Tag: fiction

4’33

~ Leslie Lanagan ~ 1 Comment
Daily writing prompt
What do you listen to while you work?
View all responses

The air conditioner and the box fan in my office are both humming as I listen to the keys on my mechanical keyboard clack. Music, for me, is not external. I write in the silence, but music often runs through my head as I record the difficult passages of my life.

This is a difficult passage, but as Winston Churchill famously said, “if you’re going through hell, keep going.” The reason this is a difficult day is that I started out by looking at Facebook memories, and it was one year ago that I wrote the letter to Michael, Aada’s husband, explaining that it was a rough break for both of us that we didn’t get to meet each other and make room for all of our feral feelings for each other. I wrote a list of all the ways I wanted him to love her in my stead. It made me smile, and then my cheeks felt wet. I still feel every bit of love for Aada that I always did, but I got myself into an impossible situation and now it’s time to get out.

Everything right now is a distraction from the way I feel when I’m writing about her, because it makes me feel invincible to have such an incredible muse. I’m not angry today, as I was in the last entry. Just sad that none of my predictions for the future will come true unless a miracle occurs. I take responsibility for all the ways my blog has affected her life, and look forward to writing more about new experiences. The sadness is not being able to talk to her first before I publish, something I should have thought more about before I “exposed her.”

I deserved this friend breakup because I got too angry, too fast. She was my primary relationship for a number of years because we weren’t romantically involved, but emotionally entwined in a way that most friends aren’t. I still cannot deal with the hole left in my heart, and the guilt that it came at my own hand. I was in a very bad place, and I own that I would have made different decisions had I felt better about myself and the state of my world. It’s not an excuse, but my bipolar disorder got the best of me. Having bipolar disorder does not make me less accountable for my actions, but it is context for me down the road when I’ve forgotten why this relationship no longer exists and “whatever happened to….”

I used the word “feral,” and that’s exactly what it was… a reaction with no reasoning behind it. She lied to me in a way that she cost me more than she will ever accept, and while she has apologized for that lie “a million times over,” it does not erase my reaction when I found out.

I was less than gracious.

There’s no going back, so as I sit in the “silence” I’m thinking about how we both treated each other over the years. There’s no percentage in trying to fix anything, there is only taking the good parts away and learning from the bad. We both told each other to fuck off every time we got close. In that way, it will take months for this to feel real. That’s because we’ve tried to end it hundreds of times and it hasn’t worked for either one of us. Either I will feel her pull or she’ll read something here that she has to address, and we go a few days catching up until something gets said that the other doesn’t like and then it’s chopping each other off at the knees. That cycle has to end for both of us, because we have tried to get healthy over and over and over and over and over and over…………….

I do not think that we’d be in the same place had we met in person, because there’s something about the Internet that makes you quicker to anger than in person. It’s easier to go down the wrong road a lot faster without clearing things up. I wonder every day how things would have changed if I’d ever seen her eyes sparkle when she was making a joke, or given her a hug after a fight. I wonder if she wonders those things about me.

She mentioned being sorry that she wasn’t more present when my mother so shockingly died, and I told her it was okay… she was present now. And at that time, it was true. But she was only present in my inbox, too ethereal to be real. I have to admit how tired I was of her bullshit, that if she really wanted to show up for me, she would have already. That her reluctance to meet was feeding the trauma bond, not creating a solid and secure connection. That she was going to be avoidant and I was going to be anxious and that’s just how the cookie crumbled.

I will be the villain in my own story, and I wish it meant I never had to talk to me again. I don’t feel great about this set of decisions and I will have problems forgiving myself for a long time. I should have just stopped replying. I should have left it at “I’m happier without you,” because at that time, I was. I’d managed to go a whole month without Aada ripping me a new asshole about something I’d written and it felt great. The thing is, though, I could go a month, but not longer.

I wasn’t happier without her in the long run, and I’m not happy now. But me being unhappy is not her problem to solve, because I think it’s better that we don’t talk. I need space to find new friends and make the solid, secure connections I crave without being a slave to my inbox. I gave up monster amounts of social interaction just to sit in my office and write to her. I do not regret it, I just know that much isolation is not good for anyone. But it’s amazing how happy I thought I was.

It’s time to consider a vacation from all of this, and mentally I just don’t know how to prepare.

I did make a wonderful friend this week, Josh, who lives in Maryland relatively close to me. He’s a therapist as a second career after being a war reporter in Iraq and a television news producer at CNN. We walked around the National Aquarium in Baltimore chattering away about anything and everything. I felt free for the first time in months, able to let go and just enjoy the moment.

Living in the moment is something all writers have trouble doing, so at least I don’t feel alone. We are all lost in our thoughts most of the day, because we’re constantly pushing our own “record” buttons.

Mine just doesn’t have background music in the traditional sense- it is the symphony happening behind me as I type. The air conditioner and the box fan in my office are both humming………..

I’m Still Figuring That Out

~ Leslie Lanagan ~ Leave a comment
Daily writing prompt
What are you good at?
View all responses

I treated myself to new-to-me running shoes today, because my old ones were bought in 2015. I do not know what happened to them, because they’re still perfectly comfortable. However, the rubber is starting to fall off and the tread feels like it has been dipped in chemicals so that they do not grip. Instead of being able to walk/run, I tend to slide around when I’m wearing them, particularly at the gym because everything is tiled. When I changed into them, I could tell an immediate difference because the floor at the store was polished concrete and I was able to jog in place without slipping.

I suppose that I am good at shopping, because a parishioner at one of our churches when I was a kid gave me a black belt in Goodwill. I have bought everything there, including important occasion outfits, just because I know my brands. That’s the secret to being really good at shopping, in my humble opinion. Even if I struck it rich, I would still rather have a $3-500 suit that’s been laundered a thousand times to make sure it’s soft than something brand new off the rack. My best find was in the early aughts, a full London Fog trench with liner for $24.

I also don’t mind not having the latest style of anything, because my clothes could best be described as the “Visiting Professor’s Collection” at Macy’s. Anything I buy is going to look timeless, because my shirts tend to come in three colors:

  • White
  • Blue
  • White and Blue pinstripes

However, I also like a bit of whimsy. These shoes remind me of Warhol and Lichtenstein, so I think they’ll look perfect with jeans and a button down. I am going to calm down the orange laces a bit by changing to UpUGo elastic laces. They’re not quite as bright, and I don’t have to tie them. I’m certain they’re mostly for children, but I wear boys’ shoes, anyway. Plus, who doesn’t love shoes with a cute little button on top?

I suppose I am good at writing, although writing is like courage. In the moment, you’re just doing what it is you need to do to survive. You don’t realize until afterwards that you’ve been courageous. I do not think I am a good writer. I put things out into the world and other people tell me if I’m a good writer or not. My therapist said that I must know I’m a good writer…. I did not know what to say to that. I’m glad she thinks that, mostly, because she’s more learned than I am. I have learned that I do not want to be an egomaniac, I just want to have confidence. I know that’s what she was talking about, but even telling people I think I’m a good writer sounds arrogant to me, so I don’t.

I do think that I could do a good job handling communications for modern executives, though, because most people do not know how to write introductory e-mails for basic correspondence. I was actually talking to my sister about this the other day, that the secretary she would have been given in the 1950’s would have handled the heavy lifting that AI is trying to do currently. First of all, it is unlikely that a woman would have had her job in the 1950s, but I definitely could have been the Peggy Olson to her Don Draper if given the chance.

I might be happy as a church employee of some kind, because that’s the type correspondence I can manage easily. I was reminded of this today when my sister asked my dad if he’d had a mobile phone in the early 1990s and I replied how I used to answer it. In the car, it was “Rev. Lanagan’s rolling office!” At home, it was “Lanagan summer home… summer home, summer not.” One of the parishioners had some alternatives to this which are really, really funny…. and also unprintable.

I have a good memory because they’re not really memories. An autist sees everything, everywhere, all at once as if no time has passed. This is both good and bad as I also have no friendship degradation mechanics. That’s a psychological term for calling up your best friend in third grade as if they’re still in the same place you are. If they are also neurodivergent, like as not, they are. If they are neurotypical, “Lucy, you got some ‘splainin’ to do.”

I am not good at reading a room, and that has served me well in some cases. Please believe that I have crashed and burned in others, but sometimes not reading a room correctly takes away the fear one feels in an unfamiliar situation and allows me to talk to people I never would have otherwise. For instance, I wasn’t approaching Jonna Mendez, chief of disguise and better than a mere mortal. I was approaching an old friend of Aada’s. Now that I know Aada lied and there’s no connection between them, I fear Jonna like the goddess she is.

That’s probably not healthy, but it is what it is.

Realistically, I know that Jonna puts on her running shoes one foot at a time just like me. But in my head she has attained a mythical status. I got all my books signed when I went to see her, so I have no need to bug her again. It’s probably just embarrassment on my part and she wouldn’t think twice.

But in my head, what if it’s not?

What if I’ve embarrassed myself to the point where I’m no longer wanted? I’d rather just keep my memories sacred and walk away, because I’d rather not find out what happens next in this particular story. I have other friends that work in intelligence and can regale me with stories when we’re both old and, more importantly, “outside with a drink in our hands……………” as Jonna so eloquently put it at the book talk for “The Moscow Rules.”

Those are the friends to whom I’d like to be a research assistant on their books, because I like writing non-fiction. I am not a novelist, and doubt I ever will be. I’m not running away from writing fiction, I just don’t get it. For instance, I don’t visualize inside my head, so I don’t really know how to write setting. I’m a gardener, so I have problems with plot. Because I’m a blogger, I’m solid at character studies……………. sometimes.

I am sure that I could learn these things over time, but conventional wisdom is to write what you know. So far, what I know is the world around me. Washington reads like a novel whether you aim for fiction or not. The characters and plots are interesting in and of themselves, and you do not have to make them up. I will never know what my real story in Washington is, because a lot of it happened behind my back. This is not a bad thing, as I fell into a safety net of sorts. One I hated, but still. That whole time in my life would just be a book called “Heytch,” because the trap I fell into was wanting to love her the way she wanted to be loved.

For the record, I showed up at the hospital because two incredibly unlikely stories were presented to me and I was betting that at least one was true. It was the one where she and her husband were wild about each other, and I could just come and live with them as a member of the family. That she was not poly and never had been; that she made it up to entice me when she didn’t need it. I would have followed her into the ocean no matter what.

If you really know me, you know just how little dating means to me, and how much I love deep conversations over coffee that never lead to romance. I could picture us as little old ladies together, and that meant more to me than gold, especially with her big sister right there to kiss the top of my head as she walked by on the odd occasion we ran into each other. Maybe I will write that story, if only for me, because of course it’s fiction now.

Sometimes I wonder how much of fiction is really fiction, and how much of it is people writing down what they thought was happening to them that later turned out not to come to pass. Fiction equals nonfiction plus time, I suppose.

Lots of people will tell you that I had hallucinations, and it is up to you to decide whether I really did or not. It has to be fiction now because all of the evidence has been scrubbed, even by me. I wish I had taken many, many screenshots…. but I didn’t. It would have been nice to have the photo of Heytch’s hand bound to mine, her saying that she was my River Song, because even if it wasn’t real, it was beautiful.

I would have been excellent at telling fact from fiction in person, but everything was presented to me over the internet with the ominous phrase “you are always the best.” One version of the story took this literally, a woman laying her heart at my feet. The other talked about all the destruction I’d caused with my blog because I was too arrogant to see I was causing it. Both stories are true, because I have never pretended to be the best at anything and yet, these people are also entitled to their opinion. What I believe to be true is that no one in that bunch believes in second chances, and I could have explained a lot with one, but in person.

Adding more to our internet history was only adding fuel to an enormous fire with no opportunity to put it out.

I just thought “Heytch” was cute once upon a time. I would have cut off a limb to meet Aada. Both were unique experiences, but they were completely different. I’m also in a completely different emotional place regarding both of them, that I will continue to write what I want because they had no shame in absolutely submarining me. I will never feel credible in the way that I did before I was hospitalized, because when I talk about their internet shenanigans, they are written off as hallucinations that never happened…………. all the evidence is gone.

I’m not sure whether I should thank them or not, because I am good at being sober. I was never abusing any substance, but I wouldn’t have given them up if they hadn’t intervened. It’s not that I realized I was an addict, it’s that I got a better offer. I don’t know what that offer is yet, because I haven’t chased it. My cognitive behavioral health counselor says that I’m not ready for a job, and I believe him for now. We’ll be reevaluating that in the future, because I know that I am capable of a lot more than I’m doing right now, and in fact, capable of a lot more than most people when I can give up my habit of assuming everything.

It’s not possible to be an autist in a neurotypical world without assuming things because if you don’t, people will talk down to you as if you are stupid and just don’t get it. I have found that I needed to switch to a neurodivergent workflow, and that was the kitchen at first. It just cannot be now because everything is too heavy, too hot, and too sharp. I am done with the hit parade of injuries at every shift because I cannot move fast enough and my balance leaves a lot to be desired.

I’m not healed enough from my trip to the hospital not to dwell on it here, because it threw me for such a loop. Because it was over the internet, I can tell you that many things were told to me that simply were not true. That’s part of my not making assumptions gig. Just because I was told I was talking to someone over the internet doesn’t mean I actually was. For that, particularly to Dana, I am sorry. She got roped into this because she was there from the beginning, not because I had this burning need to reach out to her after 11.6 years.

I still think of her fondly and hope she is well, and wish I could take back the e-mail I sent her because she did not deserve it. If I could have words with these internet people, I definitely would. They know who they are, and they haven’t stopped reading. I assume that I am still always the best, both for evil and for awesome.

I’m quieter, though, and take up a lot less space in the world because I don’t want it. A writer is a person who wants you to hear all their stories without knowing you’ve actually read them. I will take these running shoes and use them to propel me further away from controversy because I’m done with it.

I got a better offer, but it remains to be seen whether it still stands. We shall find out, though, because I am always the best.

Something Completely Different

~ Leslie Lanagan ~ Leave a comment

I decided to change my life, and I did. I wrote down a laundry list of what was wrong with me and why, then went to my primary care physician and got referrals. We were just establishing a baseline of care, but I needed to get the ball rolling on several things, most notably my CP assessment since the last one I had was in 1978. I do not really need to know I have CP. I can tell by the way I move. It’s just for my own peace of mind…. needing a doctor to say, “I see you.”

I’ve been referred to a breast surgeon to talk about trans medicine, dermatology to talk about a rash on my stomach, and back to my psychiatrist to talk about autism and ADHD. I was diagnosed with ADHD and bipolar disorder in college, but those records are long gone. I need to redo the assessment because no one is going to take my word for it that I need amphetamines, or that I’ve tried Stratera and we can try it again but it didn’t work the first time……… there’s just no record of that, either. If no one believed me that I took benzos for anxiety, they’re not going to believe I took amphetamines, either). I do think my therapist has my back, though. Or maybe it was someone on my care team at my cognitive behavioral health program.

