myvoicenottheoneyougiveme - Tumblr blog

myvoicenottheoneyougiveme · 6 months

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There's something you love to do, when you know damned well the position you have me in.

Let's get something straight about the larger war effort that you play a part in, cause even when you aren't just being outwardly hostile--when you're keeping it in check for one reason or another--

…"THIS" REMAINS.

There is something I WILL NEVER BE, while in the company of anyone waging "this" proxy war: and that's open, awake, and emotionally available--connecting with the people around me… when those people around me are the ones committing the emotional abuse.

And who gets caught in the middle? Who do you use as a pawn or a point of leverage or something to beat me down with when you want to spell "pedo" at me (or anything else)? --Your daughter.

Too often you give me grief over her bids to connect with me, while I attempt to keep her at arms length. She frequently wishes to engage with me as any child does with the adults their life. But what do children need more than anything? For people to see and connect with them on an emotional level. TO BE INVESTED IN THEM EMOTIONALLY.

Fact is, I am not at home, with you, with either of you. I have no interest in being (and neither can I be) a part of such a family. There is a perpetual state of mental-emotional limbo that I am trapped in, as I attempt to function in the relationship that a living situation as this one requires and would imply of anyone bearing the title "family" (a name wanted or not).

In all aspects of my life, I am neither here nor there. I am not here, but I am not gone either. I have internalized after 15 years of abuse a new way of being human dead to every aspect of my life and every person in it, and every person I will ever meet. Cause it doesn't matter where I go, the monster has already been there. And this corner of the 'net is ground zero for that proof.

The only thing I am working toward anymore, the only reason I am alive, is because I tell myself I can be beyond the reach of "this" abuse, in some small shred or measure in any semblance of the peace I used to know in JUST BEING ALONE again.

Someone has decided I am not to be a member of the human race. I am not a person. I have no rights. I am better off dead. And you all too often twist my arm, in a way of putting the cart before the horse, to be here and now and emotionally available to your "happy" little family, while you actively take part in something whose expressed purpose is my death.

Do not expect me to be anything but the death row zombie you have actively worked to make me. And do not use your toddler as a point of leverage, like she deserves to be put in the middle of "this" extrajudicial killing.

The MIND-FUCK gaslighting emotional abuse, will end, one way or another, in some measure, in some small shred of my life, or… well, what's the point in anything? ...But being "family" to you and yours, is something that will never happen. ...And you have only yourselves to blame.

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myvoicenottheoneyougiveme · 6 months

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dear, Dad

No attitude?

You let that go out the window when you started trying to justify yourself. Tell us all what you really think then…

It's ok. We're oil and water. You've never been able to see beyond your own nose. This was never about who has given up more. This is not about who has done more or less. This is not about "boxes".

It's been plain to me for years, all the things you withhold saying. What's amazing to me is how much it bothers you--all these things that should be none of your business. It's clear just the sight of me or the thought of me is a nuisance to you. It's clear that everything I am, bothers you.

You speak to me the way Dad did, always. Except when I press back, and only because I press back. Only because there is a cost, do you keep it in check. You have always treated me with the same contempt he had, even when you're putting on a good face. You are so like him, in more ways than you know.

And you can't see that there is something wrong with that.

Where are we left now? Can I stay angry or rattled enough to follow through once finances allow? What will you do?

This is what I can't understand. For as much as you will hold it against me, for as much as you apparently need me in the picture, you've never really acted like it.

It's clear to me, we've gone about as far as we can with this merry little living situation. Finances notwithstanding. Finances be damned.

I have been dragged along behind your crazy train, being kicked in the face all the while, for longer than I ever should have.

You don't have to agree with my position. You don't have to believe I have a leg to stand on. You don't have to anything, to acknowledge that we've reached our limit.

Fact is, living with you takes more out of me than I can fathom.

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myvoicenottheoneyougiveme · 10 months

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Nothing, I have ever done, or ever could do... but that’s my actual crime isn’t it? Could. Could. For not knowing what I felt, for wanting my feet on the ground, for not telling you what you wanted to hear, for asking for the time of day.

Your switch, “flipped”.

Now I’m a rapist. A, would-be rapist.

And that fire, that blaze you started that day, has burned ever since, consuming everything you had a mind to fan it toward.

But nothing, nothing I have ever done, or ever could do, amounts to a decade and a half of “this” abuse. ...A lifetime. Without end.

...I will find that end.

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myvoicenottheoneyougiveme · 11 months

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The truth doesn’t matter... you make that abundantly clear.

...This is also the part where ...well, you’re making the only plays left to you. Which are “non”-plays.

It’s a hard line. It’s a sharp line. There’s no room left for you to argue otherwise. ...But at no time when any of your lies had ever been shown to be exaggerations or outright fabrications, has anything about “this” ever changed.

What’s there left to argue over? There are no riddles left in need of answers. You’re like a kid playing in the bathtub after the water has been all but drained. Like there’s nothing left to work with. Still persisting, but holding no water.

The veil has been torn away. The basis of “this” laid bare. All the things, in the Gang Stalk, in the organized harassment, in the classic case where the target isn’t allowed to know why... we’re years past that now. Light, as much as you’ve attempted to keep the light away from it, light has now shone on what you built to make “this” in the first place, and it’s hardly all that you once made it to be. ...That’s the only way a thing like “this” can gain such traction. It has to be unchallenged.

Besides you trying to see how far forward I will lean, to bat “this” away, what are you even measuring now? And what does it tell you? Your game only works while your target is in the dark, but you’ve shown your hand little by little for years now.

What are you standing on? What are you justified in? Where do you have left to take “this”, when we’ve converged on the very basis of your throne?

You don’t care what really happened.

You don’t care, that pretty much everything you ever tried to put on me, was actually yours. You don’t care.

All you care is that you were hurt, and that the source of that hurt must be punished. ...For the rest of his life.

One of us had to learn how to let go. The fact that you were left holding your own bill with no one left to blame, should never have been my problem. Yet, here we are 10 years later. ...That fact on its own should say something.

It’s not for me to force you to accept some version of events. No one has to agree upon anything, to take responsibility for their own actions. The fact that you don’t care, says enough. I mean, you never cared, but... suddenly we aren’t fighting over the record anymore. It’s a moot point. You make that abundantly clear. It doesn’t matter what really happened. It was just an excuse for you to keep doing what you’ve always done.

The truth is laid bare, all strings, all threads, all in hindsight 20/20. What is there left to fight over? Clearly you’ve decided you don’t need it in order to persist. ...But you lose the person you’ve been toying with, for an ungodly amount of time.

What is there left to fight over?

What, when you’ve been cornered in “this”, but still persist anyway?

Nothing can make you. But I wasn’t counting on your blessing. This just means, I don’t care either. And I know you know.

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myvoicenottheoneyougiveme · 11 months

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My crime... was pleading “not guilty” as you set fire to everything I knew.

My crime was holding onto anything in my life.

My crime was holding onto you, as you pretended not be the one trying to burn me alive.

My crime was not knowing what I felt, and who in my position could?

