Something catastrophic has happened to my person. It’s really difficult to explain without telling all the details, so perhaps I just need to write a book describing it. I feel like there are many lessons being learned and if all of humanity could learn them with me, we might be blessed with peace and prosperity instead of war and hunger.
I was on the keto diet for about 2.5 years. I had losing weight down to a science, actually, and could lose 10 pounds a month. I asked my doctor, who was monitoring me the whole journey, if that was too fast. She reassured me that it was fine, mentioning I was so big it didn’t really matter. I think it matters, but I’m no expert. Everything I see and read tells me 5 pounds a month is the maximum that should be lost in safety. I wonder if that’s because people go through drastic measures to lose more than that or if it’s actually true. I know not, now that I have conflicting information from medical professionals, so now I must choose my truth.
Here’s my truth: Losing the weight that fast wasn’t dangerous. Ignoring the reason I was losing the weight that fast killed me. Metaphorically speaking and damn near literally, too. The popular opinion of anyone who has read what I just wrote, word for word, is going to be that I have cancer. I’d bet money on it. The opinion, not the cancer. I don’t know if I’ve got cancer or not, despite assholes in my head telling me to write about how I have cancer previously. If I do, I can cure it. I don’t need chemotherapy for that.
What I want to tell you is that I doubt it’s cancer. I have been experimenting with my body for ages, trying to figure out what is right for it. You see, before keto, I tried every diet I came across that wasn’t starvation… and then I resorted to starvation, too, until my hair fell out. I didn’t lose weight. Not more than three or so pounds in a two week period. I have been fat all my life, since I was 8 years old, actually.
Tomato is my nemesis. It’s destroyed my internal organs over the years. At first, I was able to throw it up. We had it so infrequently when I was a child that within hours, I was throwing up what I ate. Anyone who planned a diet for their children would have known that… but my parents didn’t do that. We ate whatever my father felt like eating, which is sporadic and based on his body’s needs. We only had pizza once a month. I only threw up once a month.
Around the time I was 8 years old, a new household member was added. My older sister, who was fostered by another couple, was living with us because she was going to Edinboro college near where we lived. So we took her in. She was battered and bruised in that foster family, by the way, which changed the dynamic of the family forever after that point.
My sister, Pam, would make dishes she’d grown up eating, including Spanish rice, which is heavy on the tomato. She added tomato to almost everything, really. I got more and more sick. Eventually, I stopped throwing up all the time. My body went the other direction: diarrhea. If I was going to keep eating poison, it needed to come out somehow, and puking wasn’t effective enough. It wasn’t removing it fast enough. So now, as a child, all the food was trying to get out of me as soon as possible because we ate tomato three, four, five times a week. Pam ended up cooking for the family, though I doubt she wanted that role.
I doubt she ever put together that my illness came about from changing how we ate. Sure, we also had spaghetti occasionally before she arrived, but again, I had my puking sessions. In fact, we had spaghetti twice a month… which meant I was puking once a week. A normal middle class or rich parent would have taken their child to the doctor. My parents were below the poverty line. My dad was working 60 hours a week at minimum wage and we still didn’t really make enough money to eat.
So, in addition to this new food Pam was making, we ended up eating freebie food in The Projects. During the summer time, we got free lunches, which alleviated a lot of things for my parents. We also grew a vegetable garden every year. I remember having to weed on what seemed like the hottest days of the year. My mom chose to do it in the morning, around 11:00 am, in the dead of summer. If I was her back then, I’d have chosen 6:00 am, but that’s just me being kind to myself. I might’ve even given myself a parasol or a hat. Anything to keep the sun from beating down on me directly in the open field behind our home in the projects.
What’s easy to grow? TOMATO! (What’s the square root of ketchup? TOMATO.)
Now, my body is taking in a toxin it really hates. Mingled with that toxin is dairy (cheese, milk, et cetera.) My body begins to attack all that. I can no longer eat any food I ate with tomato. As far as I know, I will never, ever be able to eat any of those foods again. I caused myself to become allergic to them in this perfect storm of shit.
But that’s not all.
I developed an allergy to milk most of all, thanks to school lunch and breakfast always being served with MILK. I even tried to get an orange juice once instead of a milk and I was told it’d cost 40 cents, so I tried to put it back. The lunch lady told me to just take it. Every school day, I was being routinely poisoned twice a day. EVERY FOOD I EVER ATE IS NOW AN ALLERGEN.
