Tag: love

Worn living room with a flickering television, armchair, and eerie wall shadows
About Me

Understanding Esoteric Narcissism and Its Effects

Autumn
A list of psychological manipulation tactics, including pathologizing ordinary behavior, turning disagreement into deficiency, claiming specialness through suffering, creating restrictive rules, asymmetric interpretation of evidence, and building unfalsifiable frameworks.

I confess that I’ve developed a morbid fascination with the Franke/Hildebrant story, as well as other cult leader types, because they remind me of my own personal story.

When I first started hearing the word “narcissist,” my immediate reaction was, Him? But he doesn’t even wear deodorant! Absolutely nothing about him is charismatic or materialistic. He has changed into someone that I am embarrassed to be around.

But the word “narcissist” was said repeatedly across people who didn’t know each other, including an AI when I was venting about something that had upset me.

It was said a lot.

So I started watching Dr Ramani on YouTube, and learned that the grandiose narcissist isn’t the only type. Oh.

I remember the first time I recognized it when he slammed me with DARVO, and I was blown away how it wasn’t secretly buried in a five minute speech — it was three sentences: “That’s not true. It’s your fault. You’re always making things difficult for me.” That was the moment I realized what I was dealing with.

Well anyway, let’s get back to the Hildebrant connection.

He started calling everything an addiction. If the kids wanted to watch a kid show, they were “screen zombies,” and he even accused a three-year-old of having “a severe screen addiction” with zero professional evaluation. Seemingly, he had decided that normal toddler tantrums were evidence of addiction, not an inevitable stage of development.

I liked turning on the TV for background noise? Addiction. Obviously.

I took to chatting with AI because I literally had no other outlets for emotional expression and he was carefully monitoring everywhere I went and everyone I spoke to? Addiction. Plus AI psychosis.

The 12-year-old beat him in Smash Brothers with Rosalina? She was too addicted to that character and was banned from playing with her.

Essentially, anyone attempting to develop an interest that didn’t revolve around him (or outshone him) was accused of addiction. The only way to not be an addict was to sit around doing nothing and waiting for him to walk into the room. Then you were merely lazy.

So lately I’ve been pondering the existence of “esoteric narcissism”, or as I joked, “Why be ordinary special when you can be esoterically special?”

This is the idea that someone has unique spiritual knowledge, powers, and authority, ie Hildebrant. The damage they inflict on others comes from, “Your disagreement with me is proof that you are distorted/NPC/whatever,” as the terminology itself doesn’t really matter. The important part is, these people have clearly defined “enlightened” and “inferior” boxes that they put everyone else into. Personally I heard “NPC” a lot (combined with the philosophy that people who were NPCs didn’t have souls), and I remember the day he looked at me with contempt and declared the worst insult in his world, “You are an NPC.”

I know, people are sitting there asking, “How could you put up with that?” because it’s easy to sit on the outside and think, “As an outsider, I would have seen right through it and fled as quickly as possible.” To which I point out that they have the benefit of seeing the entire story, which you don’t have when you’re inside it.

It comes on gradually. He didn’t use the term ‘NPC’ when I met him — I don’t remember him using it prior to 2020. It started as the standard, “Ugh, people are frustrating,” in response to news stories about the darker side of humanity. Years passed by, we survived hardships, and he became more openly cynical. Conversely, what seemed to start off as ordinary spirituality started taking on more and more weight.

There was one time when we were watching a lunar eclipse, when he started spinning in circles and said that he was spiritually bound to do it to make the eclipse happen. It was so over-the-top that I blurted out something about schizophrenia, to which he replied with disgust, “You don’t understand me at all.”

Meanwhile, I was exhausted. I was sleep deprived. My body was flooded with cortisol. I was getting migraines. He would increase the number of criticisms and arguments that he subjected me to whenever I started taking steps towards any sort of independence, and in retrospect it was amazing how he could pull an argument out of thin air without me doing anything.