And my crime was your inability to deal with what you were feeling. Not recanting my feelings but neither telling you everything you wanted to hear as you rushed to the conclusion rather than the beginning. My crime was your inability to choose a path for yourself, waiting instead on something outside of yourself to make that decision for you. Maneuvering me, manipulating me, putting words in my mouth, rather than just standing on your own two feet grounded in who and what you were and what you were feeling.

My crime was existing. My crime was being in your way. My crime was pleading “not guilty” in the face of everything you put me through, ringing me out like...

You couldn’t YOURSELF, chart a course. You waited on me or on circumstances to make that decision for you. I had to hold, everything you could not, and I was never to be allowed to stop... it’s gonna be 15 years soon.

You couldn’t say no to “him”.

And a failure to take ownership over your own destiny or path in life, meant BLAMING everything or everyone else around you when it didn’t go the way you wanted. You waited on me. You waited on circumstances. You felt at the mercy of them... like I didn’t? As you blamed blamed blamed blamed blamed? Burned burned burned burned.

...Responsibility for anything in your life, you could not manage.

It was an impossible position for you.

...so you paid it forward. And I shouldered all I could, for as long as I could. But I never said I would take it lying down, not at the point it was becoming clear to me, the malice behind the faceless happenings.

You waited. Don’t tell me, stop telling anyone that you didn’t. You waited on circumstances. You waited. You were frozen. You waited.

And I owed you everything.

And even if that weren’t impossible to forget, no one was about to let me forget.

You waited.

You bled.

What you were was in my way too.

It was like rubble from a collapsed building and being buried beneath it. A tangled mess preventing any part of it from moving.

You shouldered me with everything you could. And what I was crushed you beneath. Off off off off, what gets tossed over top of one, eventually comes back to the other.

You waited on me, on outcomes concerning me. You blamed. And you never stopped blaming. Even as you actively thwarted any attempt to remedy. It didn’t stop you from blaming.

If you were not caught between yourself and me, where does the grief come from? Where does the paralysis come from? Where did the great suffering you just can’t stop selling, come from?

How could you feel trapped, if what I’m saying isn’t true?

My crime was pleading “not guilty” as you took to burning me alive to release yourself from what you were feeling.

My crime was being a trigger for you.

...and you for me.

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myvoicenottheoneyougiveme · 11 months

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I was the only one not in on the joke... start to finish.

There was no dialogue. I didn’t even have my own friends. You did.

I tried to pierce the veil futilely, on a couple of occasions, only to be ignored. I tried to confront what was happening in my life. I tried to confide in closest friends. But they were your instigators. They were a part of the “intervention” to “save a life” from before I even knew anything was going on.

What is your great victimhood? Who put pressure on you to be reasonable? Did dissent in your ranks or accountability for you equate to “harassment” as you sell it now?

I had no one. If anyone did for me in the least bit, they never let me know it, and it certainly wasn’t with my consent. I was alone. I have always been alone. I tried. I tried to pierce the veil of your fog of war. I tried to have a candid honest conversation with at least one person that SHOULD have been able to have that with me. You had “confidantes” in spades. No one could even admit to me that anything was going on, much less have a dialogue about it.

You had my everything. You had everyone. I was the only one not in on the joke. From the start. From the very beginning. “This” marched on.

You can’t flip these facts on their head.

You came to me. YOU came to me. You all came to me. But it didn’t go according to script, and I wouldn’t tell you either of the things you wanted to hear. That I had no feelings at all, or that I was in love with you.

You couldn’t handle that. You couldn’t handle having your hands tied. I was a person in the midst of a mental health crisis and not knowing what I felt, made me a predatory monster. Not letting you put words in my mouth, made me a monster. Not letting you write lines for me, made me a monster.

I was in your way. I was in the way of you putting right what had gone wrong. Nothing was right. Nothing would be right. And if you couldn’t be the big cure, I was holding you up to be, you didn’t want anything to do with me. FAIR, but you couldn’t own it, could you? So you festered and found round about ways of untangling yourself.

I refused to believe you could have said such things. We’d known each other our whole lives, it couldn’t have come from you. I refused to place blame for the narrative and what was happening on you.

But making me a “monster” was how you released yourself from what you were feeling. The more you pushed down that course and came up empty-handed the more to the pile of not right to weigh down on top of you. The greater the rifts, the greater the destruction, the more that burned, the more blame that had to go SOMEWHERE, but not on you.

Your excuses now are the same as they were then. But now, there’s a swath of destruction for you to point at. Oh wow gee, wow. You poor girl. Sure we’ll help you harass this guy.

My crimes amount to not ceding my own life to you and what you spun. My crimes amount to standing my ground. My crimes amount to fighting for a “relationship” you were secretly trying to sink from the shadows. My crimes amount to holding on and refusing to abandon the person I wouldn’t let myself see as anything other than a victim. It wasn’t you, I told myself. It couldn’t be. Why won’t they leave “us” alone? ...Oh, turns out, turns out as revealed later that, you were actively selling tickets. You weren’t confiding in people close to you who then talked to other people and then people from the fringes--busybodies--coming in to weigh in on things that should have been none of their business. No. You and your “intervention” that was yours from the start, that revolved around you from the start, just changed aims.

Sad boy? No no no no. Sad GIRL. We must manage and repair this rift in our little world. We must push it into a direction that brings harmony and peace back to our corner of church-town. What is mental health anyway? What is depression? What are these things no one ever really talks about that are so foreign to us? Social media has barely been invented and awareness about such things, especially in a religious setting is unheard of. Mental health? PFFFFFFFFF. More like you muthafucka’s need Jesus. What a piece of shit. What a fucking piece of garbage. Can you believe this guy? Oh, man, was he just this wolf in sheep’s clothing this whole time? I feel like I never knew him at all. How could anyone not say it? Man, I’d give anything to trade places with him right now. Who cares if we’re harming him? He’s asking for it. He’s literally telling us what a piece of shit he is. Literally hating on himself. I mean hey, that’s an admission of guilt. He’s awful and who are we to say otherwise? Who are we to see good in people that can’t see it in themselves? I mean, that’d be like “love” or something. “And they will know we are Christians by our love”. No no no, girl is sad. Girl is aggrieved. DESTROY. DESTROY. DESTROY. It’s “TOUGH LOVE” MOTHERFUCKER. GET SUM. [Depictions of zealous helicopter mounted gatling guns] GET SUM YOU PIECE!

I could only take that lying down for so long. It’d been open-season. It was brutal as hell. And this was, on the grand timeline, THE OPENING ACT of our great drama. THE START. Not later after some kind of patience with me had worn thin. This was the start. I could only take that lying down for so long. I was only a willing “prisoner” for so long. “Love wouldn’t do this” was the only thought in my head as I stood up. The music video for “Karma Police”, encapsulated so much about what transpired there between us. I was not on my own side. I was with sad girl, like the rest of you, against ME.

What is your victimhood, Wicked Witch? What is your victimhood? At what point were they ever not yours? At what point, were you just some trodden victim who eventually made them see the light and turn on their master? What is this insanity and complete revision of reality that you’ve sold? What did I, ME, what did I do to YOU?