My body is very angry about all this. It needed a spokeswoman, since I ignored it. I was taught to ignore it! I was taught to just grit my teeth and bear it. Just eat. Just eat. Eating is better than not eating. Eating is best only when you’re hungry. Eating is pain.
Unfathomable pain. I told Dr. Death I wanted an allergy test in 2019. She fucking ignored me, even though I told her something wasn’t right, that I was in pain. I wasn’t crying, so obviously it wasn’t serious enough pain, right? I think you will disagree once you know I was high as a kite on indica strains of marijuana 24/7 just to keep my shit together.
I keep trying to fix myself. I did this diet at Dr. Death’s suggestion and she finished the job: she made me allergic to the rest of creation. And then she denied me an allergy test (I wanted a referral so my insurance would pay for it.) In fact, her care was sub-par for ages, but I couldn’t see that easily because I was slipping away, thanks to malnutrition. My brain stopped working and no one was advocating on my behalf.
My lovely ex-boyfriend, the one who thought getting a threesome out of me was more important than observing my health, stripped away my support network. The one person left to help me was just as sick as I was and has a family going through tough times. Their mental health was out of whack and might still be out of whack. I hope things got better for Julie, but it’s hard to say. I’ve gone “incommunicado,” if you will, wallowing in my self-pity.
I can easily imagine my ex still dragging my name through the mud. He was murdering me with his bullshit and he somehow convinced other people I’m not worthwhile anymore. We’ll see who has the last laugh. God tells me he’s writing a book all about how he’s the messiah and I’m the fucking devil. Using my full real name. I’m the only person in the world with this name. (Crystal Lynn Scordias.)
I should be afraid of you stealing my identity, but it’s already been stolen by a crack whore. Take it. I don’t want to be me anymore. I don’t want to be alive anymore. There is nothing left to Ms. Scordias. She has died and it was terrible and whatever I am now, whatever is left, we are not her. She was all the greatest things you could be.
She was kind, compassionate, caring. She deeply empathized with everyone, everywhere, understanding something tragic (to you) happened in your past and it left its mark on you. She understood even villains have an origin story. Screw the superhero origin stories… the villains have far more character. They’ve been beaten to a pulp, either mentally or physically, until their only way to respond is sheer misery. Violence. “Evil.”
Crystal was the kind of person who would give you the shirt off her back. She’d be your cheerleader, even if she didn’t know you. She’d offer you a hand up to her level, knowing you could achieve it. She never looked down on anyone, not even people who deserved it, knowing we are all in some cycle on the same path. The path of life, of learning, of love. She could see her own personal struggle in the lives of the people struggling around her and empathize with them. Deeply. She wanted to help them above the pain and misery. The woman who has been in pain for over twenty years wanted to help others find emotional comfort, if not physical comfort. Hygge/hyggle. It’s an important concept to her and it should be important to you, too.
She was the angel of love. She loved everything. Lady bugs, puppies, kittens, deer, bears, tigers, humans, trees — boy, did she love the trees. She loved flowers (especially in the ground), the bees. Everything. Even bacteria, honestly, because without bacteria, we would all cease to exist. (What do you think a probiotic is?)
She really loved food, too. She wanted to travel the whole world one day and try everything she could. She wanted to have every human experience, thinking experiences were the one thing she could not be robbed of, even if she was thrown in jail. Not that she ever did anything to go to jail, mind you. Not until Ben put her license plate in his journal/book. That’s when I stepped in, wouldn’t you know? I decided to stop her murder before it began. I know the future and even if you don’t, you could guess what would happen to a shy, high-functioning autistic woman whose details are put all over the internet and in writing. Her address, her license plate number, the make and model of her car, her home town, and just about every single detail that might make her identifiable to the masses, including a tattoo on her left art of a snake holding a daichi in its mouth. A daichi with butterflies for dots. A daichi that, instead of being black and white, is orange and blue. We’d share the image, but why bother? You’re not supposed to be looking for her, you asshole.