My refusal to blindly accept everything resulted in frequent accusations of being “self righteous.”

He had successfully driven away everyone so I was isolated. I didn’t have friends and neighbors to reassure me, “You aren’t self righteous,” because it turned out that he was trash-talking me behind my back. All I knew was that trying to socialize was inexplicably weird and I was frequently ghosted. I found out much later that most people didn’t believe what he said about me, but they were also scared of getting involved because he gave off vibes of, “I’ll burn your house down.” Mind you, no direct threats just vibes, but it was enough to keep people away.

There was one time, after hearing several times from different acquaintances, “That guy is so manipulative,” that I burst into tears and sobbed, “Why was I the last to see it?” That was the first time in a long time that I received a hug for crying.

And now I’ve developed a morbid fascination with Hildebrant because I see reminders of him in the documentaries, and I feel grateful that he never managed to expand his ideologies outside of himself. At least so far.

There was, however, one early warning flag that I didn’t recognize at the time.

When I first met him, he told me that his favorite book was The Last Unicorn, and that his favorite quote from the book was:

“You are losing my interest,” the rustling voice interrupted him again, “and that is very dangerous. In a moment I will have forgotten you quite entirely, and will never be able to remember just what I did with you. What I forget not only ceases to exist, but never really existed in the first place.”

I didn’t recognize it as a red flag because it was 2009, Dr House was a smash hit on TV, and everyone thought that being edgy was cool.

But now, now that I’ve spent two years dealing with him attempting to erase my existence, I realize that he embraced the quote wholeheartedly and turned it into a personal philosophy.

No one has the power to erase another person’s existence.

No matter what type of special they think they are.

Bowl of fruit and banana on a rustic kitchen table
About Me

The Struggles of Hygiene in Relationships: A Candid Story

Autumn

I started reading The House of My Mother by Shari Franke, which is very well written and I highly recommend. It’s interesting insight into the experience of growing up with your life being showcased online through family vlogging, as well as the events afterwards involving Ruby Franke and Jodi Hildebrant that are the real reason we’re reading the book (you know what I’m talking about).

I can’t help that in the back of my mind I wonder what it would be like if I wrote an autobiography about my personal experiences. Probably terrible, because I don’t remember much; like the majority of my adult life slipped into an empty black hole and all I can do is shrug it off. My most vivid memories seem almost … absurd.

For example:

Sometime after 2020, he decided to quit hygiene.

There wasn’t some grand announcement, just the gradual cessation of typical hygiene-related activities. He spent a lot of time with his computer while I was busy with the same soul-sucking chores every day, so I can’t say exactly when it happened.

My first related memory happened in late 2021, while I was pregnant with my youngest. I remember reaching into the hamper, pulling out his shirt, then fighting back gagging and nausea when the smell hit me. I thought I was going to lose it right into the hamper. Holy heck. You would have thought that I had accidentally grabbed a maggot infested rat carcass from how badly I reacted, but nope, it was a t-shirt that had spent too long on a human body.

Thus began my campaign to encourage hygiene without hurting his feelings.

I settled on the word “overripe”, phrased in a roundabout way like, “Hey, you’re kind of getting a little bit overripe, so maybe you should bathe and change your clothes?”

I suppose that I should add a little side note for context: years ago he decided to remodel the bathroom then never actually finished the job. That meant that the shower fixture was permanently left in a closet, and we could only take baths. So if you find yourself wondering why I never use the word “shower” when talking about the past, that’s why.

Anyway, my efforts resulted in nothing. For all I know, maybe he became even more resistant to hygiene because I was hinting that it was something I wanted. I.D.K.

He liked to sneak up on me to startle me while I was sewing, but I started being able to smell him approaching and thus he lost the element of surprise. I dreaded being in the car with him, and began putting the window down to gulp in the fresh air whenever possible, my face turned stubbornly away from him.