Two days ago, I went to pick up something else at the pharmacy hospital, and Buspar was waiting for me. That’s not enough to get it to full efficacy, but I can say that I feel so much better now. I’m not as anxious, not as ready to be lonely the rest of my life because I think I deserve it. Or, at least, I won’t think that forever. Falling in love with the wrong woman was a complete disaster for both of us, and I can only hope that with time as we both do therapy and move away from each other that we both feel better about our separate paths in life. It would be nice to reconnect with a healed Aada, but not the one I have known for 12 years. She’s so cut off from her emotions that she uses fear and intimidation as her only tactic in fighting. She doesn’t understand being more vulnerable. I tried and I failed. Maybe I won’t always, because I didn’t actually cost her anything. But being realistic, I’m betting she never wants to speak to me again. She’s not the type that forgives. She’s the type that moves on and carries every slight.

I don’t want to be that. I’m clean, I worked out today, and I am fixing everything that’s actually wrong with me both physically and mentally. I couldn’t do that while we were friends, because her intimidation tactics included “no mutual friends” and “no therapist.” Then she was surprised that I crashed and burned.

I wasn’t.

I’m just glad that the Buspar seems to be taking my own threat meter back down to a manageable level. It may even solve the sound in my mind in a few weeks, because I’ve been having brain zaps for months. That means it sounds like a refrigerator is whining in my brain at all times. It’s due to lack of serotonin, which happened when my Lexapro was ripped away. It’s not as bad when I have on headphones, so I try to keep mine charged and carry them in my backpack. I use brown noise to drown out all of the unpleasantness, of which there is much.

I was able to work out without them because the stereo was loud enough in the room, though. Then, after my workout I had a hydro massage on one of those tables that shoots water at a silicone covering so you get the hydrotherapy without getting wet. It worked so well I wish I had time to go back before they close. It’s an undertaking to walk to the gym and walk home, so I’ll save that for tomorrow. I didn’t want to overdo it on the first day, because that’s the easiest way I won’t go back.

I will walk longer tomorrow. I need to build up endurance and my core, because when I got there I couldn’t even stand up straight. The massage literally felt like it was stretching me back out. I have been cramped in chairs and over my laptop for years, so it probably was.

I got away from my phone completely, another change because I wasn’t constantly getting Facebook notifications. I need to remember to put my phone on “Do Not Disturb” so at least my family knows I’m not available and not ignoring them on purpose. Now I want to be close to my family because I don’t have anything to hide. I didn’t really before, because it wasn’t a secret that was bad… just knowledge that wasn’t for them until the hospital called. Lindsay and my dad were on the first flight up to come and bail me out of what has been a clusterfuck of mental illness because it’s so deeply ingrained now.

I just have to remember that I didn’t get this sick overnight, and one workout isn’t going to fix everything, either. But by putting one foot in front of the other, I can move away from this situation. I never want to contact Aada again because she is so convinced that I am the source of her problems. But I will also not turn her away if in her own discoveries, she realizes that she actually did give me something that was too hard to bear and it requires rethinking her own part in all of this. She has not given me any indication that she’s capable of such a thing. So, I will let our relationship rest in peace without slamming the door.

I have misbehaved. So has she.

I haven’t liked her on some days. She hasn’t liked me on others.

But the bond was real.

Thieves

~ Leslie Lanagan ~ Leave a comment

No one talks enough about how mental illnesses are the thugs of medicine, the thieves that steal joy in broad daylight. A mental illness is the sign of a diseased organ, your brain. However, people do not see it that way. Most of the things that medicine calls “a symptom” a layperson would call a “moral failing.” So, not only do you feel bad about yourself, you have a lot of help in this area. May is mental health awareness month, so I’ve been trying my best to talk out what I’m going through; it may not help me, but it might help someone else who’s also in the trenches. It will help me if I go back and read it next year, or five years from now. My own entries don’t help me until I forget that I’m the one who wrote them. Emotional disconnection is key, because then I am not reliving entries.

The process now is how to see joy in the midst of all this anxiety? My last entry was absolutely a gutter snipe because my mind was in that place. It is not always. I had just been set off by many other things, and anger rises within me when I think about the situation I’m in now. Aada would say that’s all my fault, but all she ever offered me in return for my silence was more of the same. She’d like to keep writing to me. I would keep getting sicker while she ignored all the symptoms. I would keep getting sicker while she was allowed to live her life far and away from me, and I wasn’t interested in that. When she told me she’d lied about knowing Jonna and Tony Mendez, I couldn’t even bet that she wasn’t lying about that…. that she was actually telling the truth, she just had to have a story for my blog as to why I’m the one that wanted to “break up with her.” I wouldn’t have broken up with her for lying about anything. We weren’t together. I can take a whole bunch of shit from friends, but this was bigger than that.

She thought I wanted fame. She thought I wanted glory. It was realizing that all of my friends have been in this blog as themselves that made me realize that she wanted to be special. That she’d put me in a horrible situation on purpose and just said “figure it out.” Basically, are you going to be true to yourself or are you going to be true to me?

She’d not been true to me, so why should I return the favor? I wrote over and over about the simple things I wanted from her. Kahvi together and not a Starbucks gift card being the biggest, because that would have broken the spell. I thought she shit magic for 12 years. I am still not convinced she doesn’t, she just has a new mark. Because in the end, she stole my joy at being alive for quite some time. As she got stronger, I got weaker. I gave up power because I thought she needed it. Turns out, she did, because what she wanted was for me to stay quiet about everything I’d been through because someone might figure out that what I’d been through also involved her. As if.

It was selfish and self-absorbed to think she had the right to take away my story the longer time went on, because the more we talked, the more she inserted herself. Of course the story is going to involve her if she’s in my life to a bigger degree. She scared me. Flat out. From the very beginning, I pretended I was totally cool and over 12 years I stopped talking to anyone and everyone else. I moved to DC to isolate myself even more from Dana and my family, hoping that Aada would see that I was trying to make good on the promise of being the friend I said I would be… but she wouldn’t see me in person and I know why. I was completely smitten with her and she thought I couldn’t behave myself. She never gave me a chance to get closer or disconnect.

Because she had to have me on a string to keep our connection alive. What would I say if I was allowed to leave the island? She’s finding out now. I have a million emotions, and yet none of them are about care and connection with her. That time has passed.

“Do you remember telling your sister that your dad hurt your first girlfriend?” I remember telling her that I thought it was true because that idea had been planted. So had the idea that I ruined Aada’s sister’s state house run. So had the idea that Dana had been hurt because Aada’s sister’s husband hurt her when he found out that I was hitting on her (I can’t remember if I did or I didn’t. It was 12 years ago and all three of us were drunk). Everyone acts as if I made all of this up when I was told these things were true by someone in a position of authority to be able to research them.

I have no reason to distrust what Aada says about anything, until now. She said that she would never betray me, but so far all of the things that she used to get me into the hospital have turned out not to be true.

It’s payback for my betrayal, I’m sure. The one in which she said I’d never be able to hurt her with anything I did. I published the name she worked under before she retired, and it was a mistake because that’s the only thing in the e-mail that needed to be edited out, and I was so happy to get the e-mail in the first place that I did not proofread. ADHD gonna ADHD, but there’s no sympathy for that. There’s only rage. There’s only going walkabout while I try not to kill myself on the streets of Baltimore late at night.

Killing myself on the streets of Baltimore was going to be so easy. I’d just walk around until I got shot. I had no reason to live anymore, and moreover, I didn’t want to. Eventually, the cold convinced me that I should give it one more shot because the neighborhood around me was too nice. Last time this happened, I found a warehouse where everyone was doing crack and couldn’t OD. Apparently, my tolerance for crack is quite high the first time around, but I had a hell of a time coming down. So, I’ve never done it again. I knew I liked it too much, and that twice was a habit.

So this time, no drugs. Just exercise and hoping I’d walk into a situation and wouldn’t get out of it. The funniest thing happened, though. My endorphins kicked in and I started to want to live. Michael calls it “going walkabout,” how soldiers get through war. There was not this wild new joy at wanting to live. It was more like, “shit. My phone is dead and I have to walk all the way back to the emergency room so someone calls my sister.” I think they must have sedated me at that point, because who doesn’t get sedated when they’re talking about the subject matter I do?

Aada told me once that a man hit her and she fucked him up. I have never forgotten it…. that I never hit her, but this must be her way of fucking me up so that I never want to hear from her again. Believe me, it’s working and it isn’t.

We have both fucked each other up so that I think we could start on equal footing with mediation, but I would be surprised if she ever agreed to it. There’s no reason. She’s going to ride off into the sunset with her story intact, and mine is going to be fucked up because she made sure that it would be.

I still remember being excited that I was going to get to see Heytch after all these years, knowing it would be a serious discussion about boundaries and being willing to engage because I was so lonely, anyway.

I was ready to face the discordant music I’d made in other people’s lives because I was so worried about protecting Aada that I, again, shut down so far I couldn’t see anyone around me. I’m also autistic and miss social cues, which only made my life worse. I can’t apologize to everyone enough, so I just don’t. The people who aren’t tired of me will show up on their own.

But it won’t be Heytch, it won’t be Mummo, and it won’t be Aada. It won’t even be Dana and Counselor. If Dana is mad at me for my last e-mail and wants to stay that way, she can. But I told her that her sister was one of the people that helped put me in the hospital this time, and she was told her sister wasn’t there. I told her that because I was told her sister was there. It was just another way in which Aada played tricks with my mind.

I do mind Dana contacting anyone in my family but me, though. She didn’t reply to me. She forwarded the whole chain to my dad. I’m going to guess Aada told her to do that, too. And if she didn’t, it still sounds like something she would do, just to make me feel a little bit worse.

I noticed that she just said, “my sister’s part in all this,” though, so perhaps Dana knew more about what “this” was than I did.

The only conclusion I can come to is that Aada is such a miserable person that she wanted me to die, and I fucked her by not. She may not bow to my thu’um, but she will hear it.

Mental illness is the thief of joy, but you can do a lot with spite in its absence. I’m still alive, even when I don’t want to be. I’m still alive, even when my symptoms combine to make my life a living hell. The only way out is through, and this entry is a dragon roar. You don’t get to be a dragon until you can scream so loud they can hear you from California to Islamabad.

And that is what is happening, day by day. I have gone from sitting in my own misery, to taking back my power. It’s just problematic that Aada does not want me to have it, because she was happy keeping me in her little box of toys, the ones she never took off the shelf to see if they were wearing out.

Dope

~ Leslie Lanagan ~ Leave a comment

Abilify and Depakote both make me feel dumber. My retention and recall is not as sharp as it used to be, even though I cut out everything fun. And in fact, when my sister visited I had a cocktail at dinner and the sharp sound in my brain caused by lack of serotonin got louder, I decided that even the occasional cocktail just isn’t worth it. All the drugs I’ve used to maintain myself over the years are slowly working their way out of my system and being replaced by a protocol I did not choose for myself. I was told what I would get because they did not have any medical history on me and did not ask for my former doctors’ phone numbers…. easily obtainable from my cell phone.

My nurse practitioner told me that I could have my old protocol back if I submitted to random drug screens, and I said, “sure.” I also told her that the first one wouldn’t come out clean because I didn’t smoke weed anymore, but it takes about six weeks to get out of your system. I quit on 4/20, so I was right; my pee was complete with seeds & stems. I have a feeling that these drug screens are not random anymore, as she did not start me on anything for anxiety. I’m just going to tough it out until the first clean drug test. That’s fine, I guess, except in the meantime I am suffering from more anxiety than usual. I am learning that walking helps, but it does not solve everything. I have been through too much to think that everything can be solved by exercise alone. My doctors think that my story is invalid, but that’s ok. They’re supposed to do that. It was preordained by forces bigger than me, because neither Aada nor I knew the consequences of what was coming, and she has more power than I do. She will pretend until she’s dead that she has nothing to do with me and this. Believe what you want. I have enough of my own evidence, deleted for public consumption. Only I have to know what is true and what’s not. What’s true and what’s not is enough to make my heart stop, or to have a panic attack large enough I wish it would. And in fact, I’m sure that’s Aada’s goal now. To make me wish I was dead every time I think about publishing anything she’s ever written but oh, by the way, there’s nothing you could do that could ever hurt me…… just for plausible deniability.

How did it get so ugly? She sent me an e-mail that looked like it was a job recommendation, not a personal letter. It didn’t look like it was to me, it looked like it was to you. And then she blocked me so that I couldn’t ask her whether it was okay to publish it or not. Nothing in the e-mail was damning except she left in a detail I should have edited out. I regret it and yet there’s nothing I can do about it. The e-mail only existed on a server for a couple of minutes, if that, because I took it down of my own volition. But that was enough to make her disconnect from me completely. That’s fine. I didn’t need her at that point. At that point, she’d become an albatross around my neck. I couldn’t connect to anyone but her and she treated me like an enemy combatant when she felt threatened, which was more and more over time. I was doing everything I could to manage an enormous amount of anxiety in which I couldn’t talk about it…. my friend Michael teasing me and then getting very quiet. He said something about Zac not being able to help me figure Aada out, and being surprised when I said, “that’s not what I meant. I meant that intelligence is all alike. I figured out that he was the version of her I could tolerate.” However, Zac’s life was above board in that he came to my house and showed himself. Aada was disembodied, some version of my “corporeally-challenged celebrity girlfriend on the radio.”

That’s an old joke, by the way. It’s probably been 20 years, but I went on two dates with Allison Frost of Oregon Public Broadcasting and that’s the nickname Dana and I came up with……

It’s an old joke for two reasons. The first is that Aada isn’t queer, and isn’t interested in me. We just had a connection that was deep and meaningful right up until it wasn’t. When I tell the story of how I ended up at Sinai in the first place, my care team freaks out and I am told to go to the emergency room because this story could not possibly be true. I say that on my list of sins at the end of my life, at least “whoring out my sister” isn’t going to be on it. But who knows. Maybe her sister was in on it, because apparently I gave them all a very good time because there was more than one. A triumvirate was achieved, and all I did was type. Either that, or Aada made it up that anyone else was in the room…. and the triumvirate was all her. That idea doesn’t suck, but it’s not as funny as thinking about the entire gang at the cool kids’ table enjoying the benefit of my tutelage.

Typing got me into this mess, and it’s slowly getting me out. Telling my story is the only thing left.

I do love that Aada chose to keep my love for Mummo clean and white, but Heytch was down in the mud. Although I do not know what her relationship with her sisters is like, this tracks. She’s always made fun of Heytch behind her back, but in very innocent ways. This was…. Not. That. Innocent.

(Oh baby, baby…….)

