Dear diary, Day 1098: or, Benedict Cumberbatch Killing SpongeBob

One doesn't just talk about some things with people in real life without going down remarkably tedious roads pitted with misunderstandings and feelings crashing around. My stomach still drops out when I imagine someone I know in real life reading this book I'm trying to finish, like family. I know the reactions, the silences, the thoughts, the judgments, the corrections. Remaining true to my point of view under the pressure that was instilled into me from childhood has been every bit as stressful as thinking of spiders crawling all over me and not being able to do anything about it, but I'm becoming comfortable enough blogging for public now without having major panic attacks every time that I'm finally able to unload stuff out of my head which I normally can't share into a scary length of manuscript that I won't be able to repent of once I've pushed the last button. If I've learned anything of value from this exercise, it's that PTSD doesn't magically go away no matter how many years it's been.

I've been working on a piece this week that feels strange because I'm letting out thoughts that will twist controversy into all new weird directions without anyone being able to jump in to debate or correct or stop me, and hopefully in such a way that I can be easily followed, because otherwise I'm fairly certain I'll be hit with all kinds of labeling once it's gone to print. I'm not afraid of labels, or even a ban, but I hope the public can understand this is all my perspective with Aspergers, and not something my family did to me. I can handle whatever flak flies, but keeping people I love out of the line of fire is a challenge and a half. I can only hope to be forgiven, shrugged off as my usual awkward bumbly self, or hopefully (and thankfully) ignored.

I've spent quality time this week on how one says what's real. Here's a sample. I don't yet know if I'll keep it or not.


As I watch other people watch television shows packed with death, I remember that I know what it feels like to lie across a dying body, to feel the initial panic turn into spasmodic twitches as the blood drains, the last ragged breaths as the eyes glaze over. On TV shows the bodies go still way too quickly. People watching don't know they twitch around for several minutes, sometimes violently, depending on how one is killed.


I've known since I was a little girl what it feels like to force a body bigger and heavier than my own to stay down while it dies. I can easily imagine how every dying body on a TV show might feel if I were to touch it. It doesn't make a difference whether they are animals or humans. What matters is that I know how death feels, and looks, sounds, smells.


And rots. I am so easily irritated by crime scene shows not properly depicting eyeballs in a week old corpse found in a ditch that I have fits and sometimes have to leave the room. Many viewers don't know that eyes dry out and deflate, like sunken in sports balls, and don't look at all shiny. Intact skulls feel incredibly heavy once they're dead, which I know since I had to drag heads away by the ears. Making a game of killing on television shows makes it look way too easy. Efficient murderers don't spend a lot of time lugging heavy sacks around. People who are secretly shot in real life are probably force walked until nothing has to be dragged or carried.

I don't talk about these things. I don't share where I've been, what I've seen, who I've been with. My life has settled down considerably, thank goodness, but there is so much more that needs to be said. How in the world do I have an honest discussion about why it's so important to know what killing people is really like, and what is the point I'll make? I've knocked my own breath out of me several times this week.

I know that what I know is not a rare thing. There are plenty of experienced people in medical, military, and food processing fields who are much more experienced than I am with maiming, killing, and death all around them. What's different with me is that I grew up with it. I wasn't trained into it as an adult. In fact, I was easier than most to train for jobs later as an adult because I was so experienced as a child. What no one knew or understood across all these jobs, least of all me at the time, was why I was so very good at handling them. It certainly had nothing to do with a good support network.

This is a gem, a work of art. Description from youtube-

Published on Jun 13, 2015

A rare Benedict Cumberbatch movie.
A short film starring Benedict Cumberbatch, Colin Salmon and Nick Moran. Little Favour follows the story of Wallace (Benedict Cumberbatch) when he is contacted by a former colleague to help him out with a deal gone wrong. 'Its been 7 years since he left Her Majesty's service and 10 years since the American Counter part who became his friend, saved his life on a joint mission in Iraq. He's migrated his skill set into a lucrative business while managing to keep his secret battle with PTSD under wraps. One day, while finally deciding to try his hand at a functional relationship, his old friend James cashes in his chip and asks a little favour. How could he refuse when he owes the man his life?

This is the kind of stuff I would have been capable of as a child if I'd had a handler, and I would have been able to do the same thing to a friend on the edge without blinking an eye.

And now you know.

My tags are cracking me up. :edit: 11-14-16 I've removed the tag 'killing' since I only ever used it one time.

:edit: 11-7-15

Sorry, the short was removed, but here is a trailer. Yes, there is a child in this film, but you don't see here who or what happens as in the blacked out vid above.