You made “this”. Beginning to end. I survived, despite you. And I held, onto you, for as long as I could deceive myself that you were not the one setting the agenda. A way out for “us”. I owed you didn’t I?

We took completely opposite stances toward our own selves in relation to each other. I made myself a door mat, and you rolled over me without mercy.

There came a point at which I would have given anything for it to have just been over. But you wouldn’t allow that. Citing, AGAIN, the exact same reasons you had at the start, and the ones you cite now, and thrown in the mix there, your victimhood and abandoning the sad girl. I had been branded, been made a monster, a pariah from the start, and simply moving on with my life wasn’t an option. And whenever I tried to make good on leaving, despite myself, too often it was your original instigators to throw me back into the ring with you. Your instigators, MY friends, who kept me in the dark and did more to light a fire under my feet than anyone else. Things and people I refused to let go of, who I told myself had to have meant well, must have had good reasons. I knew you. I knew all of you. You wouldn’t do that. You had to have had a good reason.

I had no one.

I was alone, and while I told myself I had you, I never did. You least of all.

“This” was never mine.

But my-your life, I fought for. If you want to call that an imposition on you, like my life never existed, like nothing you set ablaze was mine to begin with... what is your great victimhood? What “actions” for my part are you referring to? Your war machine. Who didn’t always agree? Who even held you to account? What is your definition of harassment and victimhood? What is your definition of something surrounding and isolating you?

You had everyone. And even if you didn’t have EVERYone, you had countless more.

I had no one. The great big “thing” you’d made out of me, ...best steer clear or be dragged into it. And those that didn’t opt out of what was happening, no better than disowning me, the vast majority took it upon themselves to push and pull in every direction at the same time. I was a person being torn limb from limb by a mob. There is no other description of it than that. And that didn’t come as JUSTICE in response to a long line of grievances, after having harassed you FOR SO LONG.

That began at the start.

I had no one.

I was alone. I was always alone. You saw to that.

I was the only one not in on the joke, and you were the nexus through which it all transpired. These were our roles beginning to end.

What did I do to YOU? That you say is the reason for all of “THIS”?

I survived. I’m not sorry for that.

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myvoicenottheoneyougiveme · 1 year

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Something that’s needed to be said for a long time, stalker, queen of everything Producer.

In the same way that you play (in your chosen analogies) a thing “transparent”, a free and open “democracy”, where you say you don’t make anyone do anything. It’s a team effort. Willing participants of ANYTHING who take and make a thing their own, who partake, don’t get to decide years later after feeling ashamed about the choices they made, that it WAS ALL YOU.

There is and was plenty of shame to go around, for all parties, and it never took years to set in. But it’s so convenient and easier this way isn’t it? Be released from your shame by putting it onto someone else.

Make no mistake, oh, producer, “THIS” is YOUR IDEA. You are the one instigating. If you aren’t the one suggesting or presenting the idea--the frame, the narrative--and bear no responsibility, then I don’t.

But no one who signs onto anything and takes and makes a thing their own, gets to wonder at themselves, “Why did I do that? What the hell came over me? What possessed me to behave in such a way?” and then in the deep of that shame that they’d just rather forget, say “IT WAS YOU. YOU MADE ME DO IT.”

The participant AND the person presenting the notion, the idea, are responsible for their own actions. It’s one thing to be dragged along behind something, not really sold on it, it’s another to take and make a thing your own. I wanted to believe the former over “this” happening concerning most people I used to hold onto. I don’t anymore. I’ve seen otherwise.

You get what I’m saying?

There’s a point at which you don’t get to just pass the buck in the shadow of your own shame. You think you’re the only one who feels that way?

AND YOU, “PRODUCER”. “THIS”. IS. YOUR IDEA. “THIS”. IS. YOUR GAME.

Whether anyone takes and makes a thing their own or not, at the end of the day you are and have always been the one championing and facilitating and pushing the agenda. You’ve created the frame. You’ve set the table. AND THEY HAVE EATEN.

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myvoicenottheoneyougiveme · 1 year

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It's always the same thing from you, but did you really think a lifetime of desperation and emotional neglect couldn't produce such heart strings? What music those strings make... had to be false. The alternative? The alternative where you might acknowledge the lock's existence was to face some inadequacy in yourself for not being able to open it.

Therefore it had to be false, and you will fight for that, for the rest of my life. I'm just a predator, not someone you felt you failed. "This" anger and hatred protects you and always has.

You're talking to him again. I'm sorry for ever having been anything like him in the first place, to have had this effect on you. I held you to something, yet you were simultaneously made to feel that you weren't enough. This wasn't just a double-bind, it was invalidating as hell. You returned the favor in kind. Given you're own emotional baggage, you felt TRAPPED. ....So, you trapped. You seized control.

Doesn't matter how "out of control" anything ever felt, "this" began with you and marched in your name. It is precisely because it felt OUT OF CONTROL that you did the things you did and said the things you said. For all the lies, it was easier to name me, to brand me, with everything imaginable, every ounce of dirt you could manage for "this" frame, than feel what this situation made you feel toward yourself. You would bore your own way out, straight through me.

What did you owe a monster? Nothing. So, that's what I had to be and have been ever since.

I held on. I held onto faith in you. I held onto faith in all of you. I refused to see "this" evil for what it was. I fought for my own life, and I thought I fought for "us"....

If I'd seen the things that people were doing and saying as coming from you more than just some open-ended possibility or a lie someone was telling you behind that impenetrable curtain, I'd have seen a lot sooner that "us" was a ship you actively wanted to sink... sink me, sink whatever we had... not bound by it, to no longer feel obligated in any way.

My feelings have always been a threat to you. A heart in me, is a thing you go out of your way to name false and invalidate in every way you can. ...It was my own feelings that trapped you in the first place. You’ve moved heaven and earth to make them count for nothing since, to make anything I EVER FEEL about anything into anything but what it is... so you can go free from what binds you. ...It's what I have to be, so you don't have to face what you have to face.

__________________________________________________________

you/they said, I was just trying to torture you

you/they said, I was getting back at you

you/they said, I wouldn't just shut up... Mr. President wouldn't shut up... "YA DUN FUCKED UP, YA DUN FUCKED UP, YA DUN FUCKED UP [...]" was the caricature of me.

These charades were almost immediate, like the roles you cast either of us in.

I mean really, "predator" is a response to something. The notion that I was taking advantage of you. Our past is not some kind of grandiose fantasy land where I’ve assumed more than really existed.

You were not someone who just wanted to be left alone. Even if you were sometimes. ...And maybe we both wanted to be left alone, by the time months have turned to years.

You had feelings. You had feelings, for me. Whether for me directly, or just a projection of your own guilt on account of him. You had feelings that you played that I was taking advantage of. “Predator”? Predator of what? Can't shut the door? Why?

I saw someone waiting on me to get it right, and for a time, ...you were.

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Another meaning from you, which I wouldn’t take, cause it’s obvious enough what I’ve ever meant for you to even be saying so... but let’s rewind then to all of “this” being a farce. Duh. What’s your point?