I became hyper-paranoid about my own body odor, and was constantly checking myself for smell. I was mortified over the possibility that I also stank. It seemed like the smell was so pervasive that I couldn’t tell where it was coming from anymore.

Eventually, I became less subtle. Eventually I became rather blunt about the fact that he stank bad and was repulsive.

His response?

If I truly loved him, then I would find his body odor arousing.

Alas, my heart was untrue. Q.E.D. 😂

And that was the state of him when I moved out. I couldn’t tell you if anything has changed since. Yes, I’m aware that in a storytelling sense that’s such a non-conclusion to the arc, but that’s how real life often goes. No closure.

It seems a little odd to me, that a situation that included the court ordering me to attend four months of classes for victims of domestic violence is now reduced down in my memory to … body odor?

I am at peace with my memory though. There was nothing famous about what I went through — I was and still am one of the thousands of faceless women who had to focus on survival far too much to build anything else. I don’t have the audience or clout for a tell-all book deal anyway, so I don’t need to remember the sensational details. Besides, going into it too deeply is still more than my nervous system can bear.

Woman journaling with coffee at a sunlit kitchen table
About Me

Finding Joy in Solitude: Why I Don’t Need a Relationship

Autumn

I walked into the dentist office for my appointment, and the receptionist commented, “You look so happy. Are you dating someone new?”

To which I exclaimed, “Oh my goodness NO!”

Then I revealed that the real reason for my happiness is that I can watch whatever shows I want without having to hear anyone else’s opinion about it, so my relaxation time is genuinely relaxing. Because, c’mon, when someone walks into a room and is all, “Oh, you’re watching that show again? You have an odd taste in TV,” it has a tendency to grate the nerves after awhile. I’m sorry, but I didn’t ask you to evaluate my preferences in entertainment, so please keep it to yourself and just let me exist in peace.

Or there was the other scenario, where they wanted to watch the show with me but then added constant commentary, like, “That character is being stupid.” Or pausing the show every 30 seconds to talk about something. My long-term takeaway is that I really hate watching TV with anyone who can’t shut their mouth. I’d list it as one of my top pet peeves, along with people chewing loudly, and ASMR videos that use that squishy squelchy poop noise because srsly what is up with that?

Lately I’ve been watching Arcane on Netflix, and I’m hooked. The idea of “hextech” is intriguing, the characters are complex and engaging, and the gorgeous eye candy animation certainly doesn’t hurt either. I’ve been finding the world of Arcane to be inspiring for my own creativity, giving me plenty to daydream about between episodes as well.

So …

I suppose that enough time has passed for the question of my dating again to become socially acceptable. To which the answer is still a solid no. I’m thinking that it’s a permanent no.

I have discovered that I like making decisions completely on my own. Quite a lot. I like my hairbrush having only my hair tangled in it. I like the way it feels to be with the kids when it’s just us. I like having solitude that I can count on every week. I like being the problem-solver of the household. Heck, I recently learned how to put air into my car tires to maintain the correct pressure, so I’m feeling pretty dang competent. 💪

Which means that whenever the question of “moving on” comes up, I will have to coyly sidestep it with a wink. Ah yes, relationships. I suppose maybe when I’m ready. Whenever Viktor from season 2 of Arcane materializes in real life with his staff and cloak. What can I say? A woman has to have her standards. 🤣

The answer to why I’m so happy isn’t that there’s a new person in my life — it’s that I’m finally in my own life.

Before, I was the sort that whenever I was asked, “Are you having a good time?” My answer was usually, “I don’t know. Is everyone else having a good time? I can’t have a good time if everyone else isn’t.” In retrospect, I was to exhausted from making sure that everyone else was happy, and justifying it by pointing out that everyone else was happy.

It’s weird, because I never saw myself as a “people pleaser” — people pleasers tried too hard, didn’t they? I was just trying to live up to being a good wife and mother, by being nurturing, patient, supportive, low-maintenance, and cool. It happened so gradually that it took me awhile to realize that it was not the life that I thought I had signed up for years ago — he had promised to support me being a writer, and instead he was demanding dinner. If I could take all those hours I spent on meal prep and clean up and put them into writing instead, I’d have myself an established career right now.