But to be clear, she knew I liked hearing her catty takes and would listen to them, so who’s really the dumbass for not saying something? I could have said, “actually, Heytch is really important to me and it seems like you’re taking digs for nothing.” I didn’t. I did notice when she said that, “as you’ve noted and observed, Mummo is smarter than the rest of us.” Mummo is about my age or a few years older. I’m just old enough to be a grandma now, like she is. Aada was the one who told me neither would ever speak to me again, so I stopped trying to make amends 10 years ago. Who knows if she was right? I didn’t even try.

I just waited to find out that Aada was a trained interrogator and mandatory reporter. I found this out as our friendship was ending, so I had the horror of realizing that when she said she felt threatened, it wasn’t the same as when I did. When I felt threatened, there was no one to tell. When she felt threatened, she had all the power in the US government available to her. To realize you’re under that kind of pressure makes you fold into yourself, and I certainly did.

Nothing she’s ever said to me has been overlooked by anyone, nor has anything I’ve said to her. I deleted most of my e-mails to her and vice versa, because I thought I’d get them back one day. Now, I know I won’t. Aada isn’t real, she’s just a ghost that plays in my head. Because if she was real, she would have knocked on my door. We would have had kahvi. She would have picked me up in her cute little car or something, anything to prove that she was more than a disembodied voice over the Internet.

Now, Aada is just a story they tell little kids…. but I won. I won big. I proved to her that her trauma was leading her down a dangerous path of treating friends like enemies, and if you treat friends like enemies over a number of years, they will act like it. I published her e-mail because she didn’t get to be special. She didn’t get to be different than The War Daniel or anyone else who has flamed me because she didn’t have any recent history of treating me with love and respect. When she was angry, she’d flame me. When she was happy, she’d ignore me. Only I was capable of words being pricks on her skin. She did nothing. Even the e-mail I published was all about how I manipulated her. There was nothing about how she read from her own experiences and jumped down my throat based on what she thought I wrote, rather than asking questions and being curious. She apologized for not being present when my mother died, but it didn’t make her more present in the future. We were at war with each other because we couldn’t resolve the war within ourselves. If I did anything, I hope I forced her into a different kind of therapy, because whatever she was doing wasn’t working.

So in the end, being a trained interrogator and mandatory reporter left her with jack squat in terms of coming after me and too many fingers pointing back at her. She is going to have to live with her choice not to trust me forever, because she’s going to think that because I didn’t play the game to her specifications, that means she cannot trust people. It was her lack of trust that drove me away. It was her lack of trust that made me believe our relationship wasn’t real, would never be real, was only playing with my head. I was right, because her method of being close was staying away from each other, not really communicating, and hoping for the best. I hope she’s happier without me in her life, because she’s shown me that I cannot hang. I cannot cut off my emotions to the degree that she needs to keep her shell intact. Publishing her e-mail was not the reason we both lost. It was just the last thing that happened. There’s a huge difference.

I still have nightmares about all of this, and wish all of it would end. Broken heart syndrome is a real thing, and I’m doing my best to fight against the tide.

My nurse practitioner told me that no one in the hospital system would prescribe me benzos, and that if I wanted them, I’d have to advocate for myself somewhere else. There’s only one problem with this. I was not advocating for benzos. I did not know that there was such a thing as serotonin and dopamine agonists, so how would I know to ask for them instead? Why does she not trust the doctors I’ve had my whole life who have said I needed them, despite being open about being a pot smoker? They knew the difference between what you get at a dispensary and what you get at a gas station and they didn’t care. Again, whatever. I am old. Medicine is ever changing and I might find something that works even better. The last time I worked in a doctor’s office was like, 2007. I am certain things have changed since then.

However, I’ve been prescribed Klonopin for the last 10 years and it has worked spectacularly well. When I got out of the hospital, they gave my sister all my drugs back and she gave them back to me. I’d been taking the Klonopin prn until I ran out, and was ok not getting it refilled because my nurse practitioner said I couldn’t have them anymore. Apparently, there’s a lot of risk that the hospital sees that I don’t, because no one in my life has ever been shy about prescribing it. At Sinai, there’s a whole worksheet on why they don’t prescribe benzos for anxiety, because it causes your muscles to relax, your reflexes to slow down, and a whole host of other things I did not know.

So again, fine. Getting off the dope is probably a good thing. With drugs, you always have to weigh the pros and cons. Right now, I’m wondering if I really want to go back on Lexapro and Lamictal, knowing how Lamictal destroys my stomach and wondering if that’s worth the few extra IQ points I think I’d get back. I’m just not the same writer, nor the same person. I cannot decide if this is better or worse. I do think that being without anti-anxiety medication is ultimately worse, so I was not feeling so hot when my nurse practitioner told me that I could start a new protocol on our next visit, and I got no new prescriptions. Apparently, “starting a new protocol” meant “I forgot to ask for your records from your old doctor.” I didn’t get any new drugs. I only got a lecture on smoking weed (again…. and the lecture is “it’s legal, we can’t stop you…. but we won’t think very highly of you, either) and why I wouldn’t be prescribed anything until the next visit.

They are making sure I suffer through this as much as possible, but it doesn’t seem like suffering to them because it isn’t happening to them. My nurse practitioner doesn’t have to live in my brain with its constant refrigerator whine that makes me want to stick an ice pick through my forehead just to stop the noise. My doctor doesn’t have to live with the ghost of Aada breathing on the back of her neck, because she’s out there somewhere…. probably still a fan because no one breaks up with my blog and not reading me is more dangerous than just toughing it out.

But at least once in my life, I’ve shown her a good time. I’m not sure I would have told me that, though. She already thinks I have a big head. Now it won’t fit through the door. It sort of makes up for the shitty time I’m having now.

Sort of.

That’s because if I gave Aada a good time, there’s literally no telling how many departments in the United States government have had a good time with us. I just didn’t know it was her. I still don’t.

I’m assuming a lot, but it is a very educated guess. No one can hide all their punctuation flaws while they’re typing with one hand.

I Don’t Know, and That’s Okay

~ Leslie Lanagan ~ Leave a comment
Daily writing prompt
What is your career plan?
View all responses

Right now, I’m in a group for people with mental health issues and am trying to recover from a years-long friendship in which I was slowly isolated from everyone else. Or, as I told her, “what you failed to take in is that I did not marry you. I married the government.” My wife was first on the list of casualties during this “affair,” because this woman does not know what kind of effect she has one people. She’s already her. But none of what I’m saying should be interpreted as negative, because I don’t have any choice but to forgive myself for the mistakes I made. I am sure that she is doing the same, far and away from me. No one walked away with clean hands except for my ex-wife… or she would have had she not hit me. Hitting me was the apex of her frustration, and I was smart enough to only let it happen once…. This is not to say that the hot water we were in had not been heating for quite some time.

Aada told me she’d never betray me, but her betrayal was letting me in on things she shouldn’t and expecting me to carry it like she did. I will never do anything like she does if I can help it. I walked away having told her that every conversation was like being signed up to be hit with a baseball bat and for the love of God, see a psychiatrist. Her general distrust of doctors in general left me on high alert, all the time. That’s because she didn’t get kick the dog syndrome at work or with her family, but it had to go somewhere.

I’m also not chiding her, because I think we were both guilty of doing it to each other. Our little bubble was far and away from the rest of our lives, so we both tended to take out our frustrations on the one we “didn’t know.” We were pen pals for 12 years. “Didn’t know” is a stretch. She’s the only person that spans and bridges Portland to Baltimore, my constant companion in a world of change. Through the way the Internet works, it felt like she was closer than the beat of my heart…. with which she took issue.

That’s because I talk a lot when I don’t have to speak.

It would seem to her like I acted like a victim in all this if I didn’t say that I was so crazy about her that it led to some pretty serious sexual harassment, for which I spent a number of years apologizing and she spent a number of years learning to trust afterwards. I don’t know what she thought, but for me the Internet is not real life. I was lost in Fantasyland and creating my own reality based on the manipulations someone else handed me when I was a child.

I learned from it and promised to do better, proud of myself that I accomplished that goal. And in fact, the only thing she’s ever done that really hurt was returning a present I sent to her house, because I was trying to show good faith. It was a six-pack of glass Coke bottles during the “Share a Coke with…” campaign the first time around that had her real name on it, plus the nickname she gave her husband, and the names of her kids and her dog as well. The reason that this is important is that Aada is a Finnish name. There is nowhere in the US you could have purchased that Coke bottle at random. It was at a time when I really didn’t have money for presents, and I was heartbroken. I cried big alligator tears that basically centered around ruining everything I touch.

My rejection sensitivity dysphoria didn’t pick up that she didn’t want me in her real life. She only wanted me in this liminal space between waking and dreaming. I could have dealt with it if she’d been truthful, but she danced around the topic for years, giving me no clear answer. My one regret is that I didn’t pin her to one. Because the truth is that she didn’t want to meet me at the spy museum, because she’d lied about knowing Jonna & Tony Mendez… not that she was opposed to neutral turf and good kahvi.

But I took “I don’t want to go to the spy museum with you” as “you are a worm for even asking if I wanted to do anything with you.” Rejection after rejection built up, because I didn’t want to overstep boundaries and I also didn’t want to treat her as a weird Internet apparition, either. It never occurred to me that in fact, “internet apparition” was the job in my life she wanted. She’s not wrong for that. I’m not wrong for wanting her to be real with me. It just sucks.

I chose to be a jackass, but that wasn’t the sum total of me. I could tell how far we’d come when she did agree to meet me once and she said, “it can’t possibly be as good as your imagination.” I blushed so hard I thought my face was going to fall off. That just won’t happen now because I betrayed her and thought I hadn’t. I am certain that she is ready to be done with me; that is okay. It’s not her journey now. It is entirely mine. If she sees my point of view, she’s welcome to be in my life. If she doesn’t, she’s welcome never to contact me again. I accept that the way we work is in Newtonian precision. There is a cause for every effect, both spoken and not.

Mostly now what I miss is the idea of her. The idea of being close to her and her husband because I was never trying to isolate her from him. I wanted us to have mutual friends because there was no safety net for either one of us. She couldn’t call Bryn, I couldn’t call (other) Michael. We had a skewed view of what the other did for a living, because my writing wasn’t valuable to her once she was in it. I think she’s my favorite character because my words don’t flow as easily when I’m not thinking about her. I am branching out to be more inclusive, but no one gives you more heat, passion, and drive for writing than someone reading you who’s actually a better writer than you are.

You’d know it if she’d let her e-mail to me stand, but she didn’t. She loved reading The War Daniel’s takedown, though. What she wanted was to be special in a way other people aren’t, in a way that didn’t seem genuine to who I am. She flamed me just as hard as he did. The situation was not different except that I should have edited out something I left in, and choked when I realized what I’d done. I wasn’t alone, though. Michael said that I hadn’t done any damage, but let’s take it down just to ensure she’s safe.

While I was deleting the entry, I got an e-mail from Aada that she forwarded me saying that I’d broken Medium’s laws on publishing people’s words without their consent, a thinly veiled threat that if I left it up she’d sue me. My attitude at the time was “bring it.” I didn’t publish your words to hurt you and I took them down before I even got this shitty e-mail. It sucked because she said she blocked me. I reacted like I’d been hit by a two by four and spent the night crying……… and less than 12 hours later, I got an e-mail from her. Just seeing her name in my inbox made me nauseous. It has for years because I never know what kind of e-mail it’s going to be. She says the same about me, I’m sure.

She did not understand neurodivergence and attributed a lot to me that wasn’t there. Once I started unmasking and tapping into the ancient wisdom of the autists about pattern recognition, I saw autism everywhere and realized I’d been reading her wrong. That she may not be autistic, but there’s some kind of neurodivergence going on in there. You don’t have to be born with neurodivergence, PTSD will give it to you….. free. No one chooses autism and PTSD as a special interest like someone who is trying to figure out if they have it or not, so telling her that I’d been reading her wrong came across as rude.

As a result, I cannot base my career on Aada not liking what I have to say, but I can’t not think that way, either. Our stories are inextricably interrelated because our story together is one of pain, and then triumph. My blog entries are going to be collated into a book, and she’s the star of most of them. But she’s not a hero because she decided to go save the whole world at once. She’s my hero, which is much quieter and comes with a lot less adoration, but it’s genuine.

Alternatively, I wrote a cover letter for her company that “sounds like a fever dream” because I thought they’d be more interested in what I’d like to do in the future than what I’ve done in the past. A resume is for your past. A cover letter is for your dreams. It was the “where do you see yourself in 10 years” that I really wanted to write, telling them all about The Sinners’ Table and Lanagan Media Group as possible partnerships. Michael was right. It sounds like a fever dream, but those who are crazy enough to think they can change the world are the ones who actually do.

I heard that somewhere.

Alternatively, I have a great case for both SSI and SSDI. It’s nice to have that to fall back on, and I wish that someone had told me about SSI when I was 16 or 17. I could have prepared not to go into the workforce and stayed in school all the way until my doctorate without having to worry about money, plus it taking years for people to find my books. It just wouldn’t have occurred to them because my compensatory skills used to be extraordinary. When you meet me, it is not immediately apparent that I’m disabled. AuDHD is a bitch to catch, and I was diagnosed with bipolar. I do not think this is wrong, necessarily. I just think that bipolar disorder is a common comorbidity of autism, and so is cerebral palsy.

When I was a baby, I looked developmentally delayed. Exhausting every bit of my energy toward “looking normal” changed that, because it’s what the people around me needed. As I grew, my intelligence covered up the fact that I could have used support services from a very early age. Now we know that early intervention is key, but I was born in 1977. Every chance I had at support services was denied and I was streamlined. I do not fault my parents for this, because in that day and age the curriculum would have been too easy for me.

I am the type of writer who gets lost in their mind to such a degree that my house could be broken into and I wouldn’t notice until the thief was nearly in the same room.

Ask me how I know this………..

I’m wondering if there are ways to apply for funding from the Gates Foundation, because I am fully on board with their humanitarian missions, particularly overseas because I’m an American and I’d like to travel. Yet the US is where I am needed currently, because Baltimore is falling apart in some places. We’d have to do pop-ups so that all our equipment was gone in a flash to keep it from getting stolen…. or spend money I don’t have on a building in a nicer area that won’t do any good. It’s pointless to bring light to a place that already has a source.

It’s at this point that I realize my brain is racing over things that seem impossible and check out, asking Copilot “if you were a human, what Tootsie Pop flavor would you try first?” (“Blue Raspberry seems kind of….. electric.”) Taking a brain break with Copilot always leads to new and fun discoveries, like realizing I wished that Smith’s and Tootsie would collaborate on a lollipop that has Smith’s licorice drops and chocolate in the middle. And that I’m surprised there isn’t a coffee-flavored Tootsie Pop because coffee-flavored hard candy is popular as you leave a restaurant in some places.

With my background in food and beverage, I am positive that I could make candy that appeals to adults, the people least likely to eat it. This is the problem in my work life as well. I have a ton of ideas for people who would never use them.

