"I have everything I want, I don't need you, and I don't care whether you live or die"

That's not an exact quote.  That's my INTERPRETATION, my overall feeling.  Those words were never said to me directly.

*****

9:40 AM 7/27/10

I'm using PlentyOfFish.com again. Inner_silence is my name there, but I'll soon be making it invisible to the search results again to stop people from emailing me. I am asking people to cook, clean, and shop for me. I have to process the people who have already emailed and I don't want to get bombarded with dozens more over the next few days. I wish those other women would help me out. I get the impression, from reading things in the forums (which don't seem to exist anymore - I can't find them) that women hardly ever answer the people who are writing to them. This is painful for me to see happening. I'd like to write about 'The Perceived Scarcity of Women,' but I've already written about it in a few other blog entries.

I hate doing this. I hate meeting strangers and asking them for help. Every one who tries to work with me will have to be 'trained' - I will have to teach them about the horrible misery of my life and explain why these things are happening. I will have to get through the barrier of their disbelief and skepticism. NO ONE knows about drug residues, or, even less, about trying to cook bone marrow and having its vapors fill up your refrigerator so that all the food you put in there gets bone marrow molecules in it that make you have to stifle the urge to vomit every time you eat or drink anything from the fridge. No one believes it. No one has ever heard of it. I have to explain everything for the first time, every time.

Telling people that I hear voices and I talk to them is actually LESS of a problem than trying to explain the drug residues, or any chemical residues at all, including the bone marrow. Those chemicals have more of a damaging impact on my life than the voices do. They affect everything I do at home. I don't even like to talk about the details of how I survive. For instance, right now, I'm sleeping on a piece of cardboard. Why am I doing that? Because for a while there, I was buying pieces of foam for a mattress, soft foam, and covering it with a vinyl bed cover. But in reality, if ephedra gets on the vinyl bed cover, for all practical purposes I have to just throw it away - I can try to wipe it off, but it really won't wipe off. There's no point in wasting money on the bed cover. I have had to throw away so much money on things, and so I switched back to using cardboard because I was having such a bad contamination incident the past month or so, ephedra over and over again. It was life or death. I had to have something that could be quickly and easily replaced for free, because it would get contaminated again and again.

I already know what will happen the first time someone walks into my house trying to 'help' me. They will see that I don't have a bed, and they'll be like, 'Oh, I'll go buy you a new bed.' So they'll buy me one (if I let them, which I won't) and it will be ruined in two days. The mattress will have ephedra on it, which prevents sleeping, which is why I've had to have temporary beds that I throw away. The legs of the bed, the metal parts, the frame, will gradually get little bits of drug residues on them, which will get on any new mattresses or mattress covers I buy.

They'll see that I don't have any furniture, and since you're 'supposed' to have furniture, they'll want to buy it for me. I left all my stuff in storage and I'm gradually throwing it away. I don't want to buy more stuff until all the residues are totally gone.

The kind of help I need: I don't want someone to come in and tell me what I should do to fix my problem. I want someone who will listen to me as I tell *them* what needs to be done, and then support me as I gradually do those projects.

I woke up several times during the night because of the murderers. Once when I woke up, they had me feeling hate for everybody. I had to think of which people I hated the least. I'm not in a good mood today. I have extremely severe exhaustion, and I think it's some of the drugs from Peter's house. One of his drugs causes me to sleep, and sleep, and sleep, and I wore a shirt yesterday that I had worn when I was with him. The mood I feel is 'I hate everything.' I hate society for not knowing about drug residues, for not knowing they exist, for not knowing they go through the skin. I hate modern medicine for not knowing anything about proper nutrition, and just giving everybody drugs for the slightest problem. I hate everybody for not growing their hair the way I like it, both men and women, for making themselves ugly to me in every possible way, so that I can't bear to look at them.

I guess I'll just post this now... I don't think I'm up to writing about 'the shortage of women' again, although I might try to later.

*****
I still can't look at Curtis. This last week we had a long text conversation and I can't remember whether I've already written about it or not, but basically I left with a terrible feeling of rejection, as usual, and the 'I have everything I want, I don't need you, and I don't even care whether you live or die' message. After another bad incident during another text interaction, I am so afraid of texting him that I can't even do it anymore, although I was able to do it once, only to tell him that I had sent him emails, because I didn't know if he used his email or not, and he might not know that I was sending him anything.