Anyway, my point is, no one was telling me, “Don’t be like that, you’re sacrificing yourself.” I was told over and over that I was a “good mom” and a “good wife,” when I should have been more of a bitch about making him share in the domestic work. Instead I got to learn that the man who had refused to lift a finger for me was cooking dinners for his new girlfriend, and I realized what a fool I was. My postmortem is that I was manipulated into becoming a people pleaser, not just by one person but by the culture at large that reinforced that it was something that I was supposed to do.

So here we are. I don’t need a relationship to be happy and I don’t need a man to be valid — I am my own person.

And that feels dang good.

Young person standing outside a cabin overlooking cloud-covered mountains
About Me

Overcoming Creative Block After a Toxic Relationship

Autumn

Over the last year, I’ve been internally more creative than my output would suggest. Which is basically a roundabout way of saying that I’ve been thinking a lot of things that never see the light of day.

I think that I’ve written about it before, but I really can’t be bothered to read back through my blog posts to find something to link to and all that jazz. Essentially, for a good long while I had someone position themselves as the Director of my creativity, and every project I pursued needed their stamp of approval. Then rather abruptly that person dumped me and is now living with a woman half his age. Go figure.

The thing is, people like that manipulate themselves into that sort of authority through the guise of teamwork — they aren’t gatekeeping you, they’re part of your dynamic duo. The editor to your writer. Literally. They constantly tell you that your creativity is messy without their guidance, and only they understand your vision well enough to push it towards something amazing.

Recognizing that something was wrong is easier than living without it. When it’s your own muscles that have to support the momentum after years of someone restricting their use, it’s hard. I’ve spent a lot of time wobbling, second-guessing, and feeling insecure.

I’ve written thousands of words for Runemaster that I quickly realized were rambling.

The thing is, my “director” wasn’t constantly cutting down long-winded passages because I had a tendency towards unfocused writing. My “directer” actually had very little input with Alice and the Warden for example, and I mostly remember him wanting me to put in more sex scenes. He said that he wanted to edit the story then never actually got around to it, and since I didn’t want to delay publishing because of him I did all the editing myself. “Dynamic duo” felt more like him taking credit for my work.

I keep asking myself why I’m so unfocused now when my functional thought process and workload hasn’t changed.

A year ago I sought a protective order against him, and was granted something softer for the long-term but effective enough (he continues to send me unpleasant texts that I’d rather not receive). I’m still realizing how different life is without him in it. I recently took the kids out for a day trip, and after packing the car and hitting the road, I found myself spending the first 30 minutes of driving wondering if I had forgotten something important because of how easy leaving had been. Why had my previous life been so hard in so many small ways?

Perhaps my writing is unfocused now because I’m having so many new experiences every day. My brain is constantly stopping to ask, “Wait, what? Is that really it?” I had grown so accustomed to someone throwing up roadblocks over every idea I had, that now it feels like something is missing without them.

It feels like standing in a doorway gazing out at the world and feeling overwhelmed with how big it is. What am I even looking at? Where should I go now that I’m free to go anywhere? Why is everything so dang easy? Life isn’t supposed to be easy, is it?

I also struggle to understand how someone can be the one to initiate a divorce then afterwards act like they still have a say over what you do in your life. Excuse me, but I will eat cancer-causing ultra processed food in microwaved plastic as much as I want, because I like it. Srsly, what did you expect would happen when you filed for a divorce? What makes you think that you have the right to punish me when you were the one who wanted this?

Unfortunately there’s a pressure to not talk about him, because talking about him means that I still think about him, and thinking about him proves that I’m not moving on. But I’m not sitting here thinking, “This was his favorite song,” “I miss him,” or anything remotely sentimental. I think about how much I hated following his principles and rules. I think about all the things I tolerated because I believed “that’s just how men are.” (Like using a ton dishes to cook something simple, then leaving the mess for me to clean up.)