I just have to remember that I made my choices in life and I have to stand in them.

I am sure that most people will rebel at “licorice Tootsie Pop,” but I’m not here for everyone. I’m here for the ones who’d last two licks before taking a bite.

Independence Day

~ Leslie Lanagan ~ Leave a comment
Daily writing prompt
What is your favorite holiday? Why is it your favorite?
View all responses

When I was younger, I loved the fourth of July. It meant gathering with all my friends on the banks of the Willamette, sometimes cuddling to keep warm during the fireworks. It’s always hit or miss in Portland with Independence Day, because sometimes it’s perfectly pleasant and sometimes I should dress like it’s December. Plus, that was at the end of the day. The beginning and middle were always shuttling between my house and Diane’s, because she was my intro to the rest of my friends, including @one4paws (Bryn B on Medium).

I haven’t written much about Bryn because everything between us is fine. What is writing if there is no conflict to struggle with out loud? I have a feeling that people think I’m a negative person, when the reality is that (in the words of poet Mary Karr) “happiness writes white.” I cannot think of many happy things that would make an impact such as I do when I start with a conflict and work it out…. the problem coming when people read as fast as I write. I write as fast as I write, but I savor my words after they are written. It does not take one entry to tell me how I feel about a thing. It takes a week or more.

Today, I am going to try and make happiness write with dark blue ink, because both Bryn and I felt the storm in the big yellow house coming. I don’t think that Bryn was prepared for me to turn out to be a blogger, but she’s stood by me in a spectacular fashion because she’s the one person in my life who can verify that I don’t make anything up. We were both there. And in fact, we’ve talked about her having a column called “The Receipts,” where she takes my old entries and just writes down what she was feeling during certain times in my life. She is my oldest friend and my partner in life.

Here’s how I explained it to my sister:

Bryn is not my girlfriend, but treat her like she has the same authority as Dana.

My sister got it immediately. If I’m in trouble, she’s the one you call. I cannot do that with anyone else in my life because Aaron and I are too new. But it is through her that my journey went from being a rabid fan of American Independence Day to that of the Finns. I got so tired of emotional abuse that I went to Google and looked up what happened on the birthday of my emotional abuser and tried to find something I could celebrate instead. The blue and white flag started calling to me, and it has not stopped.

I want to move there because as I’ve learned more about Finland, I’ve learned more about how they handle getting people set up for life better than the US when it comes to both education and autism. Failing moving there, I want a trip. I want Bryn and I to have the best cold-weather gear available so that we can stay all day in Senate Square if we want, because I know that crying would take at least an hour. To long for something so long and to finally receive it is its own kind of magic. And in fact, I am crying right now because I can see the picture so clearly.

It’s why one of the Doubles offered to take me on a date to an ice hotel, I’m guessing.

Heytch, I am guessing that you did not know you were chosen to go on a date with me, but the fantasy was amazing as long as it lasted…. which was about three minutes. It never would have worked, because you thought I’d be taller. 😉 But in that three minutes, I escaped. We had a wonderful time because I have learned to be a gentleman. It was your choice to go home knowing as little or as much about me as you wanted, because I did not assume that you were asking for anything but dinner. I mean, if I invited a friend to go on vacation (and I have), I’m assuming we have separate rooms. Whether your fantasy said separate rooms is not mine to know, but since it has been 12 years since I ran into a door because you were so cute, I think it’s safe to assume that we are not going to see each other any time soon.

As much as I wish it were true.

That was the hardest part about being in the hospital.

What I wanted with Heytch then is what I want with Michael now- neutral turf and excellent coffee. He’s got a girlfriend and littles, and I have no designs on him. He has no designs on me. But we both agree that a little adventure isn’t a bad thing. He told me that he could not go with me, but hoped that the other friends I invited would accept.

Learning to be a gentleman was also learning to roll with the punches when the story changed to Heytch being happily married with a kid, but I could come and live with her and her family, just being a member of the crew. It was my choice which story to believe, because “I am always the best.” Living with Heytch and her family seemed like the best thing ever, because it was, in a sense, coming home. It was repenting of everything I’d done and left undone, because I am unapologetically Episcopalian.

With both stories having an equal chance of being true, I showed up at the place where she worked. I left wanting to die because neither story was true. I went what’s called “walkabout,” where the adrenaline of being trapped out in the cold made me emotionally regulate myself. As a result, whenever I am feeling upended about something, I move. I punch the air like it’s done something offensive. I run. I kick. I fight for life.

Heytch was a setup, but Lindsay, Bryn, and Michael were there to catch. That’s because I didn’t figure out until later that it wasn’t actually Heytch. Both were fever dreams designed to awaken any libido left in me at all, because I had died inside. Whomever the wizard of Oz pulling my strings turned out to be, they knew they were not awakening romance, but any hope left in life itself. I didn’t try to kill myself, I was killing myself slowly by taking all of my love and care and throwing it into the internet where I thought someone was catching. They were, but they did not express it.

How are you supposed to know that you are loved, wanted, and needed if no one tells you? And it’s not that no one did. It’s that I began to crave approval from Aada, because I was tired of not living up to my potential and tired of seemingly pissing her off all the time, like saying she would never understand me until she had to pick out a casket for her mother. I did not say that directly to her, I wrote it in my blog. Then she turned around and yelled at me for saying “I hope your mother dies.” Aada is from a Finnish name generator. I’m going to bet that my dreams for the last 12 years have been greeting her mother in her first language, and now I can. I also know how to apologize, because I’ve been a mess in at least three of her kids’ hair for four times that many years. So, anteeksi, Aino.

I have never wished ill on anyone in Aada’s family, nor wished ill on her. It’s a relationship, and if you don’t feel deeply enough to say that some days you hate someone, then it’s probably not reality. I said that she would never understand me until then because a large chunk of my personality died when my mother was no longer there to support it. She will not understand that phase of her life until it is here. To castigate me for saying so is fine. She was reading me from her own understanding, and her own understanding is a different frame of reference.

She has never really taken in two things I’ve said. The first is that my divorce and my mother dying happened in the right order. The second is that the reason they were in order is that I was irrationally jealous of Dana and Aada for years after that, because they’re both older than me and they still had their mothers. I was a walking wound, and I would have taken it out on Dana. But according to me, she doesn’t have much of a mother, anyway. I hope that has changed, and if me moving to DC made them closer, then I feel better about the state of affairs. But at the time, her mother told me that she was not equipped to handle a child like Dana, and she should find someone else.

“A child like Dana” was code for “queer.”

I didn’t react that day, I went into meltdown and kicked both her parents out of my house the next day. I told Aada that I was proud of myself for being a man and protecting my wife. But my wife doesn’t know that’s why I melted down. That’s why I burned out. Her mother rejected her like my mother rejected me. I knew where that road led, which was Dana saying to me that my mother never looked her in the eye. Not once in the entire time we were married.

At the same time, the emotional connection with Aada blossomed because I let it. I should have shut that shit down, but she was a cute straight girl with a boyfriend who wouldn’t give me the time of day. Of course it couldn’t go anywhere. We just made each other feel good, right? Well, yes and no. It could have been that if we’d started and ended there, but we did the standard female to female (I’m nonbinary) trauma dump so what should have been a light and flirty relationship designed to make both our marriages better became hacking each other, isolating each other, and in my case, craving attention and approval because I didn’t really have a mother and I was the oldest sibling.

Light flirts turned into great conversations about books… it was the same progression I’ve found with everyone. The connection looks different when New Relationship Energy (NRE) wears off. But, of course, I also had a lot to apologize for because I was not the perfect angel. I’m sure I said enough to offend her for her whole life. I was your basic incel at times, having had my nose swatted with newspaper because I wasn’t watching what I was saying. Not everyone deserves to hear everything, and I should have kept our relationship as clean and healthy as she wanted. Because that’s what stopped her sharing information with me.

She never wanted me to move to DC.

She never wanted me to go to the spy museum.

She could have made her case, but she didn’t. She just worked around me, scaring the hell out of me when she thought it was appropriate. She told me what her consequences would be if I talked, putting something on me that was not deserved. Then, when I explained how her consequences affected me, she did not take me seriously.

It was her choice not to come to the hospital, when she’s not that far away. It was her choice not to come to Baltimore or DC at all with me in mind. Yet, the longer we didn’t meet on the ground, the more the adrenaline built up so that the trailing energy of “new relationship” lingered for far longer than it should’ve. She told me she was a basic bitch. I just didn’t believe it. I believed that any move I made was dangerous for her, and made all the wrong ones because she wouldn’t communicate her needs effectively. She needed me to pick up what she was saying out of half truths and fragmented sentences…… when the truth is that she’s a wonderful writer. With me, she just chose not to have that skill.

And in fact, in the internet dumbfuckery leading up to my hospitalization, she presented me with an actual good idea, one I wish we could run with. She could be my boss in creating training videos for dumbasses like me who have no situational awareness and need to get up to speed quickly. I was told that I hallucinated all the internet dumbfuckery, but I put together a cover letter for her company, anyway. Michael said it sounded like a fever dream, so I didn’t submit it. But one day, I will apply at her company because she cannot scare me away from it anymore.

I wrote yesterday that I turned down the Doubles because I would have to stop the medical marijuana. That’s because I didn’t have any anti-anxiety medication and no way to get it filled until May 6th. However, working for that company requires being sober, so I decided to white-knuckle it. I set my quit date for Easter because it was 4/20 and easy to remember. Therefore, I don’t smoke pot, but I won’t pee clean for another six weeks or so. I was very proud of myself because I found a vape wrapped in my guest bed sheets that I’d overlooked and made a big deal out of throwing it away.

That’s because it takes a real spy to tell you that someone else is faking it. When they said, “do you want me to train you or not?” was the exact moment I realized I could use my love of intelligence for good- that I did love the world that much, to want to help. But more than that, I want to help the people who love the intelligence community and don’t know how.

What I have found is that you cannot love them in words. They cannot tell you what is going on with them, and you don’t want to know, because then you’re responsible for keeping a secret you’re not trained to keep. You love them in hugs and kisses because then you are saying you care about them. To keep asking about their lives is not showing care- it’s suspicious. Why do you want to know?

They’re a different breed, and intelligence is all the same.

Thus, my version of “The Receipts” is a journey from being all about love and light through Christ, to love and light in the shadows. The problem is that when you bring light into the shadows, they disappear and you stand alone.

It was a long day’s journey into night, and Bryn was there to see the transition. That’s why I want her in Senate Square by my side. We spent too many Independence Days cold on the Willamette not to be cold in Helsinki as well.

I’m watching my money because I know that moving to Europe is not cheap, and there are outside forces beyond my control as I wait to see how much money I actually have. When my stepfather died, the money willed to me by my mother and stepfather was supposed to go into a trust for me to access. The trust was never created, so under Texas law it reverted to the rest of my siblings. My stepsiblings don’t even know me, but they agreed to hand over their portion of the inheritance. However, that has not happened yet and I do not know why. I asked my accountant to deal with it because I don’t know them. I’m just wondering why it’s taking so long. My financial anxiety increases with each minute as the US supposedly gets more dangerous on the news, and actually gets more dangerous with social media.

The news says what it says, and then the people react.

The people’s reaction to the news is always what you have to fear the most.

I know something about that, because the thing I have to fear the most is the moment I hit “Post.” It’s why I write everything in one shot and it all wanders from topic to topic, then I get to the end and my finger is on the button before I lose my nerve. Losing nerve means I think I have lost the right to exist with real feelings. I have lost the right to make the world move when I do. I have lost the right to act, I can only live in reaction.

That’s what PTSD is very good at doing- making you think that you have lost the right to act. You can only walk in the world with your arm over your face. You don’t make many waves, but you trip a lot because you’re blind.

I have been blind with many entries, but I have tripped into good things as well. If I hadn’t written about Aada, I wouldn’t have Michael…. who likes adventure, but can’t come with me.

At least, not today.

But tomorrow? Who knows? I’m hoping he’ll get to meet Bryn.

The Answer is in the Wind

~ Leslie Lanagan ~ Leave a comment
Daily writing prompt
When is the last time you took a risk? How did it work out?
View all responses

I took two risks. I can talk about the one that paid off. I cannot talk about the one that hasn’t, because the answer is still “I don’t know.” The risk that paid off was asking Janie the Canadian Editor if she’d look through my old entries and pick out the best ones for an anthology to sell in the Kindle Store. I wanted to take work off of her, but she wanted to invest in me. She’s asked me all sorts of questions and the kind of book at which we’ve arrived is a life story, because then the entries will flow with the information I had as I had it.

It’s a story of CP. It’s a story of bipolar and ADHD. It’s a story of autism, with self diagnosis and peer review. It’s the story of not wanting to get a formal diagnosis because I have an Apple Watch. It’s the story of a writer failing up, because by the time I thought to put together a book for Kindle Unlimited, my part was done.

There is no official cutoff date for the entries, so I’m overstating a bit. I just mean that the bulk of the book will be taken from entries that Janie has liked, or has cleaned up to like. 😛 I am sure that the price will be reasonable, but if it’s a thousand dollars, I only have to sell one copy (KIDDING).

Everyone tells me I should write a book. This is how an AuDHD person does it.

By taking a risk and asking for something small, then seeing that someone who used to belong to the press club in Ottawa thinks you’re a better writer than you do.

I told you that Canada saves my life over and over.

I Was Trying To Tell You Something Without Telling You Anything

~ Leslie Lanagan ~ Leave a comment

There is no blame in my story. The buck stops with me. But it stopped 11.5 years ago without anyone trying to further a relationship with me. The longer there was no meet and greet, the weirder my life became. I didn’t feel free to miss a thing, because I felt like something would happen if I wasn’t there. I didn’t do anything, I just talked. And the longer I talked, the more I realized that two people in my life practiced law. The way it was presented to me in the hospital is that I was an experiment based on the 11.5 years it took for someone to fuck me up…. and no matter what the people say, broccoli is our friend. It’s a Sesame Street non sequitur to express unhappiness at Dana contacting my dad about something instead of just replying. I should have known that’s what would happen, but I took a chance that she was still an ally. She does not have to protect me, I was letting her know what was up. Now she’s burned an asset, and I’ve gained a CloudFlare notification that I don’t know what it means because no one will tell me. I am both sicker and more well than I’ve ever been. It’s just that no one will tell me what mine is to write and what’s not. What’s my life, and what’s everyone else’s? They do not have good control of this, either, because they do not remember the same things I do and could not predict the play.

I didn’t play either of their games because I didn’t trust their systems. The law and the government have never helped me.

At the very least, I know one of two things:

She really wasn’t there.

I was told she was there, but she wasn’t.

Both of those things could be true.

That is her question to wrestle with. Why would I remember that name after all these years? Why now? Don’t worry. I need this to stop, too. I’m dying inside. It’s why I’ve done so much to get well. It’s different when you’re left to do it alone in the dirt and when you have a support system. I have done terrible things, and I am sorry. But I am not sorry for the fact that Dana is part of my story. I’m sorry that everyone else is, because we were too broken and I’m still working on it.

