When we are born, and as we grow, we steadily accumulate illusions. Delusions, I’d even call them lies. Lies that enable a society, a civilization, to form and remain steady. To help people cope and be content with their lot in life, or to think that if they struggle hard enough, they can climb out of the box they were born in and climb into another, seemingly better box. The lie that consumption leads to happiness. Lies that bad things only happen to bad people. Lies that the wrongdoing of others will always be punished, in this world and the next.

I have a real issue with the notion that people are innately good or bad. It’s simplistic, and therefore it’s one of the biggest and acceptable lies of all. Forget complex variables like genetics, upbringing, socialization, mental health, circumstance- no, bad people are baaaad. Good people are the ones that help me, who look nice (and look like me), and who conspicuously talk about social maladies on social media. Ow, it hurt to write that.

What lies do I hold on to? Not many left, that I know of. One of the last I’ve lost is my own particular notion of friendship. I had this childlike notion about friendship, that as long as you made an effort and respected boundaries, a lot of things (appearance, interests, etc.) didn’t matter. But they do. I’ve come to realize in my life, I’ve had a series of prolonged acquaintance-ships. I’d already lost the notion of “family always loves you” long, long ago, and I’d pinned my hopes on friendship. Ah, well.

For me it all boils down to humans being animals. Complex animals, but animals nonetheless. Animals that know about death.

Oh, comfort. I don’t resent people for lies about death. But this is how I see it.

Everyone will die. Everyone. My husband is terrified of death. He wants to sign up to be cryogenically frozen after death and resurrected later. It’s his form of religion, thinking somehow he will live after death. Me? I’m just going to fucking die. I will die, my borrowed atoms and molecules will return to the universe, and I will be forgotten. And that’s okay, you know? I’ll join the roughly 100 billion people who have died and been forgotten. The world will keep turning, and I am merely a single person among billions. My worth is negligable but existent, and it’s enough. My insignificant, non-noteworthy existence is enough for me, and for my spouse.

I just hope I leave the world marginally better than how I found it. Eventually.



Day 16.

It’s crazy the way smoking withdrawal is affecting me. I’ve gained some real insights into how much of an addict personality I have.

When I smoked, any time I felt any irritation, frustration, unhappiness, I could duck outside and puff it away.

Now, without that crutch, I feel a constant background level of irritation.

It’s.. I almost like it? It gives me focus, gives me edge. I also feel a sense of paralysis, that makes that feeling of focus nearly worthless.

The paralysis comes from not having rewards for doing anything anymore. If I can’t reward myself for doing something, why do it? It’s troubling, and I need to find a way past it.

I’ve been looking at the traits of addictive personality and I match them to a T. Poor self-regulation. Unable to manage feelings of loneliness and sadness without substances. Some of this is related to chemical imbalances in the brain.. Which means I might be able to wait out some of the symptoms I have (brain adjusting away from nicotine dependence) but I need to find a way to motivate myself without the promise of food, smoking, and escapism (TV/internet).

I’ve been pondering a total disconnect from all of my vices. Smoking is already gone. Food, I don’t know about. Another thing I could cut: the internet. I’ve been thinking about it: an entire week without internet. No, seriously. I hide my PC’s wireless adapter. I set my phone to not connect to WIFI or data. All I have access to is music, on my phone, and productivity applications/music on my PC.

I love the internet. I feel less alone with the internet. I don’t feel like a freak. But I’m also addicted to it. I’m addicted to novelty, to seeing and reading new things every ten seconds. If the ability to scan and sort information on relevancy was a paying job, I’d make six figures. I spend at a minimum three or four hours a day, not working, but browsing. Three or four hours is not the average; I’d say the average is about five hours or more.

The idea almost seems liberating. All the stuff I’ve been neglecting, my art supplies, the books I’ve been meaning to read, I’d have no way to put it off.

More on this later.

Social Bleedia

I want to ditch Facebook. I think I would have significantly more peace of mind if I did.
Thanks to the female half of The Couple, I can’t use it as a relief valve for my inner state. “What if an employer sees you felt sad on July 25th?!?! Think about *your image*.” Yes, I get it. My image is the only thing that matters in this world. Nothing else.