And I stood in disbelief, doubted my own senses. You had to make it abundantly clear from as many directions at the same time as you could, oh, god-queen “producer”, Deschanel.

I stood in disbelief. Not possible.

And at the point you’ve done everything and more to convince me otherwise? Why would you lie?

Why would you lie? Isn’t that what it means to have faith in anyone?

Hard to believe, harder to see, but you told me so...

And because you told me so, and you could do no wrong, and you were all these things the world over... any fault you wanted to place on me I couldn’t say no to.

Are you trying to rewrite the charade, the “science” you did when “this” escalation became what it is now? Would you like me to go overdosing on mental health medications again cause you’ve got me so gaslit, that it’s on me. The fault lies with me. I have to find a way. You had me right back where I was. Believing lies and believing things about myself that were untrue and believing things about reality that were untrue. And why not, when you and everyone around me were mirroring it?

I knew deep down and had even been told by someone in authority on such matters, but I let you put all blame for all things onto me again, cause if even my celebrity crush is saying it, then it must be true. The impossible was my charge. It was my responsibility to be connected and open and emotionally available... and “connected” to someone that refused to exist. The burden of the “relationship’s” functioning resting squarely on me. Something I was to do alone, while you told me all these games were enough for your part.

Oh, actor, I thought you were an actor. Get done telling me you’re just that good at acting, now you’re completely side-stepping that fact? Are you not an actor?

You were thorough.

But perhaps more to the contrary of what you’d like to say over the fact that I ever bought into any of “this”, is how much I didn’t feel your “love” for me.

Wasn’t it then your rage to follow? Every time I failed to be filled and overflowing in return?

I was supposed to be all getting up in my head and gushing and WOW DREAM COME TRUE... but all I ever felt was panic. All I ever felt was the inevitability of abandonment. All I ever felt was panic and the scramble to be alive enough for you...

Is this the grandiosity you’re referring to?

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re: images of substance abuse

Well, I know I’ve struck a nerve already, having mentioned the origins of the term “Codependent”. I may have misspoken but not by much. The term really came out of those however-many-step programs I think related to alcoholism, but I could be mistaken. Just insert substance here. The term was the technical term for the partner of the person going through said rehabilitation. Addiction, dependency, the addict, their partner was the “co”-dependent on the substance being abused, by way of the patient. Dependent/addicted and Codependent. Can’t remember now if it rose up out of a need to address the needs of the partner/spouse and/or generally the people around the addict to have the most successful outcomes. They needed a name for that person. “Co”-dependent was the name given to the patient’s significant other. And this is in keeping with what I believe was a change in the winds of how to address such problems, realizing that the environment around the person with the addiction was just as important. It’s kind of the same way that I was also sort of considered a “patient” in some settings, when it came to dealing with dad’s Alzheimer’s. That person needs counseling and/or coaching in how to go forward in the situation they both find themselves in.

With that said, the flip back at me is just playing to ignorance or effect by way of fudging these things to somehow be the same.

A person can’t be addicted to “re-uptake inhibitors” or maybe more generally anything else like them that subtly alters the way a person’s body uses the neuro-chemicals it already makes. But like anything foreign a person’s body chemistry is exposed to consistently, the body adapts to its presence. Things prescribed to people for mental health can’t just be stopped once the body is acclimated to them without seriously disrupting their body’s systems. Severity depends on how much and all the rest. They’ve got a name for going cold turkey on reuptake inhibitors, but it’s got nothing to do with addiction.

Addiction, in the chemical “drug” sense, comes from foreign substances artificially lighting up pleasure and reward centers in the brain, rewiring you from the inside out to repeat whatever gave you that high even at the expense of anything else in life. Some “drugs” are worse than others. Some people only have to try a given drug once and they never come back. Get high, get that high at any cost, forever and ever. The self and its needs--your “fix”--comes before anything or anyone else in your life. It turns otherwise good people into monsters.

Nothing I’ve ever been prescribed, and for the most part, nothing that gets prescribed for mental health is an addictive substance. Reuptake Inhibitors for instance, like those that target Seratonin or Dopamine, are actually blockers, hence the name “inhibitor”. Reuptake inhibitors clog up your receptors “inhibiting” neurochemicals from binding to them. Like this is the total opposite of “stimulation”. Caffeine if more psychoactive FFS, and I know enough of you are ALL ABOUT THAT. ...The desired effect here in clogging up the works to inhibit these chemicals from getting where they’re trying to go, is an artificial rationing thereby keeping you from being as “depleted” as you would be otherwise. Drugs like these raise the floor and stabilize mood. They don’t create more. They don’t stimulate. They delay, artificially boosting the free-floating supply by choking how much your brain can use up at any given time. There is a limit to their benefit, and after a point increasing the dosage is just preventing your body from doing the things it normally does. Take too many of these, don’t expect to “perform” on your night out with a romantic partner. Actually, in my experience, you’ll just get really really fucking sleepy besides, like drugged levels of sleepy.

Farce #2--The God-Queen Producer--actually threw quite a fit when I opted to go back to bed instead of doing my writing prompts. It was self-defeating, but that’s how desperate I was. Whatever I could do to keep whatever happened before with Michelle from happening again, I was willing to do it. ...You had me completely bent over backwards, convinced there was something wrong with me for not being able to feel connected to someone I’d never really experienced or actually interacted with. You said so, that was enough. I let you undo the solid ground I’d gotten back in therapy. Now, medicated, still not there. More more more more more. Fix it, fix it now. She’s so demanding. More. More more more more more. Something tells me this isn’t helping any.

How desperate? How willing to shoulder? How willing to blame myself? How willing to accept that it was just something inherently broken and worthless about me? ...You said so. Why would you lie? You said “love”. Why don’t I feel it? Same reason the “word” was ever uttered but never quite shown growing up. Free use of the word. No lack of it. “Love that is confusing” isn’t it said? Love that is contradictory. Love as... if not said would I have known it? A gushing birthday card, seemingly out of character. Something stopping it from being lived out “presently”. Or just a word said by volatile people after coming down from a blow up. Love... a thing I was to do. A thing I had to make. A bridge I had to cross. ...Gaps filled in with good faith and a belief in the best of intentions.

I digress, but perhaps that’s just being back on the original topic. Yes, yes, I absolutely totally completely fell head over heels in love with someone I’d never met. Ya. K. No. Erotomaniac stalker... blah blah blah. Narcissist with internal objects. K. Ya. Soo grandiose. You totally lit me up like a christmas tree. I was so enthralled. By “This”. “This” thing that could never substantiate a god-damned thing in terms of human connection.

Panic. Desperation. Fear of abandonment. ...ya, the stuff a person’s wildest dreams are made out of.

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myvoicenottheoneyougiveme · 1 year

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It doesn’t matter where I go... you’ve already been there.

My life isn’t mine to live and hasn’t been for 14 years... ever since it became your life.

I’ve run out from under collapsing, burning buildings, one after another. Your all-consuming arsonist’s charade has become a fact of life.

I don’t hold my breath anymore for a day when your parasitism could ever be starved out. I just march one foot in front of the other toward whatever shreds of freedom I can still manage.