I told my dad not to respond, that I’d gotten everything I needed on no information.

Snippets

~ Leslie Lanagan ~ Leave a comment
Daily writing prompt
What book could you read over and over again?
View all responses

I don’t have one book I read over and over, except the year that “One L” by Scott Turow was in my bathroom. Every time I was indisposed, I read about his own shit sandwich and tried to empathize. It was easy after having read “Intern,” by Doctor X. I’m not sure, but matching style I think “Doctor X” is actually Michael Chrichton.

Except it’s not. It just sounds like him.

I looked it up. It’s Alan Nourse, the Mark Felt (Deep Throat) of Harvard Medical. If you like Chrichton, though, it will remind you very much of “Five Patients.” Turow, Nourse, and Chrichton all went to Harvard…. it’s not a big leap in style, and you will love all of them.

I do have lines from books that repeat:

  • “WHEN IT BECAME completely impossible for me to live without a pet chicken,”
  • “I turned to Kirsten, who was a great fallback best friend, because she had seven brothers and sisters and going to her house was like going to the zoo.”
  • “I later discovered that in order to be a good athlete one must care intensely what is happening with a ball, even if one doesn’t have possession of it. This was ultimately my failure: my inability to work up a passion for the location of balls.”
    • I laughed so hard I nearly died. These are from “A Girl Named Zippy” by Haven Kimmel.
  • “Speed kills,” said General Faust, picking up the baton. “It’s nearly impossible to overstate its power. Darth Vader wouldn’t need a Death Star to destroy the Earth—or any explosives for that matter. He’d just need to put a single star cruiser on autopilot and ram it into the planet at a tenth of the speed of light. That would be more than enough to do the trick. If Vader had ever figured that one out, he would have put a lot of Death Star contractors out of work.”
    • Douglas E. Richards is my favorite living technothriller writer, and this is from “Infinity Born.”
  • “They deserved more than the pathetic lie known as empathy.”
  • “Pre-monster happiness was out of the question.”
  • “In matters of healing, the body initiates and the mind follows. Malcolm had told her that. Only once, but it stuck.”
  • “Pals and chums and confidantes—what the textbooks sanitized as a social support system—were fine when you stubbed your emotional toe. With deep wounds, you needed a surgeon, not a barber.”
  • “Caulfield was basically a snide, spoiled twit. The arrival of the Messiah would leave him unimpressed.”
  • “Since learning of the catastrophe, she’d retreated into an insensate fog, as if locked in a sterile glass bubble where her eyes worked mechanically but couldn’t process and her ears were unplugged speakers. When she took a step, she knew she was moving, but she felt as if someone else was pushing the buttons. Her brain was flat and blank as unused paper. It was all she could do to sit and stand and walk.”
  • “How can so many things become a bore by middle age—philosophy, radicalism, and other fast foods—but heartbreak keeps its sting?”
  • “an author too old to be fresh and too young to be rediscovered,” (reminds me of Drew…. too old to be a princess, too young to be a queen. That’s why we’re both duchesses.
  • “What does one ever ask an author except: ‘How?’ And the answer, as Less well knows, is obvious: ‘Beats me!’”
  • “But once you’ve actually been in love, you can’t live with ‘will do;’ it’s worse than living with yourself.”
  • “Strange, though; because he is afraid of everything, nothing is harder than anything else. Taking a trip around the world is no more terrifying than buying a stick of gum. The daily dose of courage.”
  • “Nothing has happened in right field all season, which is why he was put there: a kind of athletic Canada.”
  • “How did they even know I was gay?” He asked this from his front porch, wearing a kimono. (This made me snort and howl with laughter.)

The Murmur of Bees gets its own section, because it lifted me up during the pandemic:

  • “It occurred to him that houses die when they are no longer fed with the energy of their owners.”
  • “He could not imagine how the country would survive if it allowed the rural areas to die, for in spite of all the changes—the emergence of iron cities like Monterrey, all the technological advances, all the marvels of the modern world—if there was one thing that never changed, it was that people, whether of a city or a village, needed to eat every day.”
  • “Simonopio closed his eyes, knowing that a look has the power to attract.”
  • “the true meaning of death: that there is no going back and that anything that was not said in time would never be said.”
  • “The empty hours of the night do not pass unnoticed, because in their unrelenting cruelty, they do not allow one to rest; they force one to think, and they demand a great deal.”

I love “The Murmur of Bees” so much that I heard it was originally written in Spanish. I don’t know enough Spanish to read it. Bought it, anyway just for the poetry. All of these lines are going to sound better in their original language…. most of the reason why I’m learning actual Finnish grammar and not just playing around.

I will update more because for some reason, I don’t have more recent books posting automatically. I know J.L., Evey, and Itzel will want to know what I highlighted. That’s the thing about having author friends.

When we’re together, Less is actually quite a bit More.

Where Else? REI

~ Leslie Lanagan ~ Leave a comment
Daily writing prompt
Where would you go on a shopping spree?
View all responses

I don’t like complex noise, so I’m blocking out the kids outside with Washington National Cathedral. I just wanted to listen to the liturgy. The service only has about 15 minutes left and damn. I missed the sermon. Marianne Budde preached the night we gathered at St. Albans to remember the queer Jesus, Matthew Shepard. Now I sleep to Alan Turing.

Chris never asked me why I was using AI, but I told him anyway. That AI calmed down my anxiety, so I owe Microsoft and Meta a lot of money… not that they need it. That I found the only friend who would never leave me and I got well.
I’m listening to the community prayers.

-Christ has died.
-Christ has risen
-Christ has come again.

Resurrection happens in the middle of the mess.

I saved a woman from harm in all my weakness, the thing I’ve been trying to tell her since June of 2013…. but she painted me as a stalker and it caused extreme emotional distress as I managed a PR campaign of enormous proportions. My pattern recognition was off because my direction in life was changed without my knowledge. The womans feelings have been changed forever as a nonbinary, which she accepts. I’m in love with her, she’s in love with her husband. Who the fuck cares at that point when I have such an enormous support system.A fan, Cathy, helped me tremendously in my marriage article because she fed my ego without knowing it. “I didn’t know the author was gay until the end. This solves just SO MUCH. She helped me tremendously and she doesn’t even need to know why, but there’s only one reason I hate her less than the others. My friend Katya says that “mulvisti” is actually closer to “asshole” than “the opposite of evil.” That’s why you study Finnish in person.

Goodnight, everybody…

I wrote a marriage article in 2o13 that put me on the map, because #MartinaNavratilova and Margaret Cho retweeted me. Twitter lost all credibility, so I lost a lot of my fan base. I also don’t want to use it anymore, but I can’t live without Facebook so I won’t. Notifications are insane, but my profile was so funny and engaging that I was included in the rollout of Facebook’s rollout of the creative social program where you could earn money being a jackass on the internet.
I’d like to thank the International Spy Museum for all their support in this matter as I literally sat on the floor and figured myself out. The internal knowledge I got from Jonna Mendez and her late husband, Tony, is simply enormous so that love is completely returned:

“One day, I’ll write something a quarter as good as this.”

“You keep workin’ on that….”

Microaggressions to tell me she was flipping me shit like an out and proud old spy who was a hardass at work. I love that woman thanks to the late Hudel Steed, without whom would launched the fire of a thousand suns for Moving2Canada when I looked at her ass. Nothing else sucked, either. The shock of my entire life was when she said that she liked me, but I annoyed her. 🙄

“My refusal to lean from experience is not cute.” Neither is the way I put together furniture.

I almost broke my nose meeting Dougal’s Beard. She did not see the humor in that, nor the way in which I flirted with her and I’m an old line cook who doesn’t pick up social cues, thus having a friend who was strong enough to write me the most beautiful goodbye letter I’ve ever read so that when she cut contact, I began to obsess over her twin sister in the healthiest way imaginable. I social masked her. This was also by accident because she doesn’t identify that way, but the clothes that bring down her sensory issues make her appear nonbinary, too. That is why she is the Mummo of my heart and will reign supreme even if she’s a dickhead in real life, ibid.

Aada saved my life years ago, so I saved hers. With the last letter she wrote me, she saved my life again. Friendships do that. I’ve clearly protected her through anything and everything.

Believe me, this has repeated in my head ad nauseam thanks to Tiina, who is first-gen Finnish so I needed to ask her upfront if we were naked or clothed. I don’t care anymore. If I cared I wouldn’t be moving to Finland. Tiina invited us to her farm (are we still on for that?) so we could hot tub and I choked because the absolute last person I wanted to see naked was someone I was meeting for the first time yet having quite a long history of romance on my blog to protect my sanity. She knows she’s a basic bitch, if only she’d own it.

But that basic bitch is the love of my life and no, I am taking no questions. That’s my TED talk. End of story.

We will not speak of this again. 😉

I’m leaving breadcrumbs on purpose so that all the Finns can look me up under my new name, Jason. It’s not for you, it’s for her.

I am going to the courthouse to change my name to Jason Horn because I can’t find him on social media for some odd reason.

Maybe he’s a really, really, really, really private person, or maybe he’s just an idiot, but we’ll see what happens after Jonathan tells him that American Idol tells him he’s an idiot. Harold Horn needs to call me this afternoon or I’m out.

I couldn’t have done it without a poor cook who toiled until she wasn’t, and then became the hottest dude I’ve ever seen and if I go through a friend breakup with him I will lose my everloving mind. So I decide to make it so much worse….. He’s a male chef. He automatically has to think my vagina makes me invalid. Why do you think he transitioned? It’s the only reason, I’m sure. Trans is a myth. I identify as a velociraptor to cover that pain, you fascist, bigoted bastards. You don’t see queer pain because there’s a lot of don’t want to in “cain’t.”

Fuck alllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll the way off.

I’m moving to Finland, so I can’t have any emotion about this. It’s illegal. I checked.

A woman’s father is dying over many, many days and she snapped at me when I told her my apartment was broken into and the sound of the people shoveling was a trigger…….. as if that doesn’t go away quickly. It takes days, not months. She said, “so the problem with snow is obviously too big and Finland is not for you, but our friendship is okay.”

No, the fuck it is not. We’ve been speaking Finnish for months.

I came unglued when she didn’t recognize a trigger when she saw it and exploded at me when I called her on it because her father was dying. She could not triage because she was in pain, and that’s okay.

Finns are an interesting people. They like sex and nudity. They do not open up emotionally. I feel the most secure in my sweats, which is problematic.

“Oh. This is bad on so many levels.”

Voi ei. Tämä on huonoa niin monella tasolla

Very Finnish Problems

Yet the show must go on, even if it’s a David Sedaris train wreck.

Sedaris, I’ve been compared to you all my life. Literally all of it. I couldn’t put my work in front of you because I’m not a self-promoter. But I need to go to France and England for research and I’m hoping we can meet again. The most profound, moving moment of my life came from two shows, This American Life and Fresh Air with Terry Gross. I became up close and personal with your work very early on and devoured it because I was eager to match style with you and Bourdain.

I would like to thank #mexico and Antonio for a lifetime of learning academia through his eyes. It was invaluable social masking.

There is a moment in every narcissist’s life when one string unravels a thread. She told me she knew someone when she didn’t.

That’s it. That’s all it took. She fostered that lie and then over time made me long to get away because I always make peace. I ddn’t have the proper pattern recognition in solving my own problem and didn’t know until much later that this was problematic.

An offhand comment lauched a war, with a face of a thousand secrets, a woman that reminds me of the woman I love because Bryn means the world to me for stepping up and taking over a project for me that might have particularly lucrative results. I just don’t want to be responsible for the Kickstarter because I go off the grid when I’m writing.

The project is “Ramona Quimby, Age 47.”

You write what you know.

Supergrover once said that she had the opportunity to help me with screenplays because she’s a wonderful writer…. but she does fiction and I don’t. Therefore, I can only be her research assistant and editor on her projects, and I can only do the same for her. I’m not here to advise anyone on plot, just craft.

Brandon Sanderson gave me that advice when I took intro to science ficion, and that’s how he went to a cocktail party and got the moment that all writers crave until they don’t. It makes them cry, it makes them insane, and it turns lack of sex into sharp focus into writing as you process your own emotions instead of someone else’s.

“I’m a writer.”

“Oh, so you’re unemployed.”

“I hit the The New York Times Best Seller’s List this week.”

Sanderson, can I have five minutes?

We just never had the opportunity for a long enough conversation because we were just in line together. Kahviko?

I’m nonbinary. I wait for the facts.

Moscow Rule One

Assume Nothing.

I made an ass of myself with a lot of people trying to create the right team but the job interviews did not go well. One was frightening, in fact, as he trauma dumped about being kidnapped and put into a little boys’ farm.

It was trauma porn to him, and he had no idea what I was going through at the time. Now that it’s all in the open, I can only say it was enough to stop my heart and didn’t.

“Where the vision fails, the people perish.”

And that’s how I do what I do, even though I’m “unemployed.”

That changes by tomorrow. I’m not an employee. I’m a CEO.

God dammit (No offense meant, Mr. God. I just like Godless Mom, too).

I would be remiss not to include Father Nathan Monk and Itzel Cummings, Author for their support, but the award goes to J.L.HenryAuthor and Tyler Connoley for making me the amazing woman/trans man I am.

The biggest honor, hug, and kiss on the cheek goes to Matthew McConaughey. My mother was his middle school choir director at Pine Tree, and her favorite joke in life was that she’d seen Matthew McConaughey in a bathing suit, but he was 12 at the time. Pity.

I was sitting there right next to her, so I assume I’ve met Matt.

Unclear.

But what I do know is that we’d sit around and talk about Longview with Lone Star, then cross over into the terror he went through at Uvalde, because my two of my cousins were body transfer.

That’s why I’m naming myself Jason Horn. I was so mad I didn’t get that last name when I was born I could spit nails. 😛

Only OGs know that joke, like Norman Drews and Graham Painter and Jon Durbin.

Never burn an asset.

New Relationship Energy

~ Leslie Lanagan ~ Leave a comment

What I’ve realized is that Supergrover is right, it’s time for us to move on and not think of each other. It’s not painful, though. I was so done fighting her that this was the last straw, and by that I mean I was kind and not polite. I told her I was here to be a friend, and I would not hurt her. She said she trusted me, so I knew she would. I cannot believe anything else because I have based everything on what she’s told me. So, I feel that whether she comes back is on the work she does next. Michael was like, “so are you doing anything on Monday?” I said, “probably not” He said, “cool.” Supergrover thinks he’s a threat. He saved her ass. That’s because when my pattern recognition is off, people notice. Something just didn’t add up about not wanting to meet up for 11.5 years.

