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Jul. 6th, 2014



Newspaper rang me to day for a comment on my brother's being accused of raping his two teenaged step-daughters.

What the bloody hell could I say to any of that? ANY of it?

Why do I seem to be so much more concerned with my being incapable of putting into words my feelings about this "journalist's" conduct than anything else about it? Than feeling for the girls, than what this news does to my perspective on my recently recalled history of frequently violent sexual abuse from my brother, mother, and father?

Does there really have to be more suffering for me to consolidate more slivers of the possible truth of my life?

Jun. 10th, 2014

naughty smirk

Nice going Jonah, you made it. Little something for the main man from Mr Apparition.

And it's ok I'm gonna get my own journal but uh, I might need to borrow your card again. ;-D Thanks pal.

Personally I still can't make up my mind who's hotter in the clip but hey, each to his own, right? You know it!
(moments later...) Tell you what, if you can get her outa that hott black number without a scalpel she's can be yours and I'll be plenty happy with mister hungry boy there. Only you'd likely go and do that little nervous thing of yours and she's just gonna melt right outa that outfit like it's not even painted on, buckles or not.


Jun. 4th, 2014

moodpic: glum

I finally made it back again...

And yes, I know, I'm going to fall in the forest again a wonder why I don't make a sound. Serves me right for being so utterly bloody neglectful.

But. If I think I'm only talking to myself I might be able to get out what I need to say. Then I'll see if I've got the guts to go round and find out if anyone still wants to know me. Then I can worry about losing anyone who actually DOES if they read this:

Let me try getting this out straight again...

So, guess what? The latest in my collection of Oh My Goodness Me What's Jonah Got THIS Week ailments is Dissociative Identity Disorder. And I really thought I was accepting it better lately, but coming out with it is killing me all over again and I want to go over all the things that support my surprisingly recurrent need to believe that I've made it all up.

This isn't going well at all. I really thought I could be more practical and sensible about it and had things I thought I could say, but I can't. Why does everything you're supposed to do to get better always have to be such utter bloody torture? Self-harm and self-punishment is frowned upon, but raking out your deformed and knotted insides for display to people you care about is strenuously-suggested therapy.

I really thought I could do this. I actually really did. My ability to disappoint myself never ceases to amaze me.

Though, I got this far. On my own, even. Which is to say without my girlfriend holding my hand as I do it. I know, right? There goes the last of my credibility. I ask a lot of you, don't I? DID AND a girlfriend? Seriously? Come on Jonah old son, there's no way you can expect us to swallow THAT, you're delusional!

Possibly. Quite probably, actually. But how about I keep that up my sleeve as something I can be suffering from NEXT week?

Sep. 10th, 2013


My stomach hurts. I've nobody to talk to. I suck.


So, 42, the answer to life, the universe, and everything? Erm, quite possibly not...

character pic

"Haaaaaaaaa-py birthday to me
Happy birthday to me
I'm all mostly wrinkly biiiiiiiiiits...
But still act like I'm three!
Hip, hip
Hip, hip-"

"*%!# off!"

Sep. 4th, 2013


Still ashamed to show my face. Even to my girlfriend.

However much I hate my father- not the dead one, the other one, the one who should be dead- I hate myself so much more. I can't see this changing
I hate all four of my names, eventually came to be able to admit my first one here only because of the love and support of my girlfriend, but a year into an online relationship I still cannot bring myself to show her my face. Ones of some of my scars, as difficult as that was, but very little else, and not my face.
I've found that everything I've got a phobia or anxiety or avoidance about or self-harming compulsions towards is directly because of his abuse, some because of my mother and my brother, some, other people who targeted me for what I was, but most are because of him and/or the set up he had for me to be utilised by whomever he chose and in whatever way he saw fit.
Though, on the plus side, I suppose being rendered almost phobically avoidant of cigarettes and drugs could be regarded as a good thing.
I fear cameras like most people fear snakes. And I now know images of me in various scenes of abuse and torture are out there on the net, no longer limited to his and his people's secret stashes. He sends me copies of photos. He sends me all sorts of things. Even photos of me still being abused as an adult. All the way up to fairly recently, within the last year. He's had me doing all sorts of things, and I had no idea. No idea. He could ruin me in a heartbeat.
He knows people who know people, you know? And he has control. He's everywhere.
I'm not even related to them, I was adopted, but I hate myself as if I'm of their flesh and blood, and there's been so much non-consentual exchange of bodily fluids I can't not be.
And I can't stand the internal damage. The flaws and faults in my mind exacerbate the deformations in my throat and stomach and now with my history emerging, the whole thing's just one big self-perpetuating out of control mining operation. Now I don't just hurt, I know why. Which makes me hurt more, which makes me remember more. Do stupid things to myself. And so on.
All this time, my whole life, all of my strange and intractable struggles with things, my names, the sound of my voice, speech impediments, my appearance, my psychology, my developmental delays, stupidity, my behaviour... everything, all because of him.
And this isn't even the half of him.
So often now I feel like being alive is losing to him. Because I can still suffer. And because he still wants me.

Aug. 29th, 2013

got told

Go on, slap me, you know you want to...

I'm sorry. Yes, I know I say that with such monotonous regularity I've rendered it meaningless, but I still feel it and mean it nonetheless.
I'm still here, still hopelessly inept at keeping in touch, still meaning to and still not getting around to and still not even realising it, still cocking up means of accessing the internet even as I find new ones and then new ways to cock those up as well. Still full of pointless excuses.
And I've lost people. Because I'm an idiot who spends too much time meaning to do and no time actually doing and who somehow manages to confuse one for the other.
So anyway. I'm here, and I'm sorry, though I know that's just much too little way too late.

