Sylvanna Devlin

We are told the ultimate goal of Buddhism is to reach Nirvana. A place of perfection and nothingness that only a Buddha returns from – choosing to return to earth to get others there.

To be recognized many Tibetan Llamas – reincarnated Buddhas – need items to hold and touch, waking them to who they were. But the instinct for peace and to help is there without them.

For most of us to imagine or contemplate nothingness is impossible. How do you describe the orgasmic feeling of full release? Giving up entirely and floating out, separating, becoming one with the night sky? You reach Nirvana and see stars shimmering at you, maybe even god himself. And though he has no face you can feel him smiling. Your soul spreads out, joins, becomes part of a union of god and everything with you as an individual becoming nothing. It’s like you finally found a place you belong. No location necessary, Heaven is everywhere.

It is not the crowded zero-gravity space that most people envision. No oxygen and being suffocated out. It is a single breath of god. Stardust is really where our souls belong.

The other heavens are private, with doors of healing closed though I plan to describe the experience of walking up towards Al-Sama-Al-Danya. The first heaven where you go if you have been good but your soul is injured. Most suicide victims end up there. Wounded to their core that they give up on life they must ascend through the joys of those realms till they are ready to let go.

It’s a handy name for the place we all see stairs to.

Together they are what I experienced when I tried to end my life. The first a glimpse of where I could go. Where I could be. If I tried again and this time did not end it on my own. They revived my body and my soul re-entered my body. I tried leaving one more time I suppose and saw the steps.

How do I describe three years of ever-building torment. Eight attempts to kill me through extended harassment, reality abuse and gaslighting with the smattering of torture for good measure. Four attempts to use a 24 hour period of the same with an increase in the shifting, sliding, gliding tales woven by my killer. Reality Abuse creates a narrative, gaslighting changes it. And after prolonged abuse the ability to keep track fades and you don’t know who you are talking to anymore. Who is talking about you. Who believes what or even who is alive.

Everyone is named Ryan, or Jason, or Ranna or Claire, Melody and Claudia. Maybe even Nigel. And the narrative is drawn out longer and longer until haha just kidding, actually… you think the police must know. You think the FBI have to be involved. Maybe even homeland security. This is torment. This is a house dropped on you, maybe even a city. But nothing stops the relentless abuse of the petulant bitch who wants to drive you to suicide but hides behind the words “Oh I only want to make you suicidal, not kill you.”

How fucking stupid do you think I am or are you yourself that dim witted that you do not know it a straight shot? Gaslighters drive many to hospitals, that’s the goal. It is not the same as an individual using military grade technology to invade your everything even your bathroom.

I said, and I did not lie, I would give – to a computer owned by DARPA my entire body of work and all my pictures to create an AI I dubbed “Grandmother”. I was so happy. It seems like madness, “Haha stupid bitch you believe that?” What other explanation do I have for all the abuse levied at me? Terrorist School? Or a fucking childish game no one believes is real but means my cat is constantly on the threat of being kidnapped?

No one listens because you’ve lost your mind too many times, lost your way, lost track of reality. But who could hold on to normal things like writing a book, maybe even selling it. Going out for the holidays. Learning a language. Doing belly isolations at 5:00am when you want to. Who could keep track of the real world when some cunt stole your passport, your birth certificate, your divorce papers, and no one, not once ever followed up a single objectively real complaint. Indeed most people think you have a split personality if they think at all.

So frankly Fuck you to everyone. You are either blind and ignorant or a sack of lies and disinterest. Because otherwise this would all be over. No I’m no angel right? You can’t be an angel and be experience anger, sorrow, suffering, and betrayal. Nothing is understandable if it’s not convenient to your worldview. And you want a demon in me so you feel better ignoring what has happened. Fuck you again.

I want to go home. Home to Nirvana.

But no. I’m here being torn to shreds, no wound not burrowed into, and when I heal and scab new ones are created. I rise ever again feeling like if I were made of emotion I would be covered in my own blood she digs she wounds she torments so.

“Please be patient. Please live.” How do I even know those who actually care? Or are just a way to build me up so the shit-filled-garbage bag that is my attacker can go again because it’s no longer fun if I actually die.

Look at my description of where I went and what you dragged me back into. It’s not over till I try again. But no, on a good day I promised Allah I would stay. On a bad day shit in my room moved around with angry energy and pissed off ghosts joining in.

I’m here to help you get to that perfect place I described so shape the fuck up. Because even my blog is being stolen, my words changed and edited. Nothing sacred if written by me. Not even a prayer.

I will not last and next time I try I will succeed if this does not stop.