So mostly I use Facebook to post and like memes. Because I can’t post anything that actually matters. I use it to keep certain people at bay. Ex-Stepmother thinks she can keep trying to contact me through FB, who knows what she’d do if that was gone. I post and post, hoping for that dopamine spike from people liking my shit. Kind of sad, but I never really got any of that from interacting with real people. I always hoped I would.

There’s a lot of things you have to be, a lot of things you have to buy, before people will be good or kind to you. Just being good or kind from the get-go means people will think you are dumb, easy to take advantage of, or boring. For years I was kind and nice from the get-go when I met new people, because that’s who I was, and watched with dismay how the people I met began to either sneer at me, or become disinterested. Only the very young or the naive say,”I don’t know what exhaustion or pain feels like, so I’m going to tell you to keep trying! You keep trying to find that needle in the haystack. I mean, *I’m* not going to be your friend, you’re not hot or cool enough for that.”


So, I’m at an impasse. The only kindness and approval I get is through the internet, but I need to be on the internet less because I am obsessing about social media

Where’s my spouse, my partner, my husband in all of this? My husband doesn’t want to deal with emotions. He has told me this before. So I pretend at all times to be fine so he doesn’t have to do any emotional labor. It’s a great system we have.

I’ve had some success at not dumping my emotions on FB by reminding myself repeatedly, when I get weak,”No one gives a fuck.” That works, more or less, but I still slip up some times. Though I recover a minute or two later, and delete the post. Then I head over here, and relieve it through blogging.

There’s some horrible self-destructive part of me that revels in the thought of people I know finding my blog. The pain I write out here, would be what finally got me what I’ve been slowly moving toward for years: total seclusion. I often wonder if the person inside me, the cold, tough, independent person that is overshadowed by pain and need for approval, would come out if no more opportunities for pain and approval (people) were around. If everyone I knew was driven away, I could set her free, and dump the persona that I built up half out of defense, and half out of trauma.

Well, maybe.

Smoke and Broken Mirrors

So, I’m going through withdrawal for smoking. I smoked for about six years and while I smoked about a pack every 2-3 days, I was hooked. It was my chaser, for every agreeable and disagreeable task I did. I did something? Have a smoke as a reward. In social interactions and desperately need a break? Go have a smoke.

I’m day 7 without a smoke and even though I’m quitting with medication assistance (Chantix) I am feeling it. I’m feeling the loss of my emotional crutch. My escape. Two unfortunate events that occurred this last week have compounded my inability to cope with life without smoking, and so I’ve been eating everything in sight. Goodbye weight loss progress.

I don’t seem able to live in this world without something. Be it food or cigarettes. Something has to fill the gap where human love and support should be. But then again, I came into this world to force my father into staying in a marriage he wanted to, and eventually did, leave. It would have been better if something like me had never existed.

Chantix isn’t causing these feelings, it’s revealing them. The constant use of nicotine allowed me to push them aside. A “cope” as the incels call it.

I need to do things. I need to mow the yard. I need to walk the dog. But I know what I’m going to do today. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. There are no rewards, no motivation. Can’t reward myself with a smoke. Maybe my husband will yell at me for not doing anything. All he does is come home, pet the dog, and sit at his PC while I struggle in vain to make our house not look like shit. He’s got important things to do, you know. Physically exerting himself is demeaning for a man of his intelligence. Leave it to the workhorse fuck-maid to get things done.

Oh, so nasty. Nasty mean. I don’t care, it’s my reality that never seems to change. Day in, day out, my life runs lower and lower while I try to force myself to do housework that never ends, while my dreams die in my head. It’s the nightmare of every woman. It was even worse when I worked full time, I’d come home and do all this shit on top of a 40 hour week. Asking for any help, you’d think I was some stereotypical nagging wife, pecking away at my poor beleaguered husband.

The only way out, other than the obvious, is to leave my husband, transition to male, and travel the country in a mobile home. Ha, it sounds even crazier on the screen. No, I think slowly alienating my husband to the point of divorce over a painful number of years is the best way to go. Great plan! /s

You know.. It’s a good thing I have this blog to release the venom. Otherwise, I’d release it on actual people. After writing here, I can pretend to be fine a little longer.