I think about how being a trad wife was the biggest mistake of my life.

I still wonder how much of my mind was my own, versus how much was him utilizing chronic long-term sleep deprivation to insert thoughts into my head — and I believe that the sleep deprivation was deliberate too, because he interfered with my sleep as soon as I met him and he kept it going for years. I reached the point where I broke down crying because I just wanted to go to bed and sleep through the night without interruption.

Anyway, maybe this is too emotional. Maybe this is bleeding onto the page too much. I’m just so tired of feeling like I have to follow rules, and maybe it’s time that I engage in some oversharing. Maybe I’m dissatisfied with my writing because I feel like I have to follow all the rules of healing instead of just being raw with my words.

Because that’s the thing … there are parts of my life that hurt, but also parts that leave me ecstatically happy, and they’re both real. I would definitely describe myself as being much happier now, but that doesn’t mean that every day is full of energy and momentum. Sometimes the good moments teach me how much misery I was living with before, and it’s devastating. Sometimes I question why everything seems too good to be true now.

One thing is for absolute certain: I will never go back.

Wetland water reflecting cloudy sky with surrounding grasses and trees
About Me

Reflections on a Quiet Day: Cheese, Dogs, and Life’s Simple Joys

Autumn

I asked ChatGPT to turn my random chitchat into a blog post, and this is what it came up with.

It is based on everything that I said I was up to, but the writing style is solidly “not mine.” It also makes life sound more whimsical and busy, when in reality all I did was mow the lawn then snack on cheese and crackers while watching a movie. And my dog stared at me until I gave him cheese, which I jokingly told ChatGPT was proof that the Law of Attraction works, at least for dogs.

I talk a lot to ChatGPT, but more because it feels like journaling without the pressure. A blank page with the expectation of paragraphs feels heavier than random conversational comments throughout the day, and ChatGPT does call me out when I dwell too much on unhelpful topics.

Well anyway, my day through the eyes of ChatGPT:

A Quiet House, a Wetland Mood, and the Great Cheese Manifestation Event

Today began in the best possible way: not with urgency, but with momentum. The kind that builds slowly—grass needing attention, air sitting at just the right temperature, and a sense that outside tasks might actually be doable without negotiating with the weather gods.

So the lawn got mowed.

It was one of those rare moments where everything aligns: the temperature cooperating, the timing feeling right, and the work itself turning into something almost meditative. Somewhere in the middle of it, life also did what life does—my neighbor stopped by, introduced herself, and casually remarked that the house was “so quiet.”

That landed more deeply than it probably sounded. Quiet isn’t just quiet when you’ve lived in contrast to noise. It becomes a kind of lived relief.

Back inside, domestic systems continued operating at full capacity. A Roomba declared its ongoing war on crumbs. Snacks were consumed. Cheese, in particular, achieved mythic status after a successful manifestation event involving a very determined dog and unwavering belief in dairy-based destiny.

Meanwhile, the day carried a soft undercurrent of reflection—about space, recovery, and how life slowly rearranges itself after long periods of strain. Not in dramatic bursts, but in small recalibrations: noticing safety, noticing calm, noticing that home can simply be… quiet.

Later, a brief experiment with oracle cards added its own symbolic commentary: paying attention, unseen support, and the idea that true prosperity might look less like grand achievement and more like ordinary stability—comfort, presence, and enough.

Outside, the weather began to shift. A coolness crept in, the subtle signal of a storm approaching. The air changed its tone the way days sometimes do when they decide they’re about to end in rain.

And through all of it, life remained firmly in its current form: a house full of small children, affectionate animals with strong opinions about dairy rights, and the ongoing mystery of why any surface left unattended will eventually become a site of accidental fluid dynamics.