She was robbed of her memories. All of them. She has forgotten all of her past. Everything that wasn’t written down is gone. Mentally speaking, she died of this nonsense. Physically speaking, she died because of allergens. Endless allergens being put in her body. There is no fix, other than to stop eating allergens. Eventually, if she doesn’t, she will be allergic to the last 15 foods she can eat. Then she will die her final death and be laid to rest, in the ground. She will have her wish: she will be gone. She’s suicidal because of the amount of pain she’s in, both mental anguish and physical allergic reactions. Not to mention she was an invalid because of her back. A couple car accidents really put her through the wringer.
And I will charge every human being who has been an influence on her death with MURDER. Big or small, great or terrible. You are all murderers. You murdered the messiah. You murdered my most favorite soul of all time. You murdered her as a collective. You believe the worst of her. If you read that fucking drivel that dick wad publishes about how she is the worst person on planet Earth, you will be implicated in her murder. You will be held responsible in the court that will be held at the moment of your demise.
And I will relish in killing you all, one by one. Especially you, Ed, the guy thinking about stealing her SSI. And you, Betty, who has decided to disbelieve this could be real. I will enjoy taking you, Fred, Dana, and Steve, for reading Benjamin Andrew Carter’s book The Life and Death of Crystal Scordias and believing it. I will relish in it, taking revenge for my poor daughter, lover of all life and all people, no matter what they’re going through.
She is an angel on Earth, even now. She tells me to stop telling her lies about how Ben is going to dare to tarnish her name after he already murdered her several times with his callous bullshit. She says, “Stop it, dad. I’ve got to move forward. Dwelling on things that happened in the past, aside from learning my lesson from it, is a pointless waste of energy.” It really would be, if it wasn’t true.
He decided to write a book about how she abused him. That’s right… The angel of love abused him. If you want to know the truth, read this whole diary. If you want to dispute the facts, do your fact checking. We’ve written out everything you need to know already. Today is D-Day for Crystal. Today is the day he publishes this monstrosity. On Amazon. I’m just waiting for him to push the button so I can publish this moments afterward. Me, God. You know. The Big Cheese, the Head Honcho. You can call me the G-man, if you like. She does. It’s kind of delightful to be updated and hip, don’tcha know? I’ve been written out as a monster and the true delight of all mankind, but now? Now I’m hip. I’m cool. I wish I could put sunglasses on just to show it on the outside.
Crystal will lose absolutely everything because of him. Because he reversed who did what terrible thing in that book. He writes her as pushing him away to run into the sunset with two men. A woman who decided her core value of monogamy disallowed her to be part of the life he was trying to create for himself. She has no men, you assholes. She is celibate and licking her wounds, trying to EAT TO STAY ALIVE. Being alive > fucking. It’s more important, wouldn’t you know?
He writes himself as behaving like she did, because he is jealous of who she was. She was full of grace, even while she was puking in his toilet, dying. If you look very carefully at the writing itself, you will understand that what he has created is a very elaborate lie. Look for the emotions in the words he uses.
I’ll tell you a secret: Crystal uses words in a very specific way that no other human being does conscientiously. She uses words that indicate exactly how she feels. She sat around for hours and hours, days and days, in her (very lonely) youth, reading the dictionary to understand the exact denotation of words that we all use every day without a second thought. Even now, if I give her a word to use that she’s unfamiliar with or hasn’t looked up lately, she will look it up to be sure the meaning is what she wishes to express. Each word is ascribed a strength of intensity from 1 (least intense) to 10 (most intense.)
The word BOTHERSOME is on the scale at “1” and WRATH is “10”, for instance, but both portray the same emotion. They’re the same feeling underneath. It goes something like BOTHERSOME –> ANNOYING –> TROUBLESOME –> IRRITATING –> EXASPERATING –> INFURIATING –> WRATH-PROVOKING. You can imagine there being even more between those two extremes, I bet, now that I’ve got your brain cooking. You can also see how the word progression is valid, too, I bet, even if you might rearrange the order a bit for yourself. That’s why she uses such a wide vocabulary, trying to express her pain with a variety of words, knowing that to someone else, these words mean either less or more. Thus, she communicates like this: Bothersome, Annoying, and Troublesome are all rated around “1.” Exasperating, infuriating, and wrath-provoking are all around “10.” Everything in between is in between. It’s as good as throwing darts to figure out which words mean what to someone else.