For funsies yesterday, I tried on clothes from a box I had set aside, that had some size L clothes I wasn’t ready to wear yet. There was a pair of size 14 jeans in there. They fit.



In other news, I’ve been on Chantix for six days. Yesterday, I had 1-2 cigarettes. Normally, I have 8-10 cigarettes a day. As an FYI, you aren’t supposed to quit with Chantix until you reach days 8-35. So I am well on track to quit early in that time frame.

I’ve taken Chantix before and successfully quit for around a month. What happened? I went on vacation, had my prescription transferred to a pharmacy in the vacation destination so I could pick it up, and I wasn’t able to pick it up for days after I ran out. I got super stressed out about it and relapsed. Not proud of that.

This time around, I am buying my Chantix online. No fuss, no muss, lower cost, no constant doctor appointments, no fucking around with pharmacies, no hoops to jump through. I already know I have no averse reactions to Chantix. None of the side effects, except for mild stomach rumblies, happen to me. I love this medication; I’m not sure how it works but god is my mood better than normal, and the vivid dreams are a great plus.

It’s going to work this time.


Husbando and I are picking up our Model 3 on Tuesday. After waiting for what, about two, three years? We opted for pearl white for the color. I’ve been joking that the car is so white, I’m calling it Brayden. I’m both excited to get it, and kind of bothered by the implications of owning a luxury car.

I don’t relate to well-off people, though I guess I am one now. When I worked at my highfalutin software engineering job, I mostly hung out with the facilities and IT staff, not my coworkers. The car is an additional layer of distance between myself and the people I relate to. I also have flashes of anxiety about being the lumpy, not-perfectly-coiffed person that I am and getting out of the fancy car and being laughed at. I’m working myself up too much about it. I need to remember I’m the one who owns a Tesla, not them. I have the same thing about going into high-end shops, like I don’t belong there. I feel that way about makeup shops like Sephora, like everyone there knows a faker, a pretender has walked into the shop. Part of why I don’t go into these places anymore.

Not going to let anxiety derail this post. TESLA MODEL 3!


I’ve decided, in other news, that pretense is going to kill me. I need to be the dour bitch other people think I am, from judging my appearance. I’ve never been able to fake girly very well. Those who I thought were close to me got to see the relaxed me, dopey and childish and nice, and I’ve reaped the consequences of that. Being talked over, ignored, disregarded, dismissed, condescended to.

It’s just the way people are. A hard lesson to learn.

I won’t fake overt sexuality. I won’t fake a fawning, girly demeanor. I’ll be clean and groomed but not made-up. I won’t fake a desire for glamour. I won’t care about the male gaze. Or, the female gaze, for that matter. I will hold my ground. I will be disliked. I will be challenged. But I won’t pretend anymore. I won’t feed the anxiety, the little whispering voice that says,”You need them to accept you.” Because they won’t. They won’t ever accept someone who is not a painted princess. I have never been a painted princess. And that’s okay. That’s fucking great, actually.

I’ll stand with my head up high.


Plateau B-B-Breaker!

Original weight: 241
Current lbs lost: 50

After a month long plateau, I am almost to the 180s.

Back on 6-7, I was 194 pounds. And I stayed at 194 lbs. All month.

The day before the 4th of July, hubby and I broke keto. Carbs! 4th of July. Carbs! Day after 4th of July? Start my period. Carbs! Eat carbs because my body hates me, all the way to June 8th. Began keto again on Monday, June 9th.

So, for the first time in a long time, yesterday I weighed myself. 193 lbs. That’s right, after  a month of no change, nearly a week of eating carbs, and only being back on keto for 2ish days, I broke the plateau.

And even better? I weighed 191 lbs today.


I’ve started scrupulously using Carb Manager again to track my weight and carb intake. This is how I get to the 180s and beyond.

Though to be honest, I should reveal that I went through some gastric distress yesterday, likely from my time-of-the-month ending and returning to keto, and some of that two lb loss is most definitely water. It was like niagara falls from my booty. “You have died of dysentary” went through my mind pretty often.