At the end of the day, you are the coffin. The question of whether that’s final, or not, I don’t yet know the answer to.

But there will, soon enough, be nothing left to resume... the question becomes moot.

Don’t tell me what to do, or preach as you used to about what I should or shouldn’t be doing, while you actively defeat anything in life that even matters.

Just know... your narrative, your desired reflection will always be incomplete. There won’t be any more “next time”s. There won’t be any more rounds. There will be no one left to blame, just as it was when I made good on escaping you for what I thought was the last time. “This” escalation will idle and wither away without the host through which you recast yourself. No more crises. No more great big games in need of a thousand willing hands. No more poor “sad” girl by virtue of the villainy you contrast yourself with.

Your “victory” was not. It won’t be this time either.

But frankly, I don’t care... I didn’t care back then either. ...All that mattered was that it was over. ...Joke’s on me. If someone told me I’d be 34, still living in the shadow of a monster, when I was 24... Or what could I have told myself at 18, to prevent having anything to do with you at all in the first place? If someone could have made me comprehend that “this” would be the result, and that it was all there was to look forward to... spare yourself the trouble, kid. It’s all downhill from here.

....

Like all patterns, they would have just played out somewhere else, but they would have never been the binding “do or die” that our enmeshed lives were. To live and learn wouldn’t have meant nuclear war, all or nothing, complete and total annihilation.

What could I have done, to have never crossed paths with you?

________________________________________________________

Re: the again repeated “As long as he believes it’s real” as though a spoken reply “none of this sticks to me” she said.

I call them “charades” for a reason don’t I?

It was all a farce, for 10 years one after another, to squeeze and bleed all in the name of this and that and everything else on any given day. You wear a different face every day, looking for reactions. ...There’s a Dr. Phil “ITS NOT ABOUT CHU” meme in here somewhere. But damn, that’s all you heard, but it should have been quite plain who I was addressing. The person that made “This” in the first place.

Nothing about what you claim to be “science” or truth seeking or exhibiting a pattern of behavior you’ve actually assigned to me, being a farce matters in the least bit. Notions about intractable patterns in romantic attachments are COMPLETELY BESIDE THE POINT, as well as the pessimism around love, that you’ve ever instilled in me. Let me just paraphrase you for a second here. You show me narcissism again and again, I come to the conclusion based solely on that, that I’m doomed to keep finding that kind of person, and therefore love is pointless. NO NO NO, I WAS JUST ACTING, you say.

But if this is well and truly a matter of your reflection, cause I’ve now struck a nerve, your exes would seem to corroborate this supposedly “made-up” pattern of behavior in you, in both of you. What a coincidence, you being so effective at “pretending” to be so monstrous, cause that’s SO NOT like you. But if this is all a matter of your reflection now, all I have to do is look around and see for myself. The evil you’re doing in my life... my life. Takes a kind of person to author “this”. That’s why “this” has a given name to match. And everything about it, everything, is textbook in that regard.

But you’re just pretending to be evil. Ya, and the costs of that evil to me, personally, are just pretend as well? The immeasurable costs?

Your reflection is damning. But look at you running with that thread.

I am effectively barred from EVERYTHING in life. You do everything in your power to get between me and everything and everyone I encounter. You situate yourself like a parasite and feed on all that you get revolving around you. You are the middle person and you are engorged on all that passes through you--you the integral, indispensable, needed, powerful, person to save us all from one made up crisis after another.

There are no human connections in “this” life. There is only you. Every last person is just “this” by another name. In the same way, there is no me as far as anyone else is concerned. There is only “this”. There is only you. There is only your game and the caricature you sell.

There is nothing to be had with any person that could lie and manipulate for you, gaslighting and playing mind fucking games with my insides. Oh, I’m sorry. I’m mistaken. It’s all for show. It’s all for show. It’s my problem. It’s actually quite indicative of what’s wrong with me? I see. I needn’t concern myself with the very real unraveling of trust and the slow death poisoning of every connection I ever dared to still hold onto, to say nothing of new connections. It’s not real. I see. I see. I’m just overreacting to the kinds of disingenuous maneuvers and outright stabbings from people I’d have ever called my own. Cause, it’s all for show. I’m being gaslit, but it’s all for show. I’m being lied to, but it’s all for show. I’m being violated, but it’s all for show. I’m being harassed, but it’s all for show. I’m being stalked in the most invasive and pervasive way imaginable and made an exhibition out of, but it’s all for show. It’s not real. No no. Not real. It’s all for show. We don’t mean it, except when we do. We don’t mean it, but we never don’t not mean it either. And can’t be bothered with how it affects me. Cause it’s all for show.

So, when is the show over? When does life return to normal? When isn’t it completely pointless to be anything but alone in this life or to reach for anything or hold onto anything or anyone? When am I done being erased from my own life?

When are the games over? It doesn’t matter what you say you’re doing here. It doesn’t matter who you say you are. What you’re doing speaks for itself.

Is “this” final? Is “this” permanent? I’m not waiting another 10 years to find out.

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myvoicenottheoneyougiveme · 1 year

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Something to make clear... what is tantamount to rape, and being one’s own gatekeeper... There is no parallel between the places one might go, alone, and the kinds of casual conversations and disclosures about popular culture that is by its very name “popular”. There are levels of vulnerability or intimacy that simply aren’t possible with most people, even if the subject matter at hand is quite potent for the person sharing about it. The layers of “social penetration” as it is called, are not analogous to the experiences one might have alone with themselves, save an intimate partner.

This is a matter of “experiences”, present experience, not the contents of any of those experiences. To speak of an experience and share, as any might, as I have in the past when it was a choice I was making (and not you), was in no way the same as that person having been there in that moment. Actually, the nature of this inherent disconnect is something a person might lament who wants more closeness with any given person, who needed as a child to his parents, that they might also FEEL what he was feeling at any given moment. To be known on this level. I was not. ...It became a place sacrosanct, known only by... maybe only one at any given time, if that, but only on account of that person already starving in the exact same ways. A misery that loved company.

What you are doing “stalker” is not simply making choices for me that I would not make. For even those choices, would not be the same as being right there right then in any given moment. Your level of penetration, is not analogous to a mere choice to share in life with other people, even if that choice would involve some level of vulnerability. What you are doing that causes one to shudder, like icy hands running all over everything, is violating the entire strata to the absolute inner-most level.

It is 100% directly proportional to the level of vulnerability I choose to engage in at any given moment, when I would otherwise be alone just experiencing anything or feeling whatever there is to feel. What you are doing is paralyzing mentally and emotionally, to a point that I can scarcely ever feel at ease or be at home or stretch out into my own fucking skin. You are violating in the most invasive and pervasive way imaginable, and you are then making an exhibition out of it. What you are doing, that you then invite others to take part in, to partake of, to consume along with you, is not a mere choice over disclosure (granted the appropriate level of trust exists in the first place). What you are doing is what that woman (oh champion of women, you) wrote about “narcissistic abuse”: the rape of someone’s soul.

