Most people who blog do it under an Alias. The alias may look like a real name, but many have a fire wall between their lives and their blogs. I don’t. There are some things I just don’t blog about and that is that, though that list is shockingly small. My name really is Kateryna Fury. I admit fully as I have before I changed it from something else, but that previous identity is not really ever identified because I am trying to live as if she died.
There is a cost in being open. Some people have had their families harass them into silence, or a blog change depending on their personality. Others have been attacked by the local persons who know them. You can get stalked this way. It can be frightening. The cost I am talking about is something else. When the entire world knows that your heart is made of of sorrows, it can be difficult to be taken seriously. This is based on society’s problematic isms. Mental Health IE being considered crazy IE having been depressed or having a more serious condition (not to belittle depression but there are worse things) means immediately not being considered a person.
The truest form of disability is a lack of personhood. I have been upset today, with an unnamed need. I couldn’t fathom what it could be but the more I lacked it, the more upset I was. Some of this was made worse by finding out good things, my brain just refused to compute them. I had three options, find the need (felt impossible), melt down (probable), or somehow magically alter my brain. I found the need. I needed to call the agency that was supposed to have my new caregiver starting and find out where the temp was, because they screwed up the papers. They don’t know, she isn’t answering her phone and by the time I am done writing this, I will have called and said she is not welcome now it’s too late.
The need was to not be held in limbo, I may end up with a totally new caregiver, I may have another temp tomorrow, I do not know. The need was also food. My caregiver gets here at 12 pm. I eat then. If they are late, or do not show… no food. Weekends have hours on them because of this. That too has been unfulfilled. This agency is the best in town but right now I am very unhappy. The need also meant stopping writing, dragging my trashcan which has been festering for a week outside and slamming my door before taking pain meds.
I ate the last of the food I can prepare myself. this leaves me afraid. The cost of being open means however, when I am afraid, trying to find needs, and trying to discuss things I may say things in the wrong way. Words aren’t easily created for me, so at times I cannot place them in the proper order and at times even if the general idea is present people focus on the emotions or other things that are blocking the flow of words.
There are benefits to being open too, I never have to worry about having accidentally typed my name. I never have to worry that someone will find the anonymous blog I have and figure me out. Those two reasons are the biggest benefits of being open. They are good, too, in my case as I cannot keep a secret. I know this, and I don’t mind. If someone asks me if I can, the answer is no. I am not a blabber mouth, I just have a filtering issue where once the idea is in place I struggle to know if I should say this or not. I suspect this is common with Autism, but since I am one in a multitude I cannot say for certain.
I know that the fear of stalkers and/or having stalkers is the main reason people who blog, especially those who appear female or otherwise vulnerable, stay anonymous. I have in fact had a stalker, but that stalker came from the region of things we don’t blog about. In fact being open about this meant I had documentation and received help from my readers on how to deal with said issue. That was a benefit of being open.
This post is trigger light in some ways but I know it is triggering to have the feelings that I was having, or to read them. I felt like a kicked dog today, a beaten animal. I felt small. I felt like a child trying to get attention from Mommy. I felt like I was being bad. I spent some time crying because my body often does this when my brain is spinning it’s wheels in the mud. I think there is an element of PTSD that is omnipresent in anything I do as well.
I caught myself chanting, “I am bad, I am bad. I am a bad girl.” The word bad, I had to say it. I had the urge to bite my hands, to pull at my skin. I had the urge to cause self harm. This urge is something I feel whenever stressed. It is unpleasant and uncomfortable. I learned long ago that if I give in to that even though sometimes it makes me think better (not saying this is a good thing just that my logical reasoning as a child for why it should be okay to stab my thighs with a pencil until I bled was supposedly clear thinking) it means the institution awaits.
The chanting went further, I caught myself listing reasons why I am bad. This is tumbling out of my mouth while I am trying to do my daily needs on my own. Most of what I was aware of was pain, and having to walk. I kept forgetting what I was doing and with the festering garbage can i was also trying to breathe without gagging. “I am lazy, I am bad, lazy means worthless, I should just do it.” I still wasn’t even sure what it was.
I know what triggered me. It seems so odd that the trigger for my PTSD would be someone’s child having good parents. My mind tried to imagine a world without pain. That was what really set me on the path of regression. The lack of needs being met and my ability to do absolutely nothing without causing myself pain wrapped around it. I was in the jaws of an alligator while being constricted by a boa. My ability to think was on the menu.
I feel paranoid about everything I said and did. I reread everything, and there is nothing bad. There is an edge of babble in my interactions. That may always be present. Being open made me more afraid, as someone read my blog when I asked them to. What if they… what if… what if..
This person won’t judge me. Now my fear of being open and my mother reading the blog may be tangible. I worry she will read it and will be hurt that I don’t like her. I worry she will be hurt that I blame her for not doing. I worry she will be angry that I do not think she is as unable as she thinks she is. I know, that last statement is full of ableism. I do not deny that. I cannot comprehend what it is to be my mother, and from my vantage point there was more she could have done, and adult responsibilities I should not have had to do. I may be wrong. I need help and have a caregiver, why can’t she have the same need?
I worry about being open. I worry that someone who knows me will reject me based on my identity. My identity is contained in this blog. I am not just Kat Fury. I am a textual person. I am a writer. I have been published. I had a career. I threw it away. I worry, someone will realize I was someone who died (not on paper and most people know I am not dead) I worry they will try and zombify my existence with the baggage of she who was.
So, let me tell you a bit about She Who Was. She wrote stories, mostly short stories and poems. She sold most of them. She had many writing awards. She made a decent amount of money at it. She Who Was also hated herself, constantly wanted to die (I actually am still doing better than She Who Was did). She who was would take any failure on her part and would give up on her dreams as a result. Any failure meant a bout of self hatred. She who was did not care for her body but tried to punish it for being flawed. She who was, was not happy. I am happy, even in my depression. She who was is dead, because she who was is not who I am.
You won’t find me in the phone book, you won’t find me listed in many places. Google me and most of the links are to this blog actually, some relate to a friend’s comic book where he named a super hero after me, you will not find out who she was.