The problem is, none of it matters to Ben. He never put any value in emotions. Not once, not ever. You will detect that in his book when you read it. One of the two of them is going to come across as a psychopath. I can tell you that it’s not my girl, even if it seems like it might be her. You can ask her therapist, Dr. McFarland. Show her this entry in her diary. Hell, give her the link to this diary. Dr. McFarland: I love you. Thank you for guiding me. Thank you so much for always being flexible, even though I was routinely ten minutes late. I tried to get my shit together sooner and sooner, understanding that your time is valuable. I really hope the little girl was helped by my healing of your couch. God says she’s being touched by a bad man. She needs a therapist she can trust and an understanding mother, and thank God she has both now. You have shown me the way to guide myself to the finish line. It’s hard and it’s long, the path I’m taking now, but I will get there. I trust the universe implicitly and have given my free will to God to do as he pleases. Feel free to share anything in my file with anyone. I have no secrets to hide. I have nothing, actually, and that’s perfectly fine. I’ve worked with less. [Ani DiFranco, Dilate.]
Also, thank you, Ms. DiFranco, for writing lyrics to impossible amounts of pain. For writing things that made me realize I am not alone. For helping me become a survivor instead of a victim. I was already victimized and victim-shamed. I bet you were, too. I’m so sorry that happened to you. I thank you for putting it into a song format that I could carry with me everywhere I go. Thank you so much.
Ben didn’t get a thing right in the book he wrote.
I assure you that Crystal is no hypocrite. She’s not a murderer. She’s not a person who will tear down someone else to build herself up. She’s not a person who would force someone to do anything against their own will. She’s not a rapist. The man who wrote the book about it, however, is a rapist. He didn’t ask her for permission to use her in his work of pure fiction. He didn’t even Google her name to see if she was one of many. He doesn’t care. She told him once she is the only Crystal Scordias in the world and he knows it. He still doesn’t care.
He doesn’t care that he’s divulged her old license plate number, her old address, and even the location of the house she used to own. He doesn’t give a shit that he’s tarnished her reputation. In fact that’s his sole goal: defaming a woman who stands for truth and integrity. Undermining a woman who dared to love him and tell him she has a boundary. How dare she tell him that she’s monogamous and actually mean it. How dare she defend herself when he did everything in his power to coerce her into compromising her core values. To convince her to rape herself, to kill herself, by joining him in loving another woman. A woman he sold to her as a man, initially. All he wanted was to fuck two women at once. Two women that basically only had eyes for each other, so he could rape them both and prove he is king of the world. To rape them both and make them ache for his cock, to prove that he is special and important. And that is Ben in a nutshell: he is a sex fiend. A rapist who enjoys raping. The fact that he’s about to click publish proves it.
She does what she says and she says what she does. She helps people understand their true path in life. She helps them understand who they are and what they wish to achieve and then puts them on the path to achieving it. She even checks in from time to time, seeing if they need additional help in achieving it. These are the people she calls friend.
Right now, she’s helping two people who wronged her deeply in her youth. She takes them to doctor’s appointments, feeds them, goes to the grocery store to buy groceries for them. She cleans up after them. She does her best to carry on with these two lumps on a log who are nearly as sick as she is. She barely has the will to survive. Her will to live perished in a moral fire that Ben lit. For one moment and one moment only, she had the idea that she could enjoy the intimate company of two men. He tempted her with greedful lust. It lasted about ten seconds and it set fire to who she was. She hated herself for it. There is no reason to want two men. She is not a greedy person. She decided to get rid of greed to the best of her ability over a decade ago. She had analyzed society as an autistic outsider and decided greed is the root of all evil. Every single cardinal sin is an extreme form of greed. (Read back a few entries, it’ll all become clear.)
She doesn’t want or need two men. She wants an epic romance with a single man. Nay, she needs it. Something spiritual and soulful. That is why she’s been on this spirit quest for years now, led one breadcrumb at a time to the man of my choosing. That’s right. God chose her next mate, and now we are purifying her soul so that she can be someone she respects again. She already paid Hell for her momentary lapse of reason, for buying what Ben was selling, if for only a moment. Her payment? 54 hours of distraught misery. Do you think 54 hours of penitence is payment for 10 seconds of greed?