There is a level you are violating that is in no way the same, that could never be the same, as a choice I’d make to even speak of things close to my chest. Even disclosures with a level of vulnerability proportional to the level of trust and any other appropriateness to any given exchange between me and anyone else IS NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT, the same as what you are doing by being here and doing everything in your power to let me know you’re here. What you are touching, what you are asking others to touch, is directly proportional to the level of vulnerability I would otherwise engage in, were it just me alone, most naked, most exposed, drinking as deeply and as fully as a person ever could following their heart, reaching into the depths of their own soul. You force me to live disconnected from myself, my own self. You force me to be shut down emotionally. You force me to be empty and hollowed out to keep you from reaching what would otherwise be there. For the layers of penetration, what is the core of a person’s being artificially ceases to exist. If it’s out of reach of me, it is then out of reach of you. There are times I dare to go there anyway. I mange it, barely any more without drinking myself under the table.

I am a person being strangled. It is a lynching--a mob effort... to destroy, in every way you possibly can, to rend even the very fibers of a person’s being... to unmake them. This is the way it’s been, since you had “mom“, dial it up past 11 to god knows what “this” is now. You’ve shown your hand, and now nowhere is safe. You’ve shown your hand and you keep waving it in my face, because you like me dead inside. You like me withering to death. It validates you. A heart in me is the most inconvenient thing in the world, for the narratives you’ve ever peddled. I am to be emptied out, to ease you putting whatever you want in there instead of me. Undo a person’s groundedness in themselves. Undo, the foundations. Make the world shifting sand. You can’t gaslight, not really, someone whose heart is already full. You can’t force-feed a person the things you want them to believe about themselves, if they can feel fully and presently everything to the contrary. If they are awake and alive and breathing and present in their own skin, where is there room for you to inject yourself there?

You Are Living Death

What you are doing is the touch of death. What you are asking others to do along with you, oh “pimp” aggrandizing yourself, profiting from the exploitation... ...is not the same as a choice made for me for disclosure ...is not the same as choosing to connect with others ...is not the same as building bridges between people ...is not the same as you being a mere “gentle light” you grandiose benevolent savior leaving everyone’s lives better for you having been there.

You are death. “This” is living death.

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myvoicenottheoneyougiveme · 1 year

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And if you’re not an introvert and can only comprehend your own frame of reference, if you don’t even know what makes you you and you not me... how could you understand the absolute necessity--the weight placed on inviolable personal space?

What’s the big deal? COME ON, “THIS” IS FOR YOUR OWN GOOD. You’re being a whiny baby.

In the same way that extroversion requires stimulation and social interaction to “recharge” mentally, an introvert requires solitude and the absence of stimulation. It’s not a mere “preference”. It’s a psychological fact.

Someone or something constantly busting down the door, is stressful enough, if it were even possible to put aside the absolute pervasiveness of the stalk that “this” is. If on it’s own, always being on is its own drain, “this” is without question a state of strangulation.

The state of being terrorized constantly. A level of chronic stress. No peace. Life in the trenches. If there’s a “hierarchy of needs” don’t pretend to be so concerned about the top of the pyramid while actively carving out the bottom.

...Even feeling like this has to be spelled out, is just more to the pile of evidence for the costs of gaslighting. The bar on what is “normal” gets moved. Things that are intuitive are made to seem impossible to understand. What goes without saying, is not even when it is said.

Pure hatred is what makes “this” what it is, narcissistic abuse.

You sell lies about me and gaslight me to hell and back, to validate yourself and the things you do. ...End of story.

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myvoicenottheoneyougiveme · 1 year

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I have but one goal in life... the circumvention of the death you’ve chosen for me--willed upon me.

If I can’t do that, then finding out whether all the time after managing such a feat, managing even a shred of it, turns out to be nothing more than “borrowed time”, doesn’t even matter.

Why does it matter if the road thereafter proves finite, if the road ends here, in your “benevolent” envelopment, in the prison you’ve made out of my life?

Yes, you’re saving face once again, benevolent savior(s). You disgust me. You can’t derail the point, or change the fact that I CANT live “this” way...

and I won’t.

The delusional mental gymnastics you employ where you endlessly rationalize yourself playing literal GOD, in a life, made AND broken... by you and you alone... No one is allowed to be better off without the narcissist. No one. You’ve seen a life burned to the ground, forever irradiated and stripped away, rather than allow it to be and you have been wrong... for all the time and energy you’ve spent, actively damning it, full knowing, with no mistake of intent.

You are a cancer, a disease, a parasite to be cut out of your host... this life you’ve claimed as your own. If I can’t do that in even one small shred of all that you’ve claimed dominion over... if I can’t even have ONE FUCKING THING, that you can’t reach, can’t touch, can’t have influence over... then the clock has long since stopped.

__________________________________________________________

And as far as telling me what I really want or you pretending to make decisions for me “for my own good” or in my best interest... you can’t even do ONE FUCKING THING, and that’s get out.

Aspirations are for people that have a future.

For the last 5 years, I’ve settled, fucking settled, for some semblence of the present. Every bit of personal space you violate, daily. Stalking, stalking, stalking, stalking, stalking, violating, breathing down my neck... doing everything in your power to rattle my cage, to make sure I know, YOU ARE WATCHING, poisoning whatever human connections, if they can be called that, that I have left.

Building bridges to somewhere is for people that have somewhere to go. But I can’t even be just, right, here, right now. ...And tomorrows are built out of today’s. There are no more today’s.

There is only you.

There is only “this”.

I am not the gatekeeper on my own person.

There is no here and now.

I have no aspirations but the removal of you, parasite. That’s impossible, it seems. Artificially removing you has meant having a space that I don’t have to share with anyone else. To be alone. And when it’s time to be on, when it’s time to be on the clock, when it’s time to be inundated with “this” again, I step out into the world for one more work week, to pay for my “sins” of having existed in my own personal space on my own time. But at least for that personal space, for each moment there, I wouldn’t have to hear from you. I wouldn’t have to see or hear “this”. I could have each moment back, even if I’d have to return to death eventually, every time.

I’ve settled for such an existence. All I could hope for.

You have actively denied me even this.

Your POWER must be complete. Choice must not be mine. I am not allowed to do or be without you breathing heavily there, here, everywhere, like some kind of psycho that gets off on power exerted over another person. And when you have nothing to say or shame me over, you settle for just letting me know you are there, watching. It’s as if the totality, the completeness of your death grip, were the end goal. That I must feel it as absolute and inescapable.

That you are god.

Every person has layers of vulnerability that the exercise. People wear clothes. The choose how near or how far any given person is to them. The choose what to share and what not to share. They choose what levels of trust or desires for closeness dictate.

You’re here to do all of that for me. You are the pimping producer, turning around and selling yourself forcing yourself on me. It’s rape rape rape rape, all day every day. And you make bank, your social capital, on being the person, the handler, the savior of us all, for this great big crisis that is me, that you make up as you go on a daily basis.

You get your supply from everyone everywhere, at my expense. You are validated at my expense. “This” exists for one reason and one reason only, VALIDATION FOR YOU. I am just collateral damage. I am the means to an end. You are the parasite, and I am your host. And this life is not mine... it’s yours.