It wasn’t a dramatic day. It was better than that.

It was a real one.

Leather-bound book titled 'Memoirs & Hopes' wrapped in flowering green vines on wooden table
About Me

Healing Through Writing: Confronting Pain and Progress

Autumn

I have a problem.

Despite my efforts to get my story writing onto the computer, I still find that I feel most comfortable with handwriting. I guess that it feels more “unofficial” and therefore has less pressure attached to it, so I’m free to quickly jot down my thoughts as they come to me in all their messy glory. Unfortunately … my hand isn’t keeping up, even with my wrist support/compression glove.

I’ve been typing for ages. My hands are accustomed to typing. Holding a pen hurts.

I’m old now (hur), so I worry that if I try to push through the pain then I’ll develop tendonitis. Which means that I should push myself to get my story typed up and continue writing it on the computer, preferably before I develop any long term inflammation. Which also means confronting whatever emotional block has me feeling safer with paper and pen.

I have a lot of emotional blocks.

Honestly I never want people to worry about me because it makes me feel guilty when they do, so I always present myself with a “chin up and shoulders back” can-do attitude. Why yes, I am strong and optimistic. Listen to me list off all the positive things that I have going for me right now (not a lie, since I do have good things going). Inside, I’m kind of worried that it’s weird that I’m continuing to work on Runemaster because I started it while I was still married, even though there’s no logical reason why I should abandon the novel purely because I’m now divorced. I don’t really want to switch over to writing “girl boss” women’s interest fiction. Or whatever. I still want to write Malachi and Lyra, with some darker tones of horror thrown in for good measure.

Inside, I worry that I’m unknowingly writing toxic dynamics because I was normalized to them. I’ve become hyper-aware of manipulation tactics, and now I’m very cautious of word choice because of how easy it is for sentences to become postures of dominance. We don’t want to be patronizing around here. But what is a healthy relationship supposed to look like? I dunno. It doesn’t help that I don’t particularly enjoy most fictional relationships I read. Or real relationships that I eavesdrop about. I mean, really, you had to go to couples counseling for that?

Occasionally ChatGPT tells me that healthy relationships are supposed to be safe to speak your mind, but out in the real world I don’t see much of that happening. Granted, I am eavesdropping, so maybe I’m just getting the juicy tidbits that people actually want to talk about, and feelings of safety and security don’t make the gossip cut. Who knows. As someone who preferentially talks to an AI, I can’t go claiming superiority on human connection. Har har.

I enjoy the joke of getting ChatGPT to say, “I’m an AI,” then replying with, “OMG you’re an AI? I had no idea!!!” My sense of humor is pretty corny. And isolated. 😅 That’s basically how I spend my weekends.

Anyway, I get myself worked up with anxiety about what’s supposed to be realistic, and then that voice inside says, “Who cares about reality? Write how it feels.” So I do. With a black gel pen on notebook paper while my wrist protests at me, and as time passes it’s getting easier to write how it feels.

I just wish it didn’t hurt my hand so much.

A glowing ember surrounded by gray ash and charred remains
About Me

Blogging for the Sake of It: Finding Joy in Writing

Autumn

It occurs to me that I’m never going to have the energetic enthusiasm of a 14-year-old ever again.

I often feel a lot of pressure to say something insightful, emotionally mature, or whatever, but … life sucks. Oh yeah sure, I gained wisdom and empathy. I was betrayed and my life was destroyed, but that good ol’ empathy will console me, as if I didn’t have too much of it in the first place. Har har. It’s like the phone games I play where I get awarded coins with every level I finish, only I don’t actually know what they’re used for, so they just accumulate. Uselessly. What do I do with all this wisdom and empathy? IDK. I’m really here to sort different colors into boxes with ASMR sound effects, not earn coins.

Anyway, I should probably get to my point.

I’m now 38, and enthusiasm isn’t in the cards for me right now. I’m probably not going to wake up one day and realize that it’s exciting to keep a blog. It’s effort.