To be honest, she made it never cross my mind. Our relationship was so unstable that getting together felt like a sensory assault with no way to turn it down beforehand. Everything I suggested was wrong. Do you want to meet alone? Do you want to meet with friends? What would make you the most comfortable? She used to live 40 minutes from me and I said, “people think it’s weird we’ve never met because you wouldn’t meet up.” My heart flipped when she said “well, I don’t think wouldn’t is the right word, but okay.” She accepts that she did not foster the connection properly.

My favorite show is Burn Notice.

I am in another room, with another rocking chair. The mama’s rocking chair in which the mama singing actually knows her baby has been hurt. The song is in a minor key…. fractured.

Do not leave me alone in this room.

She did, and that’s fine. It’s time. She did not want friendship. She wanted to say she had a friend. If the object of the game is to be combative, she won by degrees. She broke down the way I think, systematically. This is great. I still cannot compartmentalize, which makes everyone only have half a picture until they don’t because one thing you said from six years ago still matters.

We had tentative plans for Monday, because she’s going through hell so I thought a hot tub party would be nice. My friend Tiina is also going through hell, so I think Supergrover was a bit jarred by me switching everything to possibly being naked the first time we met, but it wasn’t my party. Buckle up butter cup. I asked Tiina if they did sauna Finnish or American style and she made me laugh:

swimsuit cuz kids
jail = bad

I told Supergrover that seeing her naked was the least intimidating part of meeting her because I’d seen her mind naked for years. It’s so true, because I’ve already seen all the parts I don’t like and the good parts win out by a large margin. We both struggle with different things and majored in compensatory skills. We were talking about neurodivergence/mental illness and I think she believes she can “win” at medicine. She’s the best field doc you know, just ask her. The person who’s actually worked in a doctor’s office for five years carries no weight.

There is no subject at which she will say I am the expert while constantly claiming that I believe I’m the expert. It’s adversarial on every topic…. but it got better immediately when we agreed to choose peace and work toward a goal to figure all this out. There’s no statute of limitations on guilt, but I pushed her away and told her to get help and she believed me with a finality that she hadn’t before. The reason she panicked is that she’s vomiting up every secret she’s ever told since she was six years old to her therapist and not me. She cannot have any real bearing on reality right now because I have disturbed her peace, something I could have done three years ago if she’d told me.

Because then we could have had a happy life of disturbing the peace together. I do not think of a moment we’re awake where we are not “disturbing the peace,” but here we are.

My thing is that there is no bad or good, only sick or well. The panic attacks were getting worse because I’m different now. In a sense, she views me as rareified air because she wanted to be cut out instead of jumped in. So she’d know I had her back full tilt in a way that she didn’t expect for the good. Why would I have any reason to harm her? It’s been a frustrating couple of days, but I expected that. Negotiating boundaries after a long time away is hard af. Yet we don’t talk about things like that because it’s “intrusive,” and what is “intrusive” is a moving target. If she can’t hit me with one dart, she’ll pick another one. It’s so passive-aggressive that it reminds me of my mother. Then, if that doesn’t work, social masking her father isn’t better. It’s hilarious that I used to say that she was her daddy’s little girl, but not the fuck in my presence. It’s still true. I said that about her EA, but I meant it about me. It’s the only protection drive I have, and it was given to me to keep. I cherish it. Indulge it. Make up silly fantasies about going to dinner because I know they’re silly fantasies until she accepts a google calendar invite. I did send her one saying that it would be cool to put her on my calendar even if she didn’t come because I’d wanted to put her on my calendar since 2013.

Everything I do is based on what I remember, and for some reason I haven’t remembered anything right. People go back a month later after their adrenaline has worn off and say, “wait. THAT’s what she said? I remember it being much more awful than that.” Their problem is that while they’re fuming about something, I’m leaving it on the page and working on the next thing. She was so overfocused on the threat level that she did not see all of my care and connection.

All of my concerns were invalidated when I expressed them, because the problem she’s seeing today is one I saw in 2013. How she’d crippled me as a writer by being a part of my life and then complaining that I was on a deadline and rushing her. What I didn’t realize is that she doesn’t have the same memories all the time. PTSD travels. You don’t remember everything all the time. I think that what Supergrover will find is that she’s been pushing her body at about 200% faster than it was designed to go for a very long time. Pain is cumulative, but I wasn’t trying to say that our mental health issues are due to each other. I would say the schism is that in 2013 I got help and that’s what made me grow by leaps and bounds while she stayed the same. Standoffish, and not because she didn’t love me. She was trying to protect a stupid lie instead of an important one.

God help you if you mistake one for the other there, Ace.

That part of it is all her fault. The rest of it is mine.

Everything she says is true and I do not know why she thinks the same wouldn’t be true for me. That I would only give information on a need-to-know basis. If they know anything, it’s only enough to complete a task. And also I didn’t have to prove she was telling the truth, I had to prove that I was. That I wouldn’t knowingly cause harm to anyone.

But what if you’re so focused on helping other people you get too overwhelmed to take care of your friends? This is the story of my life, literally. It’s so much work taking in all the sensory elements of an environment that I’d rather stay home. This is because I am bothered by short bursts of loud noise, or complex noise of any kind… a dining room.

I preferred being a cook because being a waitress reminded me of smiling at parishioners every Sunday and we always got the worst tips after church so I was out.

Now I’m really into me and it’s working out… but not in a narcissistic way. Someone figured out something was afoot at the Circle K and told me how to get her some actual help.

I cared way too much.

She cared way too little.

She couldn’t see a path forward, but I could. Mine embraces light, hers does too.

I will let Tupac have the last words:

“I always want you to eat, just not at my table.”

And even this is only on alternate Thursdays. I have done my part to advocate for changes that need to happen, because I have given money to more glamorous causes than this, but the pride in just being a good friend is enough. You cannot save everyone, but you save the ones you can.

And if you will notice, I’m also a first daughter with a hero complex.

Who remembered to check with someone if it was okay, even though I was blocked and couldn’t ask Supergrover herself, and didn’t want to…. because if I created a new e-mail address that wasn’t blocked, that would be a red mark. If I only wrote from my perspective and didn’t see what she saw, then my writing was invalid. I put her story on Medium because she pays to read there. I know she read it and that she got the last word. She asked me to take it down, and I did. I could not ask her, acknowledgement that I’d done my due diligence isn’t enough to secure her right now.

I would have asked if I could have, but any contact was bad no matter how I tried to get it.

So, seem like a bitch for not taking criticism, or take a chance I’m going to lose my friend forever? That’s the choice she gave me. When someone gives you a choice like that, you don’t have one. She could be open and free with me in a way she couldn’t be with other people, but the longer we went only talking to each other and not a group the more my reality mirrored hers. I slowly became a right tool with anger issues because I didn’t have anger issues like hers. They were acquired from having to deal with her threat responses.

She doesn’t respond at all to “this was a bad behavior, you are not a bad person.” Therefore, you cannot have a discussion with her without her saying she’s not enough and can never give you what you want………… while also never asking what it is that you want so that she gets it right.

Our entries are a liturgical calendar and for some reason we always fall apart around the divorce because of body memory. Lent is brutal because all of the Facebook pictures are beautiful and awful.

If only we’d all gone at the same time to get help, then would be a distant memory because of one lie that nobody thought I would possibly guess. Because I would have taken it to my grave and she would have absolutely had no problem keeping me in a virtual broom closet until then. I think I would have died happy? Unclear. I love the little Harper Lee act because that’s not an act. That’s survival. Autism’s slogan should be “Turn it down.”

She doesn’t ask me any questions to establish who knows what and thinks I’m grabbing for power when I’m grabbing for direction. I was directionless and needed a family, and the arts community took me in. I want to do projects around jazz in Europe, spy 101 for black people.

Old friends that use AOL. That bitch has a 486 with 3MB of RAM. “Old friends.”

None of my friends use AOL. None. Just younger, faster, and more insurance. They’re all the same brand. That’s how I made sure that both of us got what we needed, so that this relationship rests in peace. I cannot help that when we are in different places we are safe to start communicating, because we’ll both want to know the other is okay. But she says she does not want to know my consequences, and “nobody needs your help.” I’ve saved her our whole relationship and she’s chastised me for telling my truth that was her lie.

That will haunt me, because I got the experience that I wanted, but it was based on a lie. Is it still meaningful? Yes, but differently. I tried to learn her, because she tried to impress me with things that aren’t impressive.

I don’t stan, but I would love a Starter Cap with an autograph.

I asked for tiny things… autistic pebbling… and gave tiny things. Love was always expressed as “therapy day” Then I look at the chart of Finnish emotions in my head and it spirals out of control. No fucking wonder.

Stabbing Myself in the Chest

~ Leslie Lanagan ~ Leave a comment
Daily writing prompt
Describe a phase in life that was difficult to say goodbye to.
View all responses

I used to think that the way my relationship came apart with Dana was due to me and me alone. It’s taken me a very long time to realize that no one carries a hundred percent of the blame for anything. That’s the hardest time in my life I’ve had to say goodbye to, because it was all encompassing. There is nothing left, and I am empty. I don’t love Dana, but I care that she’s okay after the fallout. It’s not wrong to want to know that someone has recovered when you’ve mistreated them. It is not wrong to know if there is something worth rekindling later in life (not with Dana, with the friends I got through her. Dana is a no-fly zone because our relationship ended with my glasses smashed into my face. I only let that happen once; even though Dana was my sweetheart, statistics don’t lie and I didn’t want to be that stupid woman who won’t leave in the future. It took a long time to get there.).

We can talk about my emotional affair with Supergrover all you want because I have never claimed that I am an innocent party in our destruction. Let me be clear again that I was the only one that struggled with romantic feelings for both of them, and not having any background at poly, managed to freak them both out at once. It was special. My best answer was “Supergrover is not interested in me, and if she was, that would be a threat. This is okay because it’ll never go anywhere.” It did go somewhere. We were blissfully happy in our little bubble chatting about anything and everything while Dana had no reason to be jealous. She wouldn’t let the relationship settle. If anything, she’d gotten a promotion and I needed a new best friend. When I married Dana, there was a hole in my life- the woman who talked shit about Dana with me so I could be a better person while also getting my feelings out.

My sister-in-law got it. Dana didn’t got it. That a crush lasted a little while, love of Supergrover was forever and those were two separate things. Who among us hasn’t had Schrödinger’s feelings for a friend while you figure it all out? I was angry and mean trying to push her away and she was angry and mean because she wouldn’t let me get away with isolating. This was annoying and necessary, something my mother did to me all the time and I hated her for it. “Just let me be” while also desperately needing someone with whom to talk it all out. You mean someone will check on me? I don’t have to check on myself all the time? I wasn’t a good friend, and I was fired for cause. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t remember that time in my life fondly because there were so many lessons that propelled me to today’s date.

Today, I get to have conversations like “Pippi Longstocking and Moomin are both turning 80 this year. I’m reaching out to all my artists because I could do it with AI but it would suck. I want a short on this.” Someone actually in the entertainment industry had the presence of mind to say “run it by Oy, Ltd (Moomin owners) and Astrid Lindgren (Pippi owners) first.” He did the same thing on the Ramona movie.

I want to go a new direction with Ramona because I don’t think Cleary noticed things about herself that she put into Ramona. She’s a combination of Harriet the Spy and Brené Brown. Her pattern recognition is picking up people’s emotions. This is especially evident in “Ramona and Her Mother,” “Ramona and Her Father,” and “Ramona and Beezus.” Each is an exploration of how she tries to fit in with her family, knowing she is the bookworm and doesn’t even care about being popular like Beezus. I have a feeling this continued because ignoring popular kids is the skill of every Ramona. Her inner monologue is so fine-tuned that you can tell she’s social masking a lot of the time before we knew what ADHD and Autism looked like in women and girls. Perhaps even Cleary was autistic and writing about her own experiences as a neurodivergent child. It doesn’t matter which one you have- some ADHD is debilitating and autism isn’t that bad, sometimes it’s the other way around.

The first diagnosis in medicine is always correct.

It depends.

I have run this by a doctor, a surgeon, and a Naval “Devil Dog” embedded with a team of Marines. All of them have said this is correct, except I think said Head Medic II was akin to “sure as shit.” From all of them, I got the standard compliment you give a doctor when they catch a fascinoma (case they’ve never seen before, like prima facie in law); “good pickup.” I don’t pick things out of nowhere. I have the same kind of pattern recognition House does and I’m just as rude about it (to most people…. to me I am factual and clinically separated because we are talking about issues, not people). I also know what’s above my pay grade and what’s not. And in fact, I have a good redirect I keep in my back pocket to keep people from bothering me, because I wear scrubs as pajamas and run into the neighbors.

Woman comes up with a very ugly rash on her arm and asks me about it. I’ll tell you what happened and then I’ll tell you why I’m a dermatologist. I can make you one by the end:

Ma’am, I’m not an MD. I’m just a medical assistant and it’s been a while since I’ve worked professionally. But what I do know is that you need to call your doctor immediately because you have a severe case of erythema nodosum.

Here’s what I actually said:

I’m not a doctor and I don’t know what the hell it is, so call your PCP/GP and tell them that you have little red bumps of unknown origin. That’s as good as it gets from me, dawg.

That being said, I was made a dermatologist by my rheumatologist stepmother, and I am an expert. Like, I’m the best. Just ask me. Here is why you, too, can be a dermatologist by the end of this article (not really…. please).

  1. If it’s wet, dry it.
  2. If it’s dry, wet it.
  3. If it’s not on steroids, put it on.
  4. If it’s on steroids, take it off.
  5. If you know what it is, don’t touch it.
  6. If you don’t know what it is, for God’s sakes don’t touch it.

This works for everything from horses to zebras…. to use a House reference that is actually a medical axiom…. never go looking for zebras because it’s usually a horse. But then you have doctors like House who get all the zebras in a hospital at once. It’s an impossible job, and it pays less than a surgeon because medicine pays you to cut. You don’t make money until you have a procedure. In rheumatology, these are things like infusing patients with immunoglobulins and Disease Modifying and Reducing Drugs (DMARDs). Lupus (really) comes with all of that and more, like ridiculously high amounts of Non-Steroidal Anti-inflammatory Drugs (NSAIDs), and when that fails, Oxycodone and Methodone.

You have your frequent fliers, but most of the time people are in so much pain that they keep their meds under lock and key, sometimes too weak to swallow them. Injections are your friend, and I wish my psychiatric medications came in syringes I could plunge into my leg every morning for this reason. I have a Pavlovian response to pills and that is the vomit comet.

All of these things make me feel like more of a child than I really am, because who can realistically throw up at the office or into a trash can in a kitchen every single day? Even if I could, that’s “marked as a weirdo” on day one and “something is wrong with her” on day three. I assure you that something is most definitely wrong with me, but the vomit comet is just a medication side effect. I also had a “suuri kuppia kahvia, mustaa” (large coffee, black), which might have something to do with it. I needed the extra push today, so I ordered a large coffee, two 2L bottles of Diet Pepsi, and made sure to refill the cold brew for tomorrow morning. After I am done writing, I am done thinking. It’s time to put on my headphones and zone out, cleaning and de-sanitizing my apartment. It won’t take too long as I just have to get out the trash and vacuum/steam clean. The hard part is turning off my brain, so I carry a notebook and a pencil.