And I’ve settled, for having any part of it, just ONE FUCKING PART OF IT... even if that might prove to be a dead end when all is said and done. There is only so much living a person can do, isolating themselves from everyone and everything.

But the question of whether the road ends somewhere after that point, after managing this ONE FUCKING THING (even if artificially) is beside the point, when I’m out of road NOW, and have been for years.

I could hope to be at home again, alone. Even if I’d be beat down for it, when the work week begins again. Working a job where you don’t have a lot of options for that, could make that more tolerable. But having the moment again at all, it is this thing that everyone takes for granted in their own lives, that I have settled for.

BEING SOMEWHERE YOU ARE NOT

Aspirations and tomorrow’s are for people whose lives haven’t been swallowed by a monster. I’ve settled for hope in a single shred of today that doesn’t feel like drowning, that doesn’t feel like being buried alive, for all the things I don’t do anymore on account of being strangled by you as a state of being.

Being somewhere you are not.

If that’s not possible, then it’s already over. Death is already here, and I’m lying to myself hoping always for the smallest of breaths, the smallest shred of prying you off of me.

You’re here to end me. What you’re doing to me is EXACTLY THAT. What you say you’re doing here, doesn’t matter... and especially not when it changes with each passing day. This is the lived experience of being swallowed alive by you.

It’s the ending of my life that I refuse to accept.

It’s not an end I’m choosing, it’s been chosen for me.

All I’ve wanted for years, is one thing, and one thing only. TO BE SOMEWHERE YOU ARE NOT.

Aspirations are for people with a future. I’ve settled for shred of the present. And besides... aren’t tomorrows made out of today’s? It’s apparent that I have neither.

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myvoicenottheoneyougiveme · 1 year

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THE AUDACITY!!!!

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myvoicenottheoneyougiveme · 1 year

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It’s not complicated.

I am as you have always needed me to be--release from your own trauma.

I am now. I was then.

Release from the sense of responsibility and obligation for having clearly left a mark. Release from the invalidation, and the reflection as one who is herself a “heartbreaker” as you heaped on me. The terrible person that drove that guy to suicide. ...Or so you felt.

He, was a wide open door through which you had no defense. The same way mother was a wide open door through which I had no defense. What did they say of you? What did you think of you? I was in some kind of way back then. All this talk about me like, I’m not myself. “What did you do?!” I’m sure your private convo’s read.

You were up against a wall at knife-point.

I should know. It’s where you had me. It was the one otherwise at your throat.

And after everything, all that time and energy and wrestling over a shared reflection, with all the willing participants and arms of your charades starting fires, what were you in the end, when all you’d done was kill him again?

Where was your release now? Now that you’d driven this one to a literal nervous break down?

Forever.

FOREVER.

Forever on you, forever up against, forever branded between you and yourself. The thing you’d fought for, FOR SO GODDAMNED LONG, came down squarely on you. You hadn’t taken my humanity from me--erased it in our shared reflection. You’d simply been shown to be decidedly monstrous yourself.

Done. Final. Settled. Over. No one left to blame but yourself.

No one left to put it on.

The greater the stakes, the greater the means has always been. The greater the response. The greater the escalation.

You fought so hard to relieve yourself of the guilt or whatever it was you felt looking in the mirror. Taking my humanity away in the eyes of everyone we knew, as much as you could, was your way out from under it. It was you or me.

After all the fighting and all the torturous, desperate agony? Forever. One more, one big, one you couldn’t dismiss, couldn’t invalidate, couldn’t change the reflection of. One more, one great big massive pile that you’d been trying so hard to dig yourself out of by heaping it onto me, it all came down all at once.

It was as though, I’d dealt a killing stroke by being done in by you.

One more. One more great big cap stone to finish off 4 years of hell. Four years of you fighting to get out from under me and him and everything you’d ever done so maliciously to accomplish that. Building building building higher and higher and higher every time we went round.

It was a METEOR STRIKE laying all those efforts to waste. All for nothing. Four years. You had only lost. You weren’t out from under it. You were under it in a bigger way than you ever had been before.

The last word was having been done in by you. The last word was having been driven to the point of being physically ill and unable to function. The last word was your reflection that you couldn’t run from anymore. No one left to blame.

I am, as I always have been--the release from your own trauma.

Measure it. Count it. Quantify it. By its measure, I am. By it’s measure, I have always been.

Why do we need to invent an entirely new mob of people, when there was already a mob moving to the beat of your war drums? Why look further than the people already posing as other people on the internet laying traps to try and catch me being the kind of sleazy you always wanted me to be? Why look further than the torches and pitchforks that had always done for you?

Your justice lacks fundamental truth seeking. A “court room” would be an upgrade to “this”. Due process, a luxury. Evidence-based, science-based, TRUTH SEEKING, that you keep pretending that you are. The evidence is bountiful, just not with me. It’s the heap you’re attempting to hold off of yourself, the one you refuse to acknowledge. I would welcome such a process. I would welcome an end to “this”. I would welcome with open arms for the chips to be counted and the cards to be down once and for all.

There was a fire.

It was and is every last person you sold tickets to. And so vetted and trust worthy the lot too, I’m sure. So many neither of us even really knew. But they were on someone’s friends list, or a friend of friends? On a newsfeed? It was a game for them. It was a game. A fixture in their lives, trolling, trolling, trolling. Such an easy target. Such a contemptible pariah. “This” was fun for them. Fun the way it is now to people who have no stake and have a level of access to an imagined person with zero repercussions and not even a name or face to tie back to them. Total power over another person. By you.

There was a fire. There were torches and pitchforks. And they moved in the name of your frame of me, the same as now.

There was a fire.

It was every single person you sold tickets to,

...and you can give an account for every last one of them?

Can you even now, if they don’t register but as a blip on a radar? If I don’t bring attention to them?

Are you in control or aren’t you?

Were you in control or weren’t you?

Answer the question. There is the answer to the riddle.

Sorry not sorry, that ten more years of grievances--of hell that can’t be measured--then has to be an avalanche of blame to what was by comparison, such a small period of time on the scale of a lifetime. Not to mention what it means, if anything you’ve ever said about what happened on this site is true.

There was a fire.

It was every last person you sold tickets to.

It’s that simple.

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myvoicenottheoneyougiveme · 1 year

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you had me up against mine

and I had you up against yours

our respective grief and guilt

but I never invited "this” crowd; you did It was your grand intervention, turned lynching

What kind of victimhood, though, have you built if all it stands on is a lack of TOTAL COMPLIANCE from everyone around us? Everyone whose business YOU made it. What kind of person thinks in such terms? And calls it victimization? How dare they not fall in line...

And I just made excuses for them, for people involving themselves in what was none of their business ...even though, I was the only one not in on the joke.

But I made excuses for all of you.

Cause I believed in you. In you and the people I thought I knew better than that.

You weren't capable of such evil in my eyes. You weren't capable. Yet it happened. And hindsight is 20/20. I’d bent over backwards to frame you as not in the center of it, a victim of something happening to us. And blamed myself for where we found ourselves, blamed myself for not finding the way out.