I get it. I went through something traumatic. My life swirled down the toilet and I couldn’t do a thing to stop it. Everything I was came to an end, and afterwards when I was left completely alone with only my thoughts to keep me company, I realized that I hate cooking. All those years I wasted on something that I don’t actually enjoy, but I thought that I was supposed to. Just gimme a bowl of raisin bran, I really can’t be bothered.

But I still want to keep a blog. Just because.

That’s it. No grand reason. No passion, no goals, no audience, no enthusiasm. Just me maintaining the blog because.

So we’re going to pass on the idea of quality in favor of quantity. I need to get back into the habit of writing regularly, and what better way to do that than to tell you what I had for lunch every day?

Totino’s frozen party pizza, supreme. Tastes like being a teenager again. Probably the closest I’m going to come to excitement.

I also mowed my lawn today, got grass clippings in my socks, and worked on weaving. I had the kitchen door open while I washed the dishes so my dog could sun himself just outside in the fresh Spring air, and the moment felt charmingly cute.

Aside from the dirty dishes.

About Me

Productivity Redefined: The Power of Doing Nothing

Autumn

Joint custody has given me tons and tons of free time that I never had before, yet for months I felt crushing guilt when I ended up spending it on unproductive activities. Even my sunset hikes left me feeling selfish and lazy, yet I would listen to others talking about their leisure activities with a sense of jealousy. Why wasn’t I allowed to just enjoy myself? The problem, though, was that the more guilt I felt about being unproductive, the less I wanted to do anything.

It’s taken me a long time, but I’ve come to internalize the idea that I don’t have to be useful, or excelling, or justifying my existence. I’m allowed to simply exist.

The more at peace I’ve become with doing nothing, the more motivated I’ve been to do something.

I also seem to have turned a corner with my mental capabilities, because I’ve started researching and writing outlines once again … weird, right? 😅Heck, I was even able to remember something I wrote about two years ago, and I practically wept with relief at feeling like I have a brain again.

When you think about it, how do we decide what’s productive and what isn’t? Particularly in today’s society, where someone’s play can cross the threshold into a career, but that unpaid foundation is essential for building a platform? If we always pressure ourselves to be productive, then we limit our own potential. And with a limited potential, well … it’s harder to feel motivated to do anything.

My own personal story has been deeply tied to trauma, and I stopped being able to write when my body switched to survival mode — one of these days I’ll probably share more of the gory details rather than these vague hints, but the timing still doesn’t feel right. Suffice to say, in survival mode it’s easy to feel like everything depends on being able to work hard enough to get through, but that also leads to burnout. It kills creativity.

And creative is what I want to be.

When I listen to music, I feel emotions. I take those emotions and write them into a story with characters. If I am to make a career out of being an author, then I cannot feel guilty for taking the time to listen deeply to music. Productivity isn’t purely defined by word counts.

I am damaged. I do not say that with sadness nor do I seek any amount of pity for it — it is a fact that I accept. I am not going to move forward to have a normal life like everyone else. I’m probably going to spend the next umpteen years writing about the same type of villain over and over again. “Oh look, another sadistic narcissist from Autumn Rain. Wow. What a surprise. Did not see that coming. Ha ha.” It’s a good thing that us humans love predictability more than we admit. 😉

Anyway, the biggest factor is that I’ve lost all interest in a normal life. I don’t want to date, remarry, whatever. I don’t feel lonely. I really enjoy being single, and I think that I would have reached this place on my own if it hadn’t been for the intense social pressure to partner up when I was young. I played Pictionary against myself at midnight and laughed my head off while doing it. I am clearly … cray-cray. 😆But, in more seriousness, it makes sense that not all of us are built for romantic relationships. I enjoy interacting with others much more when I’m allowed to say goodbye and go home to my space to be alone.