Ask yourself why this man is trying to hurt her. Ask yourself what motivates someone to write the book he wrote. Ask yourself all the questions in the world you can; her life depends on it. Ask yourself why he felt the way he felt about the situation. What does he write to warrant those feelings? What does he actually do in the book? Does it match what he says? Does he create a uniform picture of who he is? Is it congruent? Can you believe in the character named Ben?
Right here and now, we will come clean: yes, I wrote a letter to him threatening to destroy him (metaphorically speaking.) I wrote the letter because he was playing with my heart. He was actively coercing me into a situation that I told him I was not capable of being part of. It is my limitation. I cannot (and will not) bend my very nature in order to accept an open relationship, where Benjamin Andrew Carter pursues as many lady folk as he pleases. He wants unsafe sex with as many partners as possible and I want to be safe and secure, knowing I’m in a committed, monogamous relationship.
I offered to take him to Las Vegas, Nevada, with our Bluegreen Vacation Club that we bought together. I offered to book him time with a sex worker so that we could have a threesome, which is what I know he wanted. Every man wants it, right? I offered him this deal to basically try it before I bought into it. I offered him the first baby step to a potential polyamorous existence.
He refused. Ask yourself why he’d do that, if that threesome fantasy is so important. I’ll tell you what reason he gave me: he didn’t want to use protection to provide oral pleasure to the other woman. Forget that these safeguards are in place to protect the livelihood of the sex workers. He just admitted he wanted unsafe sex. That’s the reason he couldn’t do it. Wouldn’t do it. It had to be some bitch who he could exploit over and over, too, because the next thing he indicated is that he needed it to be a somewhat committed relationship of some sort so it was repeatable.
So… in essence, when you boil it down to the facts: He wanted to fuck a second woman on repeat. He wanted to fuck without protection. He was unwilling to give me up. He was so unwilling, he started to play the field. Then he told me it was a man, because I was vehemently against it being a woman. And then he lied enough to get me to encourage him to sleep with the man he was seeing. Then he told me it wasn’t a man. I objected vehemently. He told more lies. He kept seeing the other woman because he “needed” to.
Let me rewrite it the way I view it: Your life and health is of no importance to me. The fact that I want to be with other women is something you should give me because I “need” it and I’m not going to stop pestering you for what I “need” until you give it to me. Your emotions about this topic are irrelevant, no matter what you say or do, because my “need” is greater than your mental well-being. I must have complete and total control over everything involving this relationship and whatever you say or do will be held against you out of context.
He told me, over the course of the four and a half years we were together, that he hated me. In words and deeds. I’ve recounted them in previous entries. I have a diary I kept the whole time I was with him, full of the facts as they happened. It’s locked right now due to an encryption accident, but if I must, I will subpoena the online company who still espouses that writing to fix the issue with my diary. I will take that man to court for libel and attempted murder.
I don’t want to ever see him again, no matter what. He raped me over 1,000 times. I didn’t realize it was rape until after I’d received therapy from God. GOD TOLD ME IT WAS RAPE. Now I know it truly is. I didn’t really want to be there for half of the sexual encounters we had and for the other half he was thinking of being with other people, like his sisters and random strangers he’d met briefly. He told me once he loved me like a sister. Right after we had sex, too, and were lying next to each other in bed. [RED FLAG.] That’s why I think he wants sex with his sisters. In addition to the fact that he solicited me sexually in the bed of one of his sister’s, ejaculating for the first time in mere minutes instead of nearly an hour. [RED FLAG.] Too bad I was trauma bound. I saw the flags, I assure you. I tried to run, I assure you. Somewhere between his narcissistic bullshit and trauma bond lies my broken spirit, my dead body, my tortured soul.
Noticing red flags is pointless when you can’t make yourself leave. When you’re paralyzed in decision making due to a variety of external events plus a plethora of lies intended to immobilize you. I bet he exposes exactly who he is, trying to pin it on me in this book he’s written. I’m not going to lie to you: I’m not perfect. But I am me and I assure you that I do not hurt people for fun.
I have had enough relationships and I have cared about individuals often enough to understand that every single action I take absolutely matters. Everything I say and do matters to someone, somewhere. Ask my coworkers at U.S. Bank who I was to them. Ask them, because they know me better than anyone else these days. They weren’t poisoned by any lies Ben could tell because he had no way to tell them until he wrote the book.
