I’m spending too much time responding to Twitter. Did you know there is currently an armed takeover of a federal building in Oregon? It’s a bunch of white dudes so no one with authority is acting like it’s a big deal.

I need to turn off Twitter. But I like having some place to dump my racing thoughts. This might be disjointed even for me.

Sometimes I feel like I shouldn’t be having conversations with people at all. I’m not educated enough. I can’t cite statistics off the top of my head so my opinion is worthless. Some topics aren’t about statistics. Doesn’t seem to matter.

The thing is, if you spend time on the internet you are going to find people who want to argue about 10,000 different topics. I really sure as fuck don’t have enough time to argue with them all.

I can’t sit down and discuss, rationally, why feminism is not fascism. Fascism involves believing in the supremacy of a state, preferably involving a dictator, it is usually militaristic.

Ok, there are some violent feminists I think it is kind of a stretch to say that feminists are militaristic as a whole.

But I need to stay off Twitter so I’m not arguing with these people. I need to stay off G+ so that when a guy misgenders a woman and I correct him he doesn’t spend a while telling me in great detail how I’m a bigger asshole than any man.

I’m an asshole. My opinions and knowledge are utterly worthless. I’ll stay home.

I’m getting past the flood of anxiety and hitting depression. I walked to the farmers market this morning. I have otherwise been in bed.

I feel sick. My stomach hurts. I sure as fuck need to stop typing and I think there is literally no possibility of that till I get back on meds. I can’t fucking manage my feelings with no no no no outlet.

What the fuck am I even doing? I don’t know.

I have an ice pack on each upper arm, my neck, and I’m sitting on a heating pad. I’ve been stretching slowly all day.

God I hurt.

I feel guilty that I want to be on Twitter. I do it so I don’t feel so lonely. It’s stupid that I feel lonely given that the only three people in the world who would move mountains for me are in this house. I mean, I have great friends. They show up for me. But I have three family members who absolutely love me to distraction. They are it. They are here.

Why do I feel lonely? Why do I feel like I should be reaching out for connection?

I suspect that part of the reason this feels more comfortable is because I got into chat rooms at 15. I bought my first computer at 18. I’ve been looking for connection online, while alone in a room, ever since. 16 years of this being my primary way of reaching out. I mostly curated who I dated this way. If you can’t type like a motherfucker we aren’t compatible.

Not cause there is something wrong with you. Because this is my primary language.

I know people who have made marriages based on not truly sharing a common language. I know a few couples where they genuinely didn’t have a language they could converse in. How in the hell did they manage that?! If one person learns a second language then meets a spouse who primarily speaks that second language it is still not as hard as just…. not speaking the same language. And it happens.

Whoa.

I feel like I have too many tracks going on in my brain. I want to talk about racism, sexism, tech-meritocracy hypocrisy, rape, incest…

All of these topics are things you can’t seriously discuss until you have decades of research under your belt. There is just too much to know.

So I should shut up. Cause I sound as stupid as I am.

But this is how we only end up with white men running most conversations. They are the only ones who don’t think they have to be fully educated before they start lecturing.

I’m going to be wrong about things. I’m going to be uneducated about topics. It is literally impossible to know everything about every topic you want to discuss unless you limit yourself in a way I’ve never heard from another human being.

I worry a lot about misrepresenting things. I worry a lot about being wrong. Even though I know that being wrong is how you grow. I know that mistakes are part of learning. But I’m … so stupid.

I am completely and totally convinced that if I had to get through life sober I wouldn’t make it to 40. Being in my brain today is a fucking nightmare.

It is taking every ounce of self control I have to not start slicing myself to ribbons. Because I’m so stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid.

I don’t know how to make this stop.

Sit still, Krissy. Today will end. Not every day is this hard. But today is hard. Yesterday was hard. The day before was hard.

I’m trying to decide if I want to take an over the counter sleep aid tonight. I’m not sure. Melatonin is probably a good idea. I should take alllllll the vitamins and shit today. I should pretend that taking 5-htp will help me feel less like I should die.

I’m hearing “die die die die die”.

I’m watching The West Wing. I’m trying to focus on something, anything outside of myself. I’m failing.

My head and neck hurt so bad I want to put them through a window. Just for the distraction.

I watched my brother do that. I helped pull glass out of his bloody wounds before the ambulance arrived. After that they made him wear a helmet for years. No one could stop him from punching holes in the wall.

Why am I so violent? Because I was taught to be. I was shown how to be.

I was 9? 10? when that was happening.

Had to be 10. We were in Whittier. He was out of the hospital. He was in the hospital until late 1990 I think.

God I can’t remember the exact order and I hate myself for that. I could reread my book. The funny part is, I’m not 100% sure I got the order correct in the book. I did my best. I don’t know for sure if I put things in the right order.

I know Tommy was in Rancho Los Amigos as of December 1989. When he left Rancho he was transferred to a different hospital then he was sent home. He was home for 18 months before he was sent to a residential care facility in Washington. So was I 9 or 10?

I can’t remember. For some reason, today I really wish I could remember what happened in Whittier with more clarity. So I could be more sure in my own mind that I’m not making things up.

I don’t think I am. I think I just can’t remember exactly what order things happened in.

I have these weird flashes of memory. I remember playing in the back yard of that house. I really liked it. I was safe. There were high fences and a shed and grass that was as tall as me. That grass was… weirdly formative for me. I don’t know why it made such a strong impression. I spent months hiding in that grass. I could see people coming from far away because they made the walls of my hiding place move. I had several different bolt holes so I could get away from Tommy when he came out to hurt me.

That was his primary hobby. He thought it was hilarious.

I don’t know why I’m thinking about this right now. Because I can’t force myself to stop. Because I’m unmedicated and my brain gets to do what it wants instead of what I want.

I don’t know why I need to sit in my room and watch tv and cry and talk to myself about things that hurt a long time ago instead of being with people who are nice to me. I don’t know why.

Because I can’t be nice enough to deserve being in the room with them. Because I will be rude. I will sound disrespectful and snotty. I will sound angry and aggressive.

So I need to stay in my room. So I don’t hurt anyone. Because sometimes it feels like that is all I do. I move around hurting one person after another.

People are right. Monsters like me should be put down for the good of the herd.

I don’t do anything that makes the world better. I don’t matter. I am a waste of fucking oxygen.

Recently a dear friend who loves me very much and who loves my children very much expressed concern that it isn’t fair that I make the kids play in the back yard when it is cold. I am going to cause them damage the same way I am damaged.

If playing in the back yard were enough to cause PTSD… I’d be dead. I wouldn’t have gone through everything. If that was enough to cause someone to feel like their life was at risk… we’d be a different species.

I am damaged because for the first twenty years of my life I had no stability, love, or reasonable support. My kids sometimes have to play in the back yard.

Not fair to say I had no love. I didn’t have consistent relationships. I had days of people loving me. No lying. I had friends. It is such a lie that I had no love.

I don’t know if my mommy loved me or not. Probably? But she couldn’t show it. My sister loved me. But she mixes her love with toxin and poison. I don’t think my eldest brother loved me. I think he sincerely wishes I had never been born. Tommy loved me in between hitting me and trying to rape me. I don’t think my father loved anything. Not really.

What you experience in the first six years of your life imprints your brain and personality for your whole life. I was homeless. I stole food. I was raped. I passed out blowjobs to neighborhood kids because that is what I was supposed to do.

I was stupid, worthless, a burden. That is what I learned.

The kids want to go out to dinner. I should probably pretend I am up for that. I’m not sure if I’ll eat. I may sit there and cry. I guess we’ll find out.