Life is Weird. DID is Weird. And Nothing Makes Any Sense.

I am so tired of being depressed.

It makes me angry when I hear stories of FBI agents getting burnt out and getting PTSD because of cp cases. And I know that this is an entirely irrational reaction for me to have. Like…if they weren’t burnt out and horrified it would be a cause for concern. It’s just…I feel like if nobody but the people who experience this are TRULY motivated to change it, and if all of our mental health is absolute MacGyver-ed shit, then who is actually going to help those kids?

I feel like I was born into the world to be used by people, and now, despite that, I have to magically pull motivation to keep living and trying out of my ass. 

I also feel like I’m complaining a lot and that I need to clean my house. How the fuck are you supposed to actually recover on your days off? I feel like I could lay in bed curled in a ball for WEEKS and I wouldn’t feel any less exhausted.

Do we just put Lothair in front? Mr “all I have to do is frolic about in nature and I feel at peace in my soul”? But I want to front. I want to have a life, and do things.

After everything that we just remembered…seriously, dude. How are you still finding motivation to create things? I want to lie down in the mud and just let myself starve until I die.


I don’t know. I guess I’m angry.

I was taught so much bullshit about how to be a good person and how to be a Christian. It basically amounted to, “Be so afraid of God that you’re too stupid with fear to break the rules, and punish yourself if you slip up.” And then it transitioned to, “My word is God’s word, and good luck guessing how I feel today.”

I did get some bleedthrough from Sasha and Moira, who were actually taught about Christianity by being loved (which is fairly incomprehensible). I kind of feel like it was just enough bleedthrough to make me confident that being legalistic is justified.

So I’m angry. I wasted fifteen years trying to be perfect. And then I read The Brothers Karamazov for myself and it really spoke to the bleedthrough I was getting from Sasha and Moira. Because it depicted a Christian as somebody who doesn’t proselytize, and who does a lot of shadow work, basically, and then is true to their emotions. The purpose isn’t to make you a clone, but to give you hope. And that’s ALL that any religion should be: something that gives you hope, so you can see beauty in life. Because we all know that we live in a miserable shithole.

But even after I read the entire book for myself – not a weird, abridged, creepy version that turns the meaning on its head – and had this perspective shift, I had to undo all this very intricate autopilot that I had crafted for myself out of anxiety and trauma.

I’m still working on that. And that’s why I’m so angry. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. If I had been raised the way it was supposed to be, without all this abuse and evil in the world, I would be able to write. Because writing is just being extremely honest about your feelings and inner symbolism, but DID has locked most of that away. I want to write because I want to be able to BE my true self and express those true feelings.

 Therefore, I absolutely refuse to die after having 30 entire years of my life taken away. I am too angry to die.


Well I guess that makes sense. But it doesn’t help me. Damn, I really just want to sew clothes, if I’m being honest. But I have to work on putting the house together if I want to unearth my sewing machine, and I KNOW I don’t have energy for that.

At least Charlotte finally got off my case about “the proper materials”. We have this sweet older lady who comes in to our place of work sometimes to buy fabric. And she makes all her own blouses out of quilting cotton. Life is too horrible to waste energy on being a snob, Charlotte. I’m glad that little old lady helped you see that so you’ll actually let me buy materials.

But that doesn’t get me any closer to unearthing the sewing machine. Maybe I’ll watch fan songs from my favorite video game and see if I feel like writing something.


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