to heal.

But what happened then? They took a stab at you after you’d done nothing to warrant such behavior, and what’s more- they invaded your privacy, throwing you off-kilter. And now you are so guarded that even you cannot penetrate your own defenses. You forgot your name, you threw it off and cast it away like it would kill you. And yes, of course, it is understandable when no one has ever said it in a way that made you feel good about yourself, that you’d want to sever yourself from it.

But dearest, the name of who you are cannot be taken out of you. It would be like trying to alter your DNA. It simply isn’t done. You can hold your name close and keep it private and safe while hiding under the shade of a softer sounding name, you know. It can be your little secret, if you’d just take the trouble to file some boring papers.

But perhaps what you need is to make amends with the name. Forgive it for all it’s cost you, for all the ways it’s sliced you up over the years, and welcome it back with open arms as an old friend, just as you’d do for anyone else. Why is it that you can forgive others for the terrible abuse they’ve inflicted onto you, but you cannot treat yourself with the same mercy and compassion? Why can you continue to love someone who has betrayed you so many times over, but you can’t find it within you to love yourself?

Is it because you play follow-the-leader and jump on the bandwagon with everyone who hates you? Because you are so desperate for acceptance that you will disrespect your own self to try to gain it?

Let me remind you who you are. You are balance. You are the force that keeps the balance. But how can there be balance with no basis for comparison? There cannot be! One cannot experience joy unless they have experienced pain. There can be no light without the darkness. You want to make everyone happy because you are a being of peace and balance. But balance includes the bad. Balance includes not always making people happy.

It’s up to them to love you in spite of the chaos that comes with you. Because those who do will always be rewarded by the sweetness that comes from your happiness when you are filled with so much love and joy that you can do nothing but spread it.

Forgive yourself for now, and maybe with enough time, those missing pieces will realize they are half of a part of a whole, and cannot be complete until they come back home to you.

Only then will balance be restored. So do it. Forgive yourself, and love yourself, and nurture her. That way you can really mean it when you say that you have done your part. And maybe when you’ve made friends with yourself again, all this waiting won’t seem quite so lonely. :,/

We can only hope.

Yeah, but. Let’s be real. Whenever I say something, it always devolves into a script-flipping, reactive abuse, “you having feelings hurts MY feelings, so now you get a whoopin’” (mentally) narciopathic shit show extravaganza, ending with me being the asshole for daring to breach topics that may have the audacity to suggest that someone else might be mentally, emotionally, or verbally abusive to me.
I’ve lived 34 years, almost 35 years at this point, never having a safe space. A home. A family. I’ve just spent my entire life as the retarded kid that everybody bullies.
Get beat up at school, after school, just to come home and get beat up some more, both emotionally and physically. Shamed and blamed for everything, always a convenient scapegoat. No one to turn to because smear campaigns preceded me, and everyone believed them.
No justice from all the sexual assaults I went through as a child because who would care? It would just be my fault. And I didn’t need anymore shaming on top of how disgusting I already felt.
And I just go my whole life believing that I’m a piece of shit. That I’m “crazy” or “psycho” for having natural human emotions. The abuse became my normality. So why oh why would I fall for anyone who wasn’t horribly abusive? If you’re not making me feel like shit about myself, something’s wrong. This isn’t healthy.
And now my life is ruined and my last living child taken away by someone who learned how to pull on all of the same triggers and push all the right buttons to hurt me, to elicit a reaction so they could pull back the curtain and say “BEHOLD, THE FUCKING PSYCHO.”
I’m done. I’m not staying silent anymore. I have a voice and that voice deserves to be heard, so that justice can possibly take place, or maybe just so that people might evaluative themselves and expand their perception so that they can look at things objectively and consider that maybe they really are the source of all their own problems because they create problems out of nothing so they can thrive on being pissed off.
I’m not doing it anymore.