You, conversely, bent over backwards in the opposite direction. It was the easiest thing in the world for you, to make me all that evil and more.

But that all fell to pieces. What kind of victory, if winning meant being up against yours in a bigger way than you ever thought possible? What kind of victory, if ultimately you hadn’t only failed to rob me of my humanity in the eyes of everyone we both knew (cause this wasn’t just YOUR LIFE), but you’d simply...

...killed him again.

The game had gone on for so long though. It was so pervasive and such a fixture in the lives of so many by the time I’d successfully extricated myself from it, even doing the responsible thing, getting help with... life, and taking responsibility for my own part in anything. But you had all come too far to let it end that way.

Whether your idea or not, it's the easiest jump to make logically.

The thing that was already happening, TO ME, happened again, just from a new angle, one that would settle "this", once and for all.

And that's why you've fought so hard and stooped so low, lying the whole way.

My monkeys. My game. My "this". Now it's just desserts to have it flipped around on me in ways that defy belief.

When in reality it's just an escalation of how things have always been.

But because I, I did “this” to you, then of course I did it to her. And because I did it to her, then of course I did it to you. And because I did “this” to both of you, everything that’s ever happened in my life, every mistake I ever made, is all framed in terms of the most absolutely inhuman monster imaginable. A monster so knee-jerk prompting and incendiary to hear about and so compelling to even attempt to comprehend, that all people from all walks of life will flock to you the world over... And together in a grand, never-ending, feel-good moment of kumbaya Punisher style, you will bring that monster to his knees. A collective and active covert assault by everyone everywhere I will ever and have ever had any contact with.

Death becomes a formality.

...but you make every effort to hand me the gun anyway.

My existence is what bothers you. Exile is not enough. You desire power and control and dominion. You need control over my reflection of you. You need control over my own memory of my own lived experiences. You need control over my thoughts and emotions. You don’t just need to put me to death. You need me to put me to death.

You’ll never be satisfied, until I repeat the lines back to you that you’ve written for me, as I pull the trigger...

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myvoicenottheoneyougiveme · 1 year

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To say the words “I have no future”, is not a play being made or a bluff to be called. It’s a choice you are making, not me.

I am not the gatekeeper on my own person. There is nothing for human connection when I’m not the one connecting. My life is not mine to live. Someone else is living it for me. And burning it, when it suits them, which is most all the time.

I’ve already said enough at length for why “this” can’t be even under the best of circumstances. All connections, all exchanges, all disclosure, ...they don’t happen. They don’t exist. Whatever it is, with whoever, they already know. There is nothing for the sharing. There is no connection to be made. It’s not being made with me.

But that’s a delusionally optimistic appraisal of what’s happening here. If it’s not just spoiling every connection that could ever be, it’s distorting and intentionally reframing anything and everything in the greatest display of mental gymnastics there ever was, to fit some kind of pathology that serves to justify what’s being done. And if it’s not doing that? It’s simply breaching my personal boundaries as a human being.

Simple, is a misleading word. The level of stalking here, is profound and malicious by its very nature. Stalking. An act of interpersonal violence. So putting aside everything “this” does intentionally on a daily basis, take then just the very act of breaching every level of my life and person even into the absolute MOST intimate spaces. Doesn’t matter where I am or what I’m doing. I could be on the toilet. I could be whispering in my sleep. I could be humming something in the shower. I could be looking at something on the internet. What I’m watching. What I’m playing. What I’m saying. What I’m doing, everything. All hours, everywhere, and you can’t not jam yourself in edgewise.

And then you dare to come at me like “this” is all for my own benefit. Like “this” is benevolent. Like "this” unjustifiable act of violence, in and of itself, weren’t absolutely chilling and deleterious to my health in every measure.

My only recourse, if I want to ever dare have personal space, if I ever want to take a simple breath again without thinking about it, if I ever want to stretch out emotionally into a space around me that isn’t being engorged on by you (and attacked besides), is to set and keep personal boundaries in ways I never realized I was capable of. It’s for me to shut the doors you kick open--that you spill through. It’s for me to cut out every last person that can’t respect those boundaries. It’s for me to close the door on every toxic person I encounter. Every manipulative one. Every person playing these games. Every person with their double-speak and “induced conversation”.

It is because I have held onto people in my life, despite all of “this”, that I have found myself bruised and battered. It is all of these connections, every shred of my life I wasn’t willing to let go of, that is the means to “this” abuse. Setting personal boundaries in this “narcissistic storm” has required more of me than any account of such things I’ve ever heard or read. Expecting the worst, expecting to say goodbye to most everyone I ever knew... “this” is even greater than that. Personal boundaries in “this” Orwellian nightmare, means not just letting go of everyone I know and everyone I could ever meet, but it means dying inside to every hope and expectation I could ever have of others. It’s more insidious than just saying goodbye to this person or that person.

To have bounds, to have homeostasis, to have a door that when shut actually means anything, to have PERSONAL SPACE at all--one simple thing that every one of you takes for granted--means cutting out every last person that breaches those bounds (whether themselves or by way of our lady and savior) and dying to social contact itself--every hope and expectation of others.

I am breached. I am violated. I am run over. I am pierced. I am enveloped. I am eaten alive. So long as I expect humanity from people, then this perpetual state of being and all of the chronic stress it induces--all of the costs mentally and emotionally--will never change.

The only way to nullify the abuse is to destroy the door.

Something’s always told me that’s a one-way trip, but somehow something else I can’t explain has come from being pushed this far--from being strangled this pervasively. But whatever hope I could ever see from feeling a hold on me slipping, despite every escalation you’ve ever made to retain a level of power over me, seems to me like it won’t matter in the end.

It doesn’t matter how I might grow from “this”, like all those survivors of narcissistic abuse can attest to, if the scenario is not one of having successfully starved out a parasite when all is said and done. If someone has made it their mission in life to erase me from my own life and ensure that there is no tomorrow for me, then what the hell does acknowledging that reality have to do with something I’m feeling or something I’d like anyone to heed?

A recognition of reality, of a choice someone else is making, of something someone else is doing, of something I have no say in, is not a play to even be made by me. And it’s not a bluff to be called by you.

I have no future.

There is no tomorrow.

That’s not a choice I’m making.

That’s a choice you’re making.

For me to let go and find any measure of peace in what is being done to me, is to accept that “this” is the way things are and that “this” will never change.

I struggle anymore to imagine a life lived, that isn’t a dead end. I could manage an end to the abuse in some measly shred of my existence, only to find a great cliff beyond that. If there’s a road, a timeline, a bridge to somewhere, then there is instead a great chasm like a black hole swallowing everything that could ever be. There is you waiting for me. There is “this” to ravage it all.

That’s not a choice I’m making, not some state, or feeling, or sense of despair. It’s what you’ve decided for me. I am simply acknowledging a fact. “Suicidal”, or a bluff-like threat of it, has nothing to do with it.

I have no future.

I have you.

How that makes me feel, how “this” abuse makes me feel is beside the point.

The road ends. "This”, you are the end of it.

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