May. 1st, 2013

sideburns beat hats

(no subject)

Okay. Sorry again, a bit going on here, including loss of intereancomplicatios from being thick about such things. And I've now got a mobile whoo-hoo- which is also somewhat complicateby being thick ch things... actually, I'm fairly sure I've sprained my noggin or pulled a hamstring in my neuroplasticity or something... I mean... blimey they make these things difficult... So anyway, back to being slow and confused and utterly butter fingered -or, well let's face it, more like futter bingered in m case, and completely overwhelmed all over again. And behind , in so many ways. God, I'm so very old, I'll never get to be human at this rate...

Anyway, thanks for sticking around, and I expect I shall be about when normal transmission resumes, unless my head cramps or corks or something dire;though... that's not always stopped me before... sadly.

Cheers and be well.

Apr. 17th, 2013

I'm alright...

Migraines suck.

They are, indeed, not the worst thing in the world by a long chalk, I know; but they try very very hard to convince you otherwise. Whoever invented them clearly never ever had anything even remotely close. And there really ought to've been a Steering Committee to forsee the utter stupid cruelty of there being the slightest chance of any throwing up being involved. Or, no, perhaps there was, come to think of it.

So, yep, ill, and ill again, after a bout of not very well at all, and all the rest of it, ad infinitum, ad nauseum, even.

Same shirk, different day. Bottom line: I'm still not getting back to people. Still not getting on with things. Jeez, and it's not like my day is hard.

Oh, but it is... for me, it is. You know? And I'm sick of that. So. Right. Need to pull my quirky socks up and get my trousers on the right way round. The pain in current events, all the way from globally to within members of my household, are always going to make me want to pull my head in in deference to the disparity in importance, always. But that's just it, there will always be such. Always. And waiting to be better and feel I've something worth saying, waiting until I'm doing something worth sharing before I even speak to people I know just means I'm losing touch more and more and not even being around when all I can do is offer to be there for someone.


I shall change tack -tack? tac? tach? hmmm, spot the proofreader...  Tack, I looked it up, I'm so clever I can do these two things simultaneously... but may have neglected to breathe there for a bit... Note, improvement, in that I can leave uncertainties and even mistakes without feeling like a complete and utter embarrassingly useless moron; something I was unable to do many months ago on coming into LJ and the internet, Yay. I'm a new man...

Let me counter that improvement. You know the editing and proofreading course I'm doing? No? Oh, do pay attention... Anyway, that's all a big improvement too, even attempting that, but... since this last however many days long cosmos-grinding migraine... I've lost it, all the work I've done since -what, January, -ish... I went to do some homework with my live-in co-tenant hairdresser/minder/nurse/studdy-buddy/all-round-very-bloody-handy-indeed-person and I began at the start, telling him I was keen to get into it and such and blah blah blah. Not easily startled and knowing it's best not to startle me, he played cool, gave me a warm up test, which I did rather poorly on. Which is odd, because I knew a lot of the stuff when I first began the course, just from writing, reading, and general osmosis because of a deep interest in such and so on. I became so woolly-headed he had to take stock of the situation and level with me so we could work out what was going on and how best to continue.

Bottom line is, I need to start all over again. I also want to see my GP about another CT scan, if only to stop me remaining more than fairly convinced I've had a stroke or something. I mean, I very much doubt it at the same time, I've had far worse symptoms and've had scans that showed nothing of concern at all. But still. And, the migraines are becoming sort of different again, and that's something usually followed up by a check anyway.

It'll be nothing. Just stress or something. More non-specific symptoms of something intangible and slippery. Yay.

I'm a bit worried I'm not worrying about it more. The scan. The GP visit. Mind, I suppose I really should be well past getting better used to such things by now anyway, even if I'm mostly non compus mentus at the time -or perhaps BECAUSE I am.

Still. At least I've someone to hold my hand this time, and stop me later collapsing into the gutter because of the contrast dye or whatever that hellishly enfeebling stuff is. And he's got his own someone to hold HIS hand, which is nice. See? I need a network, people who support me need support in doing so, that's just how it seems to be for the time being.

So, yes, anyway. My schedule being every bit as up in the air as ever, also waiting for things to get better, may need to come down now. Because that bit's better, at least, and I know there are other, far less simply explained things that have improved.

Things have improved. See? I can even say that. Case in point. Now... to try to not feel shitty for being out of touch with people...

Apr. 11th, 2013


Ah... yep. So anyway, moving right along...

Sorry I've been out of touch. Seems I went a bit retro. Got stuck in about 1979 or there abouts. Can't imagine why, was hardly any fun the first time round. Lots of brown and orange and mission white, round cubes, lava lamps, pointy collars, and big sunglasses, woodgrain laminate furniture, and that glass that looks like it's made out of the bottoms of beer bottles...

Let's have a look, shall we? I mean, my '79-ish won't be the same as anyone else's, because I'm nine-hundred-and-something and age somewhat... uniquiely, so I'm the only one allowed to fell so utterly utterly old and completely fossilised, and you're not. So there. Or, you've never even HEARD of 1978-ish. And probably certainly never Tasmania's 1979-ish, which... is probably more like everywhere else's 1879... -ish.



Hmmm. Sorry. Timetravel really can make you feel a bit squiffy. Should've warned you... Not for the feint of heart or easily startled. Still, untill someone else volunteers for the job, it's going to have to be me anyway....


Sorry, but in the house in the bush where no one could hear me scream there really only was the gap in the bricks in the foundations under the house, and The Fourth Doctor.

Only he could make me smile. Still does. And what a smile he has. He's priceless. Utterly priceless.

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