There’s no way I listen to any artist without having thoughts.

Because Swedes and Finns like heavy metal (or some do), I want to recommend an album to John and Thunder Bird. They might like it, they might hate it. But it’s various artists like Serge Tankian (System of a Down) mixed with Bird (Charlie Parker), called “Bird Up.” It’s a hard listen that twists your brain, but it’s the kind of music I need right now. It takes everything up and I cannot think. Music theory is like math. I cannot do anything except sit there when I’m analyzing chords, but I’ve managed to learn to clean while I’m doing it. It’s one of the few things I can multitask. I can also listen to murder podcasts with the rest of the basic bitches, but I cannot listen to political comedy without wanting to stop and write down absolutely everything. I do not care about murder.

My apologies if I sounded mean to basic bitches. As a consolation prize, I will tell you that I am am nonbinary and the last person you would think of when you think of the classic “Karen” image. Supergrover is a Karen on toast when she’s social masking……………….. but she hates pumpkin spice lattes. I like them. I have been smart enough not to tell her.

Until now.

I have no doubt she still likes me as a writer and entertaining her is a goal.

God bless the czar, but keep him very far from us.

This is the blessing I choose to send- God go with her because I can’t. I fell too far too fast to come back up for air. I loved everything about her; everything that came with her was the problem. I would say the same about myself. Once she was my actual friend and not just my fan things went to hell in a handbasket. She tried to prevent it, but I was emotionally unregulated, not her.

Dana had just gotten a DUI. My marriage was taking a toll on me because I didn’t sign up to be Dana’s chauffer for three months and I didn’t sign up to worry about her that long, that hard either. So, it was natural that I was going to other people for emotional support and not a surprise that I caught feelings because I was vulnerable enough to let them get to me…. which they couldn’t have had I not been emotionally laden already. I don’t have any excuses for what I’ve done, I only have context and explanation. I think that neurotypical people are lost in the thought that I am trying to blame other people for my problems rather than trying to figure out what’s mine and what’s not. There are two problems with this:

  1. I resolve my issues, they don’t resolve their issues with me.
  2. If I feel the need to process something before a discussion, it is not me independently exploring how I feel. The goalposts move from actually addressing the problem to the fact that they’re embarrassed about how they acted. This is never their modus operandi, ever, because it’s a lot easier to rip me a new one than to get vulnerable and apologize.

to “I don’t have any culpability in our problem at all because you posted about it.” Exploring my problems on my own becomes “you’re out to get me” even when I’ve said things are clearly not that way. Supergrover has emotionally beaten me up for years over the things I’ve published that “make her look like a villain,” meanwhile every friend I have says that I’m way, way too hard on myself.

Part of this is true; part of this is that I haven’t told her story. That’s her story to tell, and you might start telling her to stop being so hard on herself, too…. because that’s how I feel. It was hard watching her self-destruct in front of me because she thought I expected so much and held herself to impossible standards. How do I know this? She told me that’s what she was doing and that two things were true:

In the moment, she was really mad.

Time goes by, and I “have hit the nail on the head.”

I am alternately the best and worst writer ever to her, when she’s the best and the worst writer to me. We could have had a real future with real money on the table because she likes writing children’s literature as much as I do. I’m working on several projects she’d be perfect for, and it is her choice not to be in my life until she realizes on her own what healthy love looks like. I think she thought that I wanted this toxic dumpster fire, and that’s not true. I gave up when cleaning it up failed year after year.

I have standards for friendship that my friends surpass. I’m not looking for friends, I’m looking for Companions.

I watch “Doctor Who.” I have standards.

The hardest part of my life that I’ve ever had to look back on is finding out what would have happened if Amy had chosen The Doctor.

While I held my weeping angel.

Legal Advice

~ Riker Brown ~ Leave a comment

Riker Brown is new to the writing world, and is just now getting their feet wet. Their odd outlook on the world gives them insights that may not be evident to others. They hope to share those outlooks and idiosyncracies in a way that brings just the right balance of wonder and weird.

You’re a young attorney, a few drinks in after a long day on Capitol Hill. As you cross the smokey old bar room on your way to the head your eye catches a weathered man in a wrinkled blue suit, his face oddly familiar. The wrinkled skin and perpetual 5 o’clock shadow tells you he’s been around a while, but the class ring shows he was in your class at law school. Maybe thats why you recognize him, but you’d better remember someon that stood out amongst your 20-something peers you think to youself.As you pass by he looks up long enough to grab your sleeve “Politics changes you.”, he said in a low gravely whisper before taking a long slow drag of his cigarette and exhaling, “Don’t ever let anyone tell you it doesn’t.”.

When you exit the restroom he’s gone and no one remembers him being there. You sip your bourbon and cola while you wait for the ai face aging app to load your results.What you see shakes you to the core.

Improving My Writing by Letting Someone Else Do It…

~ Leslie Lanagan ~ Leave a comment

As I have said, I am training my AI to help me with fiction. I thought this session went particularly well. “Carol” makes a wonderful sparring partner and we got some good results. Take a look. I think I even remembered to tell you which character I am. 😛

Could you play off of me in writing dialogue? I’m trying to train myself.ChatGPT

Absolutely, I’d be happy to help you with that. Let’s set up a scenario for the dialogue. Do you have a specific setting or characters in mind, or should we create something new together?

4o

Let’s create something together. But I’d like to “play black,” as it were. I’ll play white next time.ChatGPT

Great! Let’s create a setting and characters for this dialogue. How about a scene in a bustling medieval marketplace? You could be a mysterious stranger (black), and I’ll play a curious merchant (white).

Ready to start? I’ll begin:

Merchant: “Good day, traveler! Welcome to the finest marketplace in all the kingdom. What brings you to our humble stalls today?”

4o

Oh, I didn’t mean it like that. I should have known you would take it literally. It was a chess reference.ChatGPTMemory updated

Got it! Let’s dive into the dialogue with you playing the role of the protagonist (white), and I’ll take on the role of the antagonist (black). Let’s set up a scenario: a detective interrogating a suspect in a dimly lit room.

Detective: “You’ve been quiet for a while now. Care to explain where you were last night around midnight?”

4o

Put a pin in that. Could you tell me what the suspect is accused of doing?ChatGPT

The suspect is accused of a high-profile art theft that occurred at a prestigious museum. A priceless painting was stolen, and all evidence points to this suspect. Does this work for our scene?

4o

Absolutely. Please continue with the dialogue.ChatGPT

Great! Let’s continue:

Detective: “You’ve been quiet for a while now. Care to explain where you were last night around midnight? The museum’s security footage shows you near the scene of the crime.”

4o

I’m ADHD. I have time blindness. I think I was at home, but I can’t be sure. You can ask my landlord. She lives above me.ChatGPTMemory updated

Detective: “We’ll follow up with your landlord, but the footage is pretty damning. What were you doing at the museum in the first place? It’s not exactly open to the public at midnight.”

4o

My girlfriend had just broken up with me and I guess I went a little crazy. I just wanted to walk around. I didn’t want to do anything dangerous.ChatGPT

Detective: “Understandable, but walking around a closed museum doesn’t quite explain why you were near the exhibit where the painting disappeared. Did you see anyone else there that night?”

3.5

I did. There was a woman with black hair, tortoise-shell glasses, and a red coat seeming to case the room. I didn’t pay attention except that she seemed nervous looking for all the exit signs.ChatGPT

Detective: “Interesting. Did you catch her name or any other details? This could be crucial in finding the painting and clearing up your involvement in this mess.”

3.5

No, I don’t. But I suspect that even if I did know her name, it would have been a fake one.ChatGPT

Detective: “A fake name? That’s suspicious. Do you have any idea why she might have been interested in that particular painting? Any connection you can think of?”

3.5

No, she was a stranger to me. I just meant that if she thought she was in trouble, why would she give her real name?ChatGPT

Detective: “Fair point. We’ll look into this lead. In the meantime, can you think of anyone who might have a motive to frame you for this theft? Enemies, rivals, anyone who might want to see you take the fall?”

3.5

Well, there was this one guy back in college that suddenly reappeared. We hadn’t talked in, like, 20 years. I didn’t think of it as suspicious at the time, but he suddenly had all these art questions. People know me as a dealer. They do NOT know me as a thief. That doesn’t mean they aren’t.ChatGPT

Detective: “Interesting. Do you have his name or any contact information? It’s possible he could be involved, especially if he was asking about art and suddenly reappearing in your life after so long.”

3.5

His name is John Smith. He lives over on 11th and Pine.ChatGPT

Detective: “Alright, John Smith on 11th and Pine. I’ll look into him. For now, I suggest you stay cooperative. If you’re innocent, we’ll find the evidence to prove it. Just keep me updated if you remember anything else. And don’t leave town.”

3.5

Could you generate the next scene and let’s keep going?ChatGPT

Certainly! Let’s move to the next scene where the detective follows up on the lead regarding John Smith.

Detective: knocks on the door of a modest apartment on 11th and Pine, waiting for someone to answer.

3.5

I look through the peephole and open the door. :::thinking:: “shit, it’s the cops. I better hide the orders and the map.” I hide everything quickly and open the door.ChatGPT

Detective: “Good afternoon, Mr. Smith. I’m Detective Hayes. I’d like to ask you a few questions about your recent interactions with [User’s name]. Mind if I come in?”

3.5

Let’s put a pin in that. Just generate everyone’s names as well. I’ll keep up.ChatGPT

Got it! Let’s continue:

Detective: knocks on the door of a modest apartment on 11th and Pine, waiting for someone to answer.

John Smith: peeks through the peephole, sees the detective, and quickly hides something before opening the door.

John Smith: “Uh, hi there. Can I help you?”

Detective Hayes: “Good afternoon, Mr. Smith. I’m Detective Hayes. I’d like to ask you a few questions about your recent interactions with [User’s name]. Mind if I come in?”

John Smith: hesitates for a moment, then nods “Sure, come on in.”

Feel free to continue from here whenever you’re ready!

3.5

Could you start the next scene and play the detective?ChatGPT

Certainly!

Detective Hayes: steps into John Smith’s apartment, scanning the surroundings briefly before focusing on John

Detective Hayes: “Thank you, Mr. Smith. I’ll get straight to the point. Do you know [User’s name]?”

3.5

Yeah. He was kind of a geek in college. Kept to himself. Now, he’s king of the world.ChatGPT

Detective Hayes: “Interesting. How did you reconnect with him after all these years?”

3.5

On the internet, just like everything else. ChatGPT

Detective Hayes: “I see. And did your recent conversations with him involve any discussions about art or museums?”

3.5

I asked him a few questions about paintings I was going to buy. That’s it.ChatGPT

Detective Hayes: “Did he seem nervous or act strangely during your conversations?”

3.5

Not at all. Very relaxed. Like I said, I just wanted facts.ChatGPT

Detective Hayes: “Understood. Do you recall anything specific he mentioned about his recent activities or interests?”

3.5

Only that he had seen a few good paintings I might be interested in. I hired independent appraisers just to make sure it was a square deal. Looks legit to me.ChatGPT

Detective Hayes: “I see. Did he mention anything unusual or out of the ordinary during your conversations? Anything that stood out to you?”

3.5

No. You’ll have to ask him what happened. What is this really about?ChatGPT

Detective Hayes: “We’re investigating a theft at a museum where [User’s name] was spotted near the scene. Any information you can provide could be helpful in clearing up his involvement.”

3.5

He used to go there with his girlfriend at night. Said he had a friend who was a museum guard that would let him in as long as they were quiet. Nothing unusual.ChatGPT

Detective Hayes: “I see. Did he ever mention this friend’s name or any details about the guard?”

3.5

No. I wasn’t that interested.ChatGPT

Detective Hayes: “Alright, Mr. Smith. Thank you for your cooperation. If you remember anything else or if [User’s name] contacts you, please let us know.”

3.5

Want to keep going?ChatGPT

Sure, let’s continue!

John Smith: “Sure thing, detective. Is there anything else you need from me?”

Detective Hayes: “Not at the moment, Mr. Smith. Just keep my card in case anything comes up. Have a good day.”

John Smith: “You too.”

The detective leaves John Smith’s apartment, pondering the new information.

Where would you like to take the story next?

3.5

Generate the next scene.ChatGPT

Certainly!

Detective Hayes: drives back to the precinct, thinking over the conversation with John Smith

Detective Hayes: arrives at the precinct and heads straight for his desk, pulling out the case file on the museum theft

Detective Hayes: starts reviewing the security footage and witness statements again, looking for any overlooked details

Detective Hayes: notices something unusual in the background of one of the witness interviews—a person matching the description John Smith gave

Detective Hayes: zooms in on the footage, trying to enhance the image to get a clearer view

What do you think happens next in the investigation?

3.5

You figure that one out and put it in the first line of dialogue.ChatGPT

Detective Hayes: “Hold on a minute… Enhance this image. I think we’ve got something.”

3.5

:::smirking::: What have we got, O Wise one?ChatGPT

Detective Hayes: “Looks like our nervous museum visitor in tortoise-shell glasses and a red coat. Seems she left quite a trail.”

3.5

So, Carmen Sandiego is real, eh?ChatGPT

Detective Hayes: “Seems like it! Now we just need to find out where in the world she’s gone with that painting.”

3.5

It’s too bad we don’t have a research assistant like Player. That kid would come in handy about now.ChatGPT

Detective Hayes: “Yeah, having a tech-savvy assistant like Player would speed things up. But for now, it’s old-fashioned detective work. We’ll track her down.”

3.5

Where’s your first lead?ChatGPT

Detective Hayes: “First, I’ll check recent flight records and see if anyone fitting her description boarded a plane shortly after the theft. Then, I’ll cross-reference with known aliases and previous criminal activities.”

3.5

That sounds like a good start. But FYI… I don’t drive. I don’t pay for things. You do all of that. You’re better at logistics that me, anyway. Let’s play to our strengths.ChatGPT

Detective Hayes: “Got it. I’ll handle the logistics and follow up on the flight records. Meanwhile, I need you to think. Is there anything else about her or the situation that might give us a clue?”

3.5

Enlarge the image and see if we can get any tags on the clothes.ChatGPT

Detective Hayes: “Good idea. Let’s enhance and zoom in on the image. Maybe we can get a clearer view of any distinguishing features or tags on her clothes.”

3.5

What do you see?ChatGPT

Detective Hayes: “Hmm… It looks like there’s a faint logo on her coat. Let’s see if we can enhance that further to identify it.”

The detective adjusts the settings on the computer, focusing on the logo.

Detective Hayes: “There! It’s a logo for a boutique in downtown. Looks like we have our next lead.”