I switched to email because I don't get hurt as quickly and easily as I do with texting. Texting is a quick, efficient way to hurt someone very badly very quickly with very few words. I hate texting too, along with everything else I hate today. (He actually TOLD me, out loud, on the telephone, during one of our rare, brief telephone conversations, that I could feel free to text him at any time of the day or night, as much as I want, because he has unlimited text messaging now, and doesn't get charged per message. But that wasn't a promise not to say anything that would hurt me if I did try texting him.) With email, at least I shut off the computer and walk away and I don't get an immediate reply. However, chances are that we will probably have another 'Look ur 35 okay' incident if I rely on email too much. The murderers won't let me directly ask him whether he said these things: they silence me and prevent me from asking, because they don't want me to find out the truth, whatever the truth may be. So I can't just ask him, 'Did you actually say X to me in a text message / email?' to find out whether it was really him or whether it was hacked by someone who sent something malicious.

I can't look at him, but he was looking at me across the room several times. I saw him from far away. I looked directly at him once during a conversation when somebody else was standing there beside him, because I had to ask him a work-related question and there was nobody else I could ask. They messed up my schedule: I had offered to help do the inventory in the salad bar, and I requested that day more than a week ago, but they ignored it because we've had OTHER managers coming in and meddling with our schedules and ignoring our availabilities and our requests off. So I got scheduled to work in food service, so I decided to do both, just stay longer and do the inventory after I got done in food service. That day, when I came in, I asked him if the manager was there, and I told him what happened with the schedule. I could look at him, because it wasn't a 'potentially intimate' moment. It was a social, co-worker moment, when I wouldn't express any feelings or talk about anything sensitive or tell him how I feel. So I could do it. But later on, I saw him walking by when he was getting ready to leave, and I had to look down and not look at him, because it was a 'potentially intimate' moment: I could talk to him, I could say goodbye to him, I could ask him what was going on in his life, I could take a few seconds and have a personal conversation with him. So I had to prevent that (to avoid being rejected), so I didn't look at him.

Doing the salad bar inventory was kind of fun. I kept thinking of him while I was there. I closed down the salad bar and I had to pull out those big racks with the zipper covers on them, where we put all the salad bar stuff, and I remembered all the times I'd seen him do that on the nights when he used to close in produce. That was always my signal that he was going to be leaving soon, when I saw him pulling out the zipper bag racks to put away the salad bar stuff. He usually doesn't work evenings anymore. Those evenings were the times that he and I were together alone, and we had long conversations, which is something that always made me anxious because we were on the clock and not getting work done. But I remember that and I loved that time. It makes me sad now because I don't get to spend any time with him, and he won't bond with me - he won't make any kind of promise to continue seeing me even if he or I leave this job, and he won't even spend five minutes to see me someplace away from work. So I am just a temporary co-worker, barely even a friend, and if he or I leaves, there's nothing at all.

I think I have PMS today too. It's getting to be about that time. I've been usually on the end of the month and the beginning of the next month, somewhere right in between months. I am in the most horrible mood today. I should just post this and do whatever I was going to do. Continue feeling miserable? I think that's what I was going to do.

Sometimes I believe things that I don't usually believe.  I should have texted him a couple nights ago.  It was rainy, and his brakes don't work when it rains.  I should have texted him to see if he was okay.  This is just like an enneagram Six:  I need you, I don't need you, I really do need you, I don't need you.  I just don't know how much of it is really being said by him.  It's an open invitation for him to see me at home, but with the 'puppet' phenomenon, chances are that I will always be either out, or forced asleep and unable to hear the doorbell, or I'd think it was the census takers, if he ever did come over.  But that's why he'd have to leave a message.  That's why I've asked him to play phone tag with me.  I've asked him to, but he won't.  We have to plan a time in advance when we both will be expecting it.

(The census lady found me, though, and I haven't had any more doorbells since then.  She caught me when I was going outside to my car.  I was checking on my little herb garden at the time, and she walked over and spoke to me.  I smelled her adrenaline, and it made my own heart beat faster, but I recognized that it was not my own.  She was excited and afraid because she had finally caught her prey after ringing my doorbell for months.  I was crouching on the ground next to my herb garden, holding a pencil and a piece of paper, because I was about to write a shopping list, and, out of courtesy, because I smelled her fear, I quietly laid the sharp pencil on the ground and left it there when I stood up, so that I wouldn't seem scary or threatening with sharp objects in my hand.  Yes, I really did that.  She was afraid, and she didn't know what to expect - was I a hostile government-employee-hater?  (Yes, I hate government, but I practice nonviolent civil disobedience instead of attacking the human beings who are employed in the government.)  I explained that yes, I was indeed refusing to take the census, that it wasn't just an accident that she had never gotten a reply.  Since then, they haven't knocked again.  I don't know if or when they will.)