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-Mobile continuation from Xanga blog PinkyGuerrero
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-Personal blog for Janika Banks.
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Friday, June 3, 2016

boinging back off the rocks to keep the villagers safe


Got an email from aboutme that they're doing something or other, so I had to go reset my settings, which is fine because not a whole lot actually changed for me. They're apparently getting into the domain biz, kinda pushed to upgrade through them, I said thanks but no thanks. I know the world needs to keep moving and changing, but everyone out there keeps evolving into the same thing. It's like aboutme is endeavoring to become the ultimate quickie smash version of allthethings. It started out as a hub, now it's a mini bloggerspacebook on its way to an all-in-one analyzer package that wants money now. It pleasantly keeps insisting I add more fluff, show you more pictures, say more words, add more networks, show the world who I am. Um...

A friend sort of recently intro'd me to the Logical Song with full orchestra, which is very cool, but this is more my speed and usually the kind of stuff that pulls me back from stepping over that brink. I go pretty hardcore with the asking who I am stuff.



I hit the wall unusually hard Wednesday afternoon. I'd had a rough physical therapy, and I knew the rest of the day would be rest and recovery, but I hit rocks like some kind of bipolar freight train flying past the 'bridge is out' sign. I like to think of myself as a seasoned depression veteran, in and out of mood swings like a tango, but this one got me. I often see other people hit depression skids in blogs and all over twitter and facebook, and once you go there, even with an army, it turns into a game. Lemme asplain.

Hardcore depression not only lies, it self sabotages in ways that you can't take back once your army of anywhere from 100 to 1M can't unsee. I've seen the best out there fall prey to their own self sabotage. People with depression who do social media eventually cave to a nasty spell of self pity and baking whiny cookies with their tears, or at least with some kind of apologetic justification explanation of sorts, and I'm not mocking at all, just saying if you have an army that actually keeps handing you money for sharing your real stuff down to the jot and tittle of what they wouldn't put up with in their own families, awesome.

I've been there, so I know when I'm there again. Wednesday afternoon was one of those glorious battles against myself to stop me from deleting all my stuff off the webs again, and it was all I could do not to grab someone and hang on for dear life pouring all my stuff out on their head. My self pity reared its ugly head and the only hope for humanity was for me to go back to bed and pull the covers over my head for awhile. I'm not a self harmer, and I've already won a brutal war with suicide, but Wednesday afternoon I was as green and soft and crumpled as if I'd never gone through all my experience and gained all my wisdom. I was this close to irreparable damage of some kind, and the only reason it didn't show up on the internet was because I had hit the rocks too hard to care enough to drag out of bed and weep while I killed all you guys living in Jawn.

The reason I say that, which I'm sure is painfully clear by now to regular readers, is because when I was reading the 'professional' writers blogging about their ships sinking into depression funks (on my phone in bed) (I kept throwing my phone down, but bless whoever invented mobile tech), there were miles of mostly very supportive comments, and I couldn't help thinking how that wouldn't work for me at all because I'd gleefully sight every single one and shoot just for the fun hell of it, because that's how my own depression works. I destroy everyone who gives a rat's ass because that's what I do. I blow up my own army like I'm on vicomethahol and then shoot myself out of a cannon.


And that, Virginia, is why you rarely see comments on Pinky blog. I had to put comments on pending approval just to save some of you from your innocent selves.

So anyway, I just stomp the game flat. Y'all know I'm talking about the social game, right? You pat me on the head, you lose a hand kind of thing. I don't play right. I can see other depression bloggers at least eating up the comments like it really means something and think what the hell is wrong with me when I don't even want someone to show me they care. Well, I'm that messed up. I grew up so disillusioned that I have no idea how to believe someone really does care enough for me to pout about them not caring when I want to be needy and suck people into my black hole with me so I can eat them.

I probably just described half my hardcore lurkers. I'm not alone. I know you guys know what I'm talking about. One thing I do believe is stats. Stats never lie. Well, proxies, yeah, but I'm super good at this stuff, and I pretty much caught where all the regulars are before the whole loading through Google browser and other methods of stealth that I've discussed here.

So now we arrive to the point where we ask- if I think no one cares because the depression lies, and I don't believe it even if I know they do, and I make sure they flee if they dare show they care because my wicked self sabotage ways are heinously villainous, how do I get through the crashes? Because a lot of people don't. And a lot of other people do only because they self medicate. And the smarter ones do because they get real help and do the meds so they won't keep going through crashes like this.


This was one of those semi-dangerous crashes where you think about leaving a note. I actually went to MoCreatures and put up a sign. (I know, that's laughable, right, but I put the sign on my glass walled spider spawner room, egads.) (Pretty serious.) And I had started another sign with a poem on it, so yeah, I was going there. This close to going *poof* off the webs. You guys don't think I'm serious when I say I've done that in the past.

It's not cool to go poof. People don't know what happened, they wonder if you died, most of them can't ever find out if you're ok or not. I've seen some people do that kind of stuff for kicks, and while people say it's for attention, I know it's a weird form of social suicide, and the brave ones come back out and take crap and make confessions, and the wimpy ones just make new names and find new friends. I used to poof and never show back up. I truly disappeared several times. That's why it's important for Pinky to own all the names now and tie them all together in one place, and why Pinky is the last, and why I'll always keep coming back to Pinky. If Pinky ever goes poof, I won't be coming back to social media.


I'm not saying this to be dramatic. I waited until the urge to spill during crash passed. I may be good at blogging through the lesser mood swings, but I'm super destructive blogging through the biggies, and I really don't want to wake up and find all the little bodies strewn around inside Jawn. Words become a blood sport to me, and mass casualties kind of screw up the reason I'm out here now.

Fortunately, a private skype message came through and suddenly I was boinging out of bed doing cool things again, and I've been doing pretty good ever since. I still hurt like heck, mostly neck and shoulder/arm work again, but at least I'm not walking around with a club in my hands. I took the little sign down off my spider spawner room and got busy working on village restoration and preservation again (a big chore in multiplayer). Also, we've got a Bunny this week because stuffs came up with daycare, so the cuteness helps.


I really don't like arguing with people about personal stuff. It triggers too many bad and painful memories, and I plunge into sadness for the world. I need to stick with saving villages for awhile.

The youtube description says this was made from John's point of view.

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