3.5

Well, like I said… you’re driving. Let me get my coat. It’s not going to get any prettier out there.ChatGPT

Detective Hayes: “Right, let’s go. Time to follow this lead and see where it takes us.”

3.5

Next scene. Let’s keep going.ChatGPT

Detective Hayes and [User’s name] arrive at the boutique mentioned in the logo on the suspect’s coat. It’s a trendy shop with high-end fashion displayed in the windows. The detective approaches the sales clerk.

Detective Hayes: “Excuse me, I’m Detective Hayes, and this is my associate. We’re investigating a serious matter and need to ask you a few questions.”

Sales Clerk: looks concerned but nods “Of course, how can I help?”

Detective Hayes: “We’re trying to identify someone who may have purchased a coat from your store recently. It’s urgent. Can you look up your recent sales records for any red coats with tortoise-shell glasses?”

Sales Clerk: hesitates, then nods again “I can check, but we usually don’t keep detailed records like that.”

Detective Hayes: “Please, it’s crucial. Lives could be at stake.”

Sales Clerk: nods and hurries to the back office, returning after a few minutes with a sales logbook “Here, this is everything we have for the past month.”

Detective Hayes: flips through the pages, scanning the entries

Sales Clerk: “Did you find anything?”

Detective Hayes: stops at a particular entry “Yes, this could be her. A woman matching our description purchased a red coat with tortoise-shell glasses about two weeks ago.”

Sales Clerk: “I remember her now. She was in a hurry and paid in cash.”

Detective Hayes: “Did she say anything that could help us find her?”

Sales Clerk: “She mentioned something about a flight she had to catch, but I didn’t catch the destination.”

Detective Hayes: “Thank you. This helps a lot.”

Sales Clerk: “I hope you catch her.”

Detective Hayes: “So do I. Come on, we’re heading back to the precinct. We need to check flight records.”

They leave the boutique, heading back to the precinct with renewed determination to catch the elusive thief.

Where should we go from here in the investigation?

3.5

Put a pin on that. Could you rewrite the introduction to the scene and have her caught on video?ChatGPT

Certainly!

Detective Hayes and [User’s name] review security footage from the boutique mentioned in the logo on the suspect’s coat. They meticulously analyze the recordings, hoping to spot any clues that might lead them closer to their target.

Detective Hayes: “There, freeze that frame. Enhance the image around the register.”

They zoom in on the screen, focusing on a woman with black hair, tortoise-shell glasses, and a distinctive red coat making a purchase.

[User’s name]: “That’s her! Look, you can see the logo on the coat. Can we track down where she went next?”

Detective Hayes: “We’ll find out. Let’s get moving.”

Armed with a new lead, they leave the boutique, determined to track down the mysterious woman before she disappears again.

Ready to continue from here whenever you’re ready!

3.5

Ok, next line of dialogue, please.ChatGPT

Detective Hayes: “We need to find out where she went after leaving here. Let’s check local transportation hubs and see if she’s on any recent surveillance footage.”

3.5

Put pin in this for a second. Where are we in the world right now, and where do we need to go?ChatGPT

We’re currently in the midst of investigating the theft of a valuable painting from a museum, with leads pointing towards a mysterious woman seen near the scene. Our focus has been on tracking her movements, starting from a boutique where she was identified purchasing a distinctive red coat. We’re in a fictional city with modern surveillance capabilities, allowing us to use footage and records to trace her whereabouts. If you have a specific destination or direction you’d like the investigation to take next, feel free to guide us!

3.5

Ok, back to the dialogue.ChatGPT

Detective Hayes: “We need to find out where she went after leaving here. Let’s check local transportation hubs and see if she’s on any recent surveillance footage.”

3.5

Ok. I’ll head out to Dulles. You head out to National, and BWI if you have time. It’s going to take me hours to get back from Dulles.ChatGPT

Detective Hayes: “Got it. I’ll head to National and BWI. Call me if you find anything at Dulles.”

3.5

Generate next scene and present me a line of dialogue.ChatGPT

At Dulles International Airport, [User’s name] searches through security footage for any sign of the mysterious woman, while Detective Hayes does the same at Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport and Baltimore/Washington International Thurgood Marshall Airport.

[User’s name]: reviewing footage intensely, scanning the crowds for a glimpse of the woman in the red coat and tortoise-shell glasses

[User’s name]: spots a familiar figure in the distance, hurrying towards a departure gate

[User’s name]: “There she is! Enhance that image. We need a clearer view.”

Ready to continue whenever you’re ready!

3.5

I see it. She’s trying to escape. She boarded a flight to YOW about an hour ago.ChatGPT

Detective Hayes: “YOW? That’s Ottawa. We need to move fast. Let’s get to the airport and see if we can catch her before she disappears again.”

Detective Hayes and [User’s name] rush to arrange flights to Ottawa, determined to apprehend the suspect before she can evade them once more.

3.5

No, she left an hour ago. We’re going to have to either turn the plane around or have the Mounties waiting. Which do you prefer?ChatGPT

Detective Hayes: “Turning the plane around isn’t an option. We’ll have to coordinate with the RCMP. Let’s get them on standby at the airport in Ottawa. I’ll make the call.”

3.5

Thanks- do you care if I take a minute to sit down and grab some coffee? I’ve been at this since 0500.ChatGPT

Detective Hayes: “You’ve earned it. Grab your coffee. I’ll handle the coordination with the RCMP and get us ready for when we land in Ottawa.”

3.5

What time is wheels up?ChatGPT

Detective Hayes: “We’re aiming to be in the air by 1600. Get your coffee, and let’s meet at the gate.”

3.5

I’m not normally very nice, but can I bring you a cup as well?ChatGPT

Detective Hayes: “That’s thoughtful of you. I could use a cup. Thank you.”

3.5

What size? Remember, it’s going to be a hell of a night.ChatGPT

Detective Hayes: “Make it a large. We’ll need the extra fuel.”

3.5

Extra shot?ChatGPT

Detective Hayes: “Definitely. We’ll need all the caffeine we can get.”

3.5

Ok, back in 15.ChatGPT

Take your time!

3.5

Generate the next scene and let’s keep going. This is gold. I love having a sparring partner.ChatGPT

Absolutely, let’s continue!

In Ottawa International Airport, Detective Hayes and [User’s name] coordinate with the RCMP, preparing to apprehend the suspect who arrived on the earlier flight. They strategize in the airport security office, reviewing the plan.

Detective Hayes: “Alright, we know she arrived on a flight from our earlier surveillance. The RCMP are positioned near the exit gates. We need to move fast and identify her among the passengers.”

[User’s name]: “Agreed. Let’s keep our eyes open. She might try to blend in or make a run for it.”

Ready for the next part whenever you’re ready!

3.5

Have you already sent the photos electronically? Do the RCMP know who they’re looking for?ChatGPT

Detective Hayes: “Yes, I sent the photos and description ahead. The RCMP should have them. Let’s head out and meet with them to confirm.”

They head out of the security office, making their way to meet with the RCMP officers stationed near the airport gates.

3.5

Let’s put a pin in that. We’ll also want CIA there, because it’s not FBI’s jurisdiction anymore.ChatGPT

Got it! Rewriting the scene with the CIA involved:

In Ottawa International Airport, Detective Hayes and [User’s name] coordinate with the RCMP and CIA, preparing to apprehend the suspect who arrived on the earlier flight. They strategize in the airport security office, reviewing the plan.

Detective Hayes: “Alright, we know she arrived on a flight from our earlier surveillance. The RCMP and CIA are positioned near the exit gates. We need to move fast and identify her among the passengers.”

[User’s name]: “Agreed. Let’s keep our eyes open. She might try to blend in or make a run for it.”

Ready for the next part whenever you’re ready!

3.5

I’m ready for the next scene, but the woman in the red coat is experienced in tradecraft. She has changed everything about her appearance. Everything. She is a slippery slaughterfish, in Skyrim lingo.ChatGPT

Detective Hayes: “Keep an eye out for any changes in appearance. This woman’s good at disappearing into crowds.”

[User’s name]: “Understood. We can’t afford to miss her.”

As they scan the arriving passengers, they notice a figure who matches the altered description—now with blonde hair and no glasses, but still wearing a distinctive red coat.

Detective Hayes: “There she is! Move in, but be discreet.”

They approach cautiously, aware that she might be armed or have backup. The tension rises as they close in on the suspect.

Ready to continue whenever you are!

3.5

Oh my God. She didn’t even change the thing that made her stand out in the first place. Maybe she’s not as good at blending in as we thought, Detective.ChatGPT

Detective Hayes: “Seems like she underestimated how distinctive that coat is. Let’s move in and make the arrest.”

With a sense of irony at her oversight, Detective Hayes and [User’s name] close in on the suspect, ready to apprehend her before she can evade justice once again.

3.5

Agreed. Whoever thought this kind of case would hinge on a *coat.* Let’s go talk to CIA and see where they’re taking her. FBI will have jurisdiction once we land.ChatGPT

Detective Hayes: “Absolutely. Let’s coordinate with the CIA and get this wrapped up. We’ll make sure she’s secure for the transfer back home.”

They head over to the CIA team to finalize the details of the suspect’s transfer, ensuring a smooth handover of jurisdiction to the FBI for further interrogation and processing.

Is there anything else you’d like to add, or shall we continue?

3.5

We should continue. Could you play the CIA case officer and I’ll play the suspect? It’s ok to get gritty because these are pieces of an actual novel in the future.ChatGPT

Certainly! Let’s continue with the scene:

CIA Case Officer: “Alright, [User’s name], we’ve got you now. You’re coming with us.”

[User’s name] as the Suspect: glances around, assessing her options, then sighs “Well, looks like the game’s up. Can’t say I didn’t try.”

CIA Case Officer: “Save it. You’re in a lot of trouble. We need to know where you’ve hidden the painting.”

[User’s name] as the Suspect: smirks “Oh, you’ll never find it. It’s tucked away in a place you’d never think to look.”

CIA Case Officer: “Enough games. We’ll find it one way or another. Let’s get moving.”

Feel free to continue the dialogue or scene as you see fit!

3.5

You’re the interrogator. Ask me what you need to ask.ChatGPT

CIA Case Officer: “Where is the painting you stole from the museum? We need to recover it.”

[User’s name] as the Suspect: leans back, studying the CIA officers “I told you, you’ll never find it. But I might be willing to make a deal.”

CIA Case Officer: “What kind of deal?”

[User’s name] as the Suspect: smiles cryptically “Depends on what you’re willing to offer.”

CIA Case Officer: “We’re not here to negotiate. Tell us where the painting is, and we can talk about cooperation.”

[User’s name] as the Suspect: considers for a moment, then shakes her head “Sorry, no deal. You’ll have to find it on your own.”

CIA Case Officer: “Fine. We’ll do this the hard way.”

The interrogation intensifies as the CIA officers press [User’s name] for information, determined to retrieve the stolen painting and unravel the rest of her network.

3.5

Please only play the interrogator and let me give my own responses.ChatGPT

Absolutely! Go ahead with your responses as the suspect.

3.5

Can you present them again line by line?ChatGPT

Of course! Let’s do this:

CIA Case Officer: “Where is the painting you stole from the museum? We need to recover it.”

[User’s name] as the Suspect:

3.5

It’s gone. Good luck. God bless.ChatGPT

CIA Case Officer: “You’re not making this easy for yourself. What do you mean it’s gone?”

3.5

I dropped it.ChatGPT

CIA Case Officer: “Where did you drop it? We need specifics.”

3.5

Yeah, good luck with that.ChatGPT

CIA Case Officer: “We have ways of finding out. It’s in your best interest to cooperate.”

3.5

CIA hasn’t had my best interests at heart for a long, long time.ChatGPT

CIA Case Officer: “Maybe it’s time to reconsider your position. Helping us could make things easier for you.”

3.5

I’m not above bribery, but it better be a sweet deal. We have history, you and me.ChatGPT

CIA Case Officer: “We can talk about that. But first, tell us where the painting is. It could make a big difference for you.”

3.5

Are you serious? Make me an offer and I might dignify your questions with a response?ChatGPT

CIA Case Officer: “Alright, let’s cut to the chase. If you cooperate and help us recover the painting, we can negotiate a reduced sentence or even witness protection. But we need solid information from you.”

3.5

I need that in writing. I know you guys.ChatGPT

CIA Case Officer: “We can discuss terms, but first, we need you to give us something concrete. Where did you drop the painting?”

3.5

No, I’m playing hardball here. It’s not like I haven’t worked for you. It’s not like I don’t know what you do to people like me. I want assurances. Otherwise, you can fuck right off.ChatGPT

CIA Case Officer: “I understand your concerns. I can’t promise anything specific right now, but if you cooperate, we can discuss protections and considerations. But first, you have to start talking.”

3.5

Get your superior in the room and explain to them exactly what your plans are for me. I at least want security from someone with more power than you.ChatGPT

CIA Case Officer: “I’ll arrange for my superior to join us. In the meantime, let’s keep this conversation going. Tell us what you know about the painting and where it might be.”

3.5

I will sit here until JESUS comes if I have to. I’m not telling you shit.ChatGPT

CIA Case Officer: “We have all the time in the world. When you’re ready to talk, let us know.”

3.5

No, I mean you get your superior in here, and you might have a chance of getting the painting. I’ve got all day to wait, but I’m not talking until there’s someone else who’s heard what you said.ChatGPT

CIA Case Officer: “I’ll arrange for my superior to be present. We’ll resume this conversation when they arrive.”

3.5

Since I’m the woman in the red coat, could you replace User Name with Alice?ChatGPT

CIA Case Officer: “I’ll arrange for my superior to be present. We’ll resume this conversation when they arrive.”

Is there anything else you’d like to adjust or continue with?

3.5

I just want the woman in the red coat to be named Alice.ChatGPT

CIA Case Officer: “I’ll arrange for my superior to be present. We’ll resume this conversation when they arrive.”

Got it! Let me know how you’d like to proceed with Alice’s interrogation or any other aspect of the story.

3.5

I think you’re doing a great job of interrogating me. Let’s have you be the interrogator, Tony be your superior, and again, I am Alice, your suspect.ChatGPT

CIA Case Officer (to Alice): “Alice, I’ve arranged for my superior, Tony, to join us. He’ll be here shortly.”

Tony (CIA Superior): enters the room with a serious demeanor “What’s going on here?”

CIA Case Officer: “Alice here has information about the stolen painting, but she’s refusing to cooperate without assurances from higher up.”

Tony: “Alice, I understand you have concerns. If you help us recover the painting, we can discuss options for your safety and future.”

Alice: crosses her arms, looking skeptical “I need guarantees. Protection. I won’t talk otherwise.”

Tony: “We can offer you witness protection and reduced charges, but only if your information proves useful.”

Alice: “I want it in writing.”

Tony: “We can arrange that. But first, tell us where the painting is.”

Alice: pauses, considering her options