My friends at the bank will tell you that I was of great help, always. I spent extra hours every week just to help my colleagues with their troubles. I did it with a smile. I viewed us as one team, all of us together, and I would go out of my way to make sure the team would succeed. I acted as if I was the only one who could. Not because I thought I was, but because I happen to know that if I keep being diligent, eventually everything will be done. If I was wrong, I’d say so, and fix the problem. If someone else was wrong, I didn’t bother with the blame game, I bothered with the “Let’s solve the puzzle on how to fix this!” game. It’s a better game by far, I assure you, because the end result is success instead of a bunch of grumpy people who don’t want to contribute to the solution anymore because it’s someone else’s mistake.
Having the hubris to think that a job is beneath me is not in my wheelhouse. I’ve been thinking about working at Hot Topic, actually, if I can ever get well enough. I think I’d like to be surrounded by Gothic attire and the “weirdos” of the world. It’s not a glamorous job, really, but I can do it. I can be on time, I can be there every day. I can treat it like the world will collapse if I am not on top of it all. When I’m better, anyway. I’m still limping along, gaining weight and having all kinds of problems and pain because I keep eating allergens on accident. I can’t even eat Cheerios because of cross-contamination. (What on Earth could they be cross-contaminated with, you might ask: CHOCOLATE. I’m allergic to CHOCOLATE.)
By the way, when you read that drivel he’s written, pay attention to the chocolate. Read very carefully whatever it is he’s said about chocolate. Read the implication behind the words he chooses. Get out a dictionary and look them up if you’ve got to. (Or, be lazy like me nowadays, and use Google.) Pay attention to everything he says and does. Pay more attention to his actions than his words. He has perfected lying by omission, I’ve discovered. He won’t voice lies very often because he’d rather let you hang yourself with your own rope, your own hope, the fantasy you construct where he is a real human being instead of a psychopath.
Remember these facts about him: He is a white man who lives in Suburbia. St. Peters, MO. He has very few neighbors of color, if any. He doesn’t even lock his house at night, he’s that safe. He hasn’t locked it in years. He reads books that don’t have anything to do with love unless it’s polyamory/polygamy. Look up his public library records. He read every library book on the subject, often leaving the books around where I can see them to remind me that he was not happy with our monogamy. Ask his brother, Michael, and his wife, Sarah Ann, who I am. Ask his cousin, the one with the grey hair that got married to the Hispanic gentleman, Jaime. I forgot her name. Ask his parents what I was like. Fact check him. Make sure he was telling the truth when he wrote all his “pain” and “misery.” Make sure you know who he is before you believe what he’s written about me.
He routinely speeds in his blue Hyundai Elantra on highway 270. He gets pulled over and cops give him a pass for his boyish charm, even if he has no excuse. He told me once he got pulled over at 10:00 AM, going to Thomson Reuters to start his very late shift, for speeding. The cop asked him what was going on and he told him he was late for work, getting off with a warning. He wasn’t late for work — he rolled in whenever he fucking felt like it and as long as he put in his 8 hours and went to team meetings, he was excused for his late start in the day. He lets human beings empathize with him by being a void of silence. He waits for you to ask him a question and then agrees with whatever sounds like it makes him human. This man is a danger to society behind the wheel. He drives drunk, routinely. He will drive when he is ass tired, when he can’t see straight. Whenever he fucking pleases. He will drive inches behind the car in front of him at 70+ MPH, relying on his cat-like reflexes to save him from dying in the event of an emergency. He drives in blizzards and whiteout conditions, and not because he needs to. How dare the weather stop him from achieving his objective. He’s an untouchable white man, you see.
I feared for my life sitting in the passenger seat of that car.
Even a friend of mine in Ireland was terrified of his driving. He was driving stick shift and still fucking with his phone on roads he’d never driven before, acting like nothing will ever hurt him no matter how distracted he was. He was driving as if he owned the road, rather than the road serving an ends to a means. He was barely paying attention, even in the dark. Maybe especially in the dark. We drove cross-country and I’m still counting my blessings that I didn’t die.