On that note.. Um… I also went shopping yesterday, and picked up a keto hack. Namely, MCT oil. MCT oil is like coconut oil on crack. It is, essentially, the perfect fat for keto. I’m lazy and looking to make a quick entry here, so do a quick google search for “mct oil keto” and see what I’m talking about.

Ughhhhh, there’s so much delicious keto food in my fridge right now. Bone broth, turkey legs, burgers with exotic mixins, fresh made beer brats.

I ate so well yesterday. Worked outside in the yard for four hours, went shopping, came home, ate seared tuna tataki from my favorite upscale grocer, had two squares of 85% dark chocolate, and took a couple teaspoons of mct oil. Damn I felt good.

I can write coherently if and when I want to, also good at writing an ending that ties in with what came before. But today, I am only good at saying <END POST>

The Drama Llama Rides Again

Didn’t wake up in the best of moods today. Wrote out a whole spiel on how I like being alone, then deleted it.

A bit of new, enjoyable schadenfreude: My ex-stepmother is talking about suicide again on Facebook. I know I’m supposed to be the bigger person, and act like that’s tragic and sad, but honestly she did too much. I feel like it would heal my soul, just a little bit, if I could pour a full cup of water, beer, piss, etc on her head. So she would feel just as small, and helpless, and humiliated as when she did it to me over and over. Only, Ex-Stepmother is now a 40/50-something year old woman and I was 10.



Okay so, I know I should be compassionate and say “suicide is not the answer” but with her, eh. She suffers from the same memory loss as my father. All the facked up things said and done? “Oh, ♪ can’t remeeeember. ♪ Are you *surrrre* it happened? Tee hee! ♪”

And the Facebook friends arrive. Dark grey is Drama Llama Ex-Step Mama.



My father and her were perfectly suited in narcissism. Oh.. And now you understand what it’s like to feel like a burden? How amusing.

“My daughter won’t drop her busy life to manage my emotions. BAWWWWWWWWWWW”

Oh no, purple lady, she definitely is a mutant. With powers of crushing the self esteem and emotional stability of children!

“Poor me, poor me! Why are all these consequences to my shittiness happening?”

Again with the “I’m a burden” thing. Sometimes, it’s nice to see that what goes around comes around.

I feel for my poor half-sister. What a mother. Ex-Stepmother was far, far more kind and loving to her, but my half-sister also had to endure her downward spiral into alcohol and huffing. I flew the coop at 16, before she really got going. I really wish I could have helped my sister more. My useless mother couldn’t provide for me or herself, so my energies were 100% dedicated to survival. And also.. Who could blame me for not wanting to spend more time around my ex-stepmother and father?

My half-sister has finally chimed in on ex-stepmother’s post.



Oh, half-sister. You emerged from hell with your spine intact. How I envy you. I love how you call out her attention whore nature.

In the weight loss front, I remain comfortably in the 190s. My body seems happy there, though I have begun to snack too much at night again. Gotta watch that.

Today’s going to be beautiful outside. I’m going to do some housework and pet my lovely, giant doggo. He is splendid.

Return to Onederland

After a whole lot of pissing and moaning (literally, the first part), my body finally broke the 200lb plateau and eased down to 197 yesterday. It was kind of torturous, seeing the scale at 200lbs every day without change. I’m not sure what happens, but it’s like a limit I have to break through every time, like my body detects I’m at exactly at 200lbs and makes me have to work for it.

My ketostix were dark, dark pink today, meaning I am deep into ketosis. Hooray, running off my fat! My husband has pointed out that I check my water retention/fat loss by feeling my stomach. The looser/floppier (phrasing), the better. Eww. Those two sentences are gross, and I am gross. Meh. Guess I’m just gross. I’ve never been proper and appropriate, unless I get paid.

But back to weight loss.

I’ve been able to curb my night time snacking. Sometimes it takes me some time, to turn off the part of my brain going,”Why not have another snack? Why deny yourself? It it so bad?” Or at least to stop listening to it. The siren call of comfort is hard to ignore, especially when you’re feeling weaker.

