I had a traumatic experience a while back. It took me a bit to really understand what had happened and then it took me a bit to understand how it had affected me and then it took me a bit to start getting over it. What I really needed to do was get over myself.
I don’t really want to discuss what happened but I do want to discuss my coping skills, or lack thereof, and how my own arrogance brought me to my knees this week. It’ll be fun, I swear.
Some thirty-odd months ago I acquired a twat monster that tried to kill me. It ripped a hole in my fallopian tube and exploded my ovary, seriously the microscopic demon tried to off me. It was horrendous. After being brought back from the dead with someone else’s blood and the aid of emergency surgery I had a wee little panic attack (read psychotic break) that lasted two months. Once that was all said and done it set some wonderful things into motion. Namely, I decided that bat shit crazy wasn’t working anymore and I started getting healthy without really doing any work. I would just suddenly have an epiphany about how The Normals do things and then I would do them too. There was work involved since the crazies kept trying to worm their way back in but all in all the process didn’t stress me out or cause any real grief. In fact I started being able to deal with things as they happened without sucking myself or anyone else down into my dismal pit of self loathing. The traumatic experience happened about a year after the twat monster incident. I accepted what had been done to me and moved on with little thought about it other than a hearty pat on the back and woohoo for finally being so emotionally well.
Yeah. That’s it.
In reality I had merely buried that trauma so far inside that ANY experience remotely similar now reduces me to a quivering ball of flesh on the badly laid, dollar store lino. Awesome. I now realize that I am unable to have conversations with people I don’t know unless I can prove to myself that they are who they claim to be. Double awesome. As someone who has almost no time to devote to obtaining adult companionship this is proving to be very bothersome. My primary way of meeting people is online or through friends… WHO ALL LIVE IN MY COMPUTER! So wtf am I to do here? I can’t start meeting people from the internetz because I can’t talk to people from the internetz without meeting them because I don’t know who they are or that who they claim to be is who they are. Are you following? Good, cuz I have no clue what’s going on.
Fast forward to present day and I am screwing things up with a gusto I usually reserve for rocking in a corner post-partum. Let’s be concise shall we… Yeah I know, I have no clue what that entails but I’ll try. I likes The Boy, I gets scared cuz I don’t actually know The Boy, I panic, I NEED to know The Boy, I come off nuts. The Boy appears to have bolted. I know exactly where my fuck-upp-ed-ness ruined it but, of course, I realize it all after the fact and now I get to sob in my coffee. Boo.
BUT!!!!! WAIT!!!!!! Now that I know what I did, and why I did it, I can change my behaviour next time, right? Boo. I don’t wanna change next time gosh darnit. I wanna got back and not eff this time up. Double boo.
Maybe I should get a Bubbles instead. The monkey, not the trailer trash. It seems to me that a monkey wouldn’t cause me nearly the amount of stress that guys do. In fact aside from the crap flinging and constant masturbation a monkey might even make a better companion than a man. You can teach them to wear cute clothes and wind up those huge music box thingies and then people pay to see your monkey. I bet people would pay even more if the monkey didn’t bite and the people could pet it. But then I have to feed it, and clean up after it, and actually teach it to play the music box thingy…
Cats. The answer is obviously cats. Lots and lots of cats. No, kittens! So I can be a skid and always have a kitten in my pocket. If I always have a kitten in my pocket THEN guys will like me, because that is not crazy. At all.
Screw it. I’m just going to go back to blogging about my craptastic life. Oh wait, I already did.