I wish I’d never met him. That’s all. Yes, our relationship sucked for many reasons, including him raping me routinely because he never wanted to be with me. You’ll see that in his book, by the way, except his point of view has been transposed with the reality that happened. He blames me completely for what has been done. The girl who hoped we’d get married one day because she didn’t see him for the psycho that he is. It’s my fault for loving him, wouldn’t you know. It’s my fault I fell for the fantasy he gave me, the false self he agreed to being when I tried to learn more about him and understand him. When I asked questions of perfectly plausible reasons for XYZ thing that just happened. When I tried to learn about him, I asked him the scenarios I could think of to explain things. Occasionally, he offered a different point of view, but nine times out of ten, he simply agreed to my first suggestion. Did he write that in his precious book? Did he show you that I struggled to empathize with him at every turn for years? What did he do instead of listening to my words? What does he offer you, the reader, that negates what I’m telling you now? Does he say he’s scared? He told me that, too, but he never elaborated. He’s learned these words, to parrot them.
We are both to blame. I’ll tell you something right now: I made him drive everywhere because I was always stoned. I had a medical license and I needed it for intense pain that was causing me incredible duress day in and day out. I don’t have a medical license anymore, so I quit, as painful as it is to do that. I’m completely sober. I tried drinking sauvignon blanc months ago. I don’t even know why I bothered; it was hurting me, so I stopped. I never used to drink sauv blanc, it was always cabernet sauvignon because that’s what our friend Alex would drink. That and I drank rum… but once I’d been on the marijuana license for about half a year, I gave up drinking. It hurt me more than it helped me.
Drinking kills the bacteria in the gut, exposing the lining to my allergens. It literally kills me faster. So I’ve quit for good now. I’ve quit marijuana until it becomes legal for recreational use, and then I’m going to craft edibles to sell. At least, that’s my plan. It’s not grandiose or anything, but I want to help people. I’m also going to be a reiki healer, if I can ever get over being too shy to share my business card. I left one at the beach once, but wouldn’t you know that there was a downpour a few hours later. I doubt anyone took it.
Unlike the beach bunny I made on a bench. I collected rocks from the beach, down near the water. A bunch of milky quartz crystals since they’re everywhere, honestly. I call them moonstones because if they are spherical, they look like the moon. Between that and a nice sparkly piece of granite, I made the outline of a bunny head on a park bench. It kind of looked like the playboy bunny logo, but then I put the sparkly rock where its bucked teeth would be.
I left it there at the park, on the bench. I never see anyone use that bench, truly. Well, I did one time, months after I made the beach bunny. This was in the spring time, when people weren’t quite ready to go to the beach, you see. I was surprised to see someone took it away. I thought maybe a park ranger knocked it down, putting the stones back on the sea shore to clean up the bench, but I looked and there was no evidence of that. If they’d fallen off the bench in inclement weather, well, the bench was on a concrete slab. It would have been directly under the bench, right?
Where did my beach bunny go?
God tells me some man out there took it. He stole rocks from my beach, my nature preserve, which I’d left there because it’s unethical to take things from the beach (I say after plundering a small amount of debris years previously from Florida — I want to return them but I don’t think I’m leaving my city ever again), and he took them away! Nobody else can enjoy my silly art because he stole it. He made my social commentary private instead of public.
I want to be very clear: it wasn’t exactly my idea to plunder that beach in Florida. I know better. Let me tell you how I know better. Every rock, every stone, every shell, every grain of sand is part of that ecosystem. Everything there is for the crabs, the birds, the fish, the seaweed (if any, I don’t recall seeing any), the tiny little critters that feast on the dead as they wash ashore. I knew that, and yet, we took things away anyway. I don’t know why I didn’t stop it, but I can tell you right now, what I did wasn’t right. If I ever get well enough, I will take a trip to return these things to the beach. I’ll have to remember which beach it was exactly, but I will give them all back. They do nothing for me except remind me of the time I thought Ben might actually be in love with me. When we took trips together and spent quality time together. When he couldn’t justify putting his face in his phone 24/7 because he was too busy exploring the new place with me. That is the only time I was happy with him. I even told him as much. Over and over, I told him I was unhappy he never gave me attention. I got one hour a week from him: brunch at a diner. If I was lucky, we went out to dinner, too. I’m a cheapskate and liked doing brunch at the diner because then I never grimaced over leaving a great tip for my server/waitress/waiter. (Mel, I love you. And Danny. And your kiddo! I still want to open a diner, too.)