I’m pretty impressed in the month of May I managed to take off 75% of the 16lbs I managed to put on in April, a month I spent ill with bronchitis and off keto. Four pounds until I reach the weight I was on March 23rd, 193 lbs. Hindsight is a bitch, you know? I thought I was enjoying that month of binging, in the name of aiming to give myself the calories needed to cure viral bronchitis. Now I look back and went, did you really need to eat a pint of ice cream every other night? Order pizza and Chinese delivery thrice a week?

When I’m not on keto, I lose all control of myself. I’ve said here before on this blog that I now understand what a lifestyle change means. It means forever. It means reigning in that carb-binging side of me for the rest of my life. It means, “No, I can’t go to the grocery store or go through Wendy’s drive-thru because I’m feeling bad and crappy, emotionally or physically.” I just have ZERO self control when it comes to carbs, and managing my emotions with carbs. I have to be on a lower carb diet FOR LIFE.

I simply don’t know how to stop, I don’t know what to do when my emotions take a dump. I was taught to suppress my emotions and not acknowledge them. A line I recall, semi-ironically, from the TV show “Daria”: “But at least a chocolate bar never told me I was an accident.” That line was there for laughs.. But it’s too fucking real for me, man. 😐

Stupid Metabolism (Plateau)

Woah boy. That month of April I took off dieting just keeps on messing me up. My body is pulling that same shit as last time I was approaching Onederland. It desperately doesn’t want to go below 200lbs. It’s kind of driving me nuts.

I’m partially to blame. I’ve been snacking too much. I fall back into emotional/bored eating at night when I put on something to watch. All of my hard daytime work goes up in smoke after snacking at night.

That being said, I feel like I am becoming a little more fit. I’ve been working outside a lot, and in the last few days, I’ve hiked a couple miles with our doggo.

I need to go on a hard carb fast. My greedy little hands need to stay out of the fridge after 8 pm. I’m going to drag my body kicking and screaming back into Onederland.


The Last Delusion

Day 11 of Funemployment.

I’m nearly back below 200lbs. In the month of April, the single month of April, I went from 193 to 209. 16 POUNDS in a single month. Well, I’m 200.8 lbs right now. I’m sad to have lost that progress but recovery from bronchitis would have been shit while eating 1300-1600 calories a day. Instead, I turned into a walking garbage can.

I’ve been pondering the painful, years-long removal of my last delusion, the one that people could like you for you and accept you. I’ve been pondering my past relationships and reevaluating them, seeing them in the light.

There’s one thing for certain. I would now rather be alone than have pity friends.

That’s what my high school friends are. I still can’t quite let go of them, though I barely see them. We mostly have Facebook relationships now. It’s quite funny, how I was allowed into their group based on pity and schadenfreude, but I still can’t let them go. Like they’re my last tenuous link to humanity, my last spark of hope that I can be treated like a human being by others. Of course, that’s the problem. I’m assuming that “being treated like a human being” means being treated as though I have worth and value, someone who has a voice. It could just as well mean “keep the beta around so you can watch them have a shit life and embarrass themself; snigger and try to take advantage if they have access to something you don’t.”

Human beings are ugly, barely civilized animals. Fiction has done me a disservice, teaching me that people can be nobler than they are. My personal experience is that they are almost never.

I didn’t want to believe it. I didn’t want to believe that other people were like my father and stepmother. I needed to believe people could be better than they are. But now that’s gone. And I won’t spend my energy on others more than I have to. It’s never welcomed, it’s never returned. Fine, I get the message now, finally.

I’ve always known, somehow, that I always had to be my own advocate. I couldn’t count on my mother. My father and stepmother considered me a dead weight, some unpleasant reality they wanted to scrape off their shoe. There were… brief sparks of love from my father’s siblings, but none of them could/would help. I’m slowly coming to terms with the fact that other people just don’t care. If you’re not lucky enough to have parents that do care, you have to somehow find the strength to cope. Build up yourself alone. Somehow. And if you can’t, I have zero judgement for those who choose to go where there is no pain. I understand.

I have to do it somehow. Build myself up. With little to no help. With little to no understanding from others. Sometimes I feel like I exist on this world as some sort of alien observer, cut off from warmth and acceptance. At least now I understand that I am cut off. I won’t again fill the space between myself and someone else with warmth and light, because I make the mistake of thinking the other person contributed some of it. No, it is all my own. I musn’t waste it anymore.