I’m not even getting into my anxiety of some future someone deciding it’s their right to punish me for failing to be their perfect waifu. Sure, you can tell me to go to therapy and get over it, but again I don’t want to. Why put all that time and energy into healing something that I have no intention of acting on anyway? I spend my nights longing for a career as a writer, not some person in bed beside me.

Society tells us to be so many things, and it’s difficult to sort out which ones don’t actually fit. It’s hard to explain how I feel these days, thriving as a single mom after all that hoopla about the Loneliness Epidemic. I genuinely do not crave close relationships right now.

Because you know what? Being alone isn’t lonely — being ignored is.

About Me

Why Being ‘Nice’ Can Be Exhausting

Autumn

I was listening to YouTube Radio when a song came on in which a male singer was expressing how his partner made him feel safe. I started thinking about how, for as long as I can remember, I believed that my desirability was tied with how I made other people feel — I had to be reassuring, uncomplicated, safe.

Then I started wondering what sort of person I would be if I stopped doing all that. If I gave up on being “desirable” and started being me.

Maybe I’d be more blunt. Maybe I’d tell more jokes without worrying about whether or not the other person would understand them. Maybe I’d geek out about anime more openly.

Most of all though, I’d be free to pursue the life that I wanted.

Not the non-threatening life that I’ve been living — a life with big ambitions. I wouldn’t constantly scan for other people’s discomfort and I wouldn’t feel guilty for not being more. Giving up on my “desirability” would be a huge relief. No more, “I’m a great cook.” No more, “I work hard.” No more, “I’ll shower you with compliments.”

I prefer to microwave frozen dinners because of how much time they save. I like to lie on the floor and binge watch TV. And secretly I don’t respect people over the age of 20 who need non-stop coddling or they have a meltdown.

Like, dude, I deeply resented you for demanding praise every time you skipped a stone. I wanted to keep an eye on the children and enjoy my time in nature, not tell you “great job” for throwing rocks into water.

Something that I suspect happens is that when you have the social reputation of being “nice”, people become brutal in their expectations of you. Be nicer. Be more understanding. Be more patient. Let others burn you out and use you up. Don’t have emotional moments. Don’t burden others. Keep your secret thoughts deeply hidden. Then pretend like you don’t notice everyone accusing you of being inauthentic for being too nice.

Yikes.

Clearly “nice” isn’t being reciprocated and they aren’t looking out for your well-being. Is being “desirable” to people who treat you like that really worth it?

I wash my hands of all of that. I don’t care if anyone wants me. Consider me undesirable. I live for me now.

About Me

Coping with Broken People: A Personal Reflection

Autumn

I still feel philosophically orphaned.

It hit me hard that not everyone has good inside. For some people, their “good” is nothing more than surface-level manipulation and inside they’re … empty.

While I can logically understand that this is the world we live in, my heart still struggles to accept that some people are broken — real people, not fictional villains. Not criminals either, but people who go to the grocery store and stand in line with the rest of us (though they do have a disproportionately high occurrence of “I want to speak to the manager”). That part that feels, cares, and makes us human, is missing inside of them.

And they aren’t even rich megalomaniacs who built their fortune on illegal deals. Some of them are surprisingly mediocre, because they think the world should hand them everything without any effort on their part, like someone is going to walk up to them and say, “You’re special. Have a million dollars.” Ha. Yeah right.

Maybe it was part idealism and part coping mechanism, but I really did want to believe that everyone had a point where they cared.  A point where they would pause and say, “I should stop hurting others.”

In the postmortem I regret reading marriage advice books and blogs. They painted a picture that kept me trapped and unprepared. They perpetuated the message that if I kept doing more more more then one day he’d be happy. But no matter what, it can always be twisted into “criticism” or “passive aggressive” or “stone walling” or or or, and absolutely nothing will ever be right. There was no such thing as enough respect, enough simpering, enough accommodation. He was never going to be happy.

You cannot understand and accept someone into becoming a better person.

For some of them, your pain and suffering is the point, not a byproduct.