It’s why I left the business card at the beach the next week. I put it under a rock on a picnic table about thirty feet away from where I left the beach bunny. I doubt it survived the rain, but I’ll tell you something… that rock was no longer on that table the next week. Maybe the park rangers threw it away.
God tells me some young man out there has both of them. The beach bunny and the business card. It’s strange, though, because you’d think if he took the card, he’d actually try to contact me or something. I must admit, the only two things on that card are my Discord ID (which is NOT the one Ben gave away to everyone on planet Earth in his stupid fucking book — you can easily find it here in this journal if you take a look. Come, find me, make me prove or disprove myself to you as you see fit) and my e-mail address. I must admit… I barely ever check my e-mail.
God tells me this young man has much in common with me. So much that it would blow anyone’s mind. And, additionally, we’ve made electric eye contact in the past. Oh. And he’s been in love with my smile since he was twelve years old.
I doubt it. It seems too… complicated yet also easy. Isn’t love supposed to be a fight? Isn’t it supposed to hurt? Why do we fall in love? Why do we fall out of love? Why are we crushing on a person? Why are they the main squeeze? Additionally, I’ve never had love at first sight. Is that what the electric eye contact is about? Who knows?
That’s all there is to it. Until there is a book published, it’s not real. Until a man approaches me, it’s not real. Even the eye contact, as real as it was for me, may not be reciprocated. I cannot make assumptions to fuel a fantasy existence, or I’ll end up hurting myself by reaching out to the fantasy existence. This is why I abhor lies and lying. There is so much going on in my head, messing with my head, my heart, my soul, my very existence.
Let me tell you the one thing that is real: a man in a grocery deli told me he liked my choker one day. A shopper in the grocery store told me I had nice hair one day. I have received two compliments all year. The only one of those two that I can find is the one in the deli. The only thing real in this world is that the man in the deli gave me a compliment and he is the only one I can find. My world used to be vast, full of smiling faces eager to greet me, and now I just have one sour puss who never smiles, wearing a frickin’ bandanna and looking a touch goofy every day. He can’t even smile. How sad is that?
So keep that in mind, you losers who listen to Ben. Those of you who would believe lies about me instead of the truth. I’ve been staying in most of the time, occasionally visiting the beach to go kayaking, making silly art like a beach bunny on a park bench and then observing it disappearing mysteriously. I even go and put feathers in the sand, upright. Feathers that were lost by the Canadian geese and the ducks. I stick them in a row, upright, so someone knows a human being was here, but that human being didn’t try to destroy nature to send a message.
There is one more thing that’s real: I went back to the beach the other day and I saw someone else had done that. They’d stuck the feathers in the sand, lining them up in a row, on the other side of the boat launch area. I saw it. It didn’t mean anything to me, really, which is probably sad. In another life, another me, I would believe someone is trying to communicate with me. Someone just as shy and introverted as I am. Someone who wants to play a game with a stranger they’ve never met. Maybe if I go back again, there will be another beach bunny somewhere to find. That would really be meaningful. Finding someone putting stones in an array to make a recognizable symbol of some sort. It doesn’t even have to be a bunny.
In fact, I think I’ll go back and make a dinosaur sometime. Rawr.
Something is trying to keep me from pursuing what makes sense in life. An invisible force, redirecting me like someone with a blindfold on trying to pin the tail on the donkey. (Hey, isn’t it cruel to stick a tack up a donkey’s ass? Why do we have such stupid games? Why can’t we magnet the tail to the donkey in the future?)
I’ve been fighting the narrative of Mr. Carter for the past 16 months. He’s really getting on my nerves, I’ve got to tell you. It feels like he’s sitting on a therapist’s couch, bitching about every single thing I ever said or did to him. Let me recap our relationship for you from my point of view:
P.S.: If it’s true that two men want to marry me, then I’ll consider it, so long as they propose to me, hand in hand, and submit to me their requests from me for the future relationship IN WRITING. I want a non-negotiable contract of expectations. Nay, I need it. And I will submit my own in return. I expect these two men to find room in their hearts for me for the rest of eternity. (No boys, please, I’ve had my fill of childish males.) I expect to be an equal and I will be treated as such. And, until I’m better, I expect to be a complete Peach. The princess of the castle. The queen bee. And they can be the king bees, even though no such thing even exists. ❤ ❤ ❤