Sylvanna Devlin

Ahh… to get mildly grim again.

I do (not aways) mutter when focusing.

I talk to others, some on the phone, others I don’t know how, but we converse.

If my neighborhood is driving me insane I chatter.

But none of these are loud.

I sometimes (rarely) raise my voice. But that’s not shouting, yelling, screaming or bellowing.

And you know it.

Did you mention all the times you thought I wasn’t even here because I was so quiet? Or just when reactive abuse – you clearly know about – becomes too much, and I actually did yell?

During about 3 incidents of being kept awake 72 hours and harassed the whole time. I have a feeling you noticed the cause.

It’s not for the victim to shoulder responsibility that wounds hurt. And your type finds them.

It’s not your place to demand I be silent, either.

It’s certainly not your place when I have been informed my voice is picked up at any volume and most people are getting it pumped in.

If you are among them? You may politely remind me.

Politely

This is not an invitation to fuss and bully without rebuke. I’m not your punching bag. Try to abuse me when others have kindly reminded me it’s late? They’ll all learn I’m being harassed into madness again.

Again.

Manners Matter or I don’t even pay attention.

If you have a problem with me, knock on my door and fucking wait till I open it before beginning your crap – and not at 2:30 am when everyone else fucking has to hear it too.

I don’t want to come out there?

Why not? The fuck you going to actually do?

Like seriously, piss off! Your baiting is unwelcome! (At all times, but particularly 2:30 am)

Also don’t knock on my wall when I’m quietly thinking and not saying a word.

Do not ask me to turn down music I’m not playing and don’t have the speakers for.

Stop knocking on the wall and pretending it was me. I don’t. I can’t. There’s no spot to do so and my fingers are fragile.

I’d have a lot more sympathy if, for a moment, I didn’t doubt you actually thought it was me. You know how the system works, you participated in using it.

You just want a rise and to scorch me where my PTSD ignites – like all the other adult little girls.

The rest of us are sick of bull like yours.

You came to someone’s attention and that’s not really my business.

Handle your own BS.

You know full well it wasn’t me.

As for saying “I throw things” when the most I toss is knickers – and reporting as much is vile.

I do drop things. They sometimes make noise. But either your stigma makes up nasty images that aren’t true or you’re outright lying.

Which is it?

Now, as far as other issues are concerned.

In the evenings and weekends the halls and courtyard are alive with “I want her out tomorrow” or “this afternoon.” Or “come out here I want to see what you’re made of, Sylvanna.”

I can handle myself physically but the information escaped I had (all of once) been in a fight and every pipsqueak in the neighborhood comes in from outside to try to start something.

(Not that I would mind being pipsqueak sized.)

I point out a fight would be a bad idea and the skinniest thing in the building (who says this with the safety behind a closed door) declares she makes a better Sylvanna (whatever that means) and she’s a werewolf.

Okay honey.

But I’m a dragon.

I don’t believe in having an unnecessary fight – and as a result haven’t been in one.

The closest I came was in a hospital.

I went in for psychiatric reasons – I didn’t even remember my own name.

I was exhausted and thought I was on a movie set because I’d lost the plot.

They handled it very badly and at night, sans antipsychotic, I needed the bathroom and an orderly looked ready to take a swing at me.

Moving balled fist, ready.

At a hospital!

Over the bathroom!

I disabled his ability to hurt me and turned and walked away. I was then dogpiled by him and three others.

They knocked me unconscious and partially dislocated my jaw. The woman who called them over used two fingers to “test my tightness”

The police couldn’t get a report from me because I was crying. But they left me alone and staff at actual psychiatric facilities were very gentle with me as I tried to rejoin reality.

Incidentally they brought in a commode and when my constipation (they weren’t treating) eased I emptied my bowls and filled an empty one with so much poo I ended up sitting in it.

I hated that place.

This was all back in Petaluma in 2022 but apparently part of the story followed. Not the part that I was dissociating so heavily I didn’t know reality anymore – as exhausted and harassed bipolar people need the bathroom occasionally, and the antipsychotic on time.

Just that I outfought three men because I dodged the other two before walking away. – again, they piled on me when my back was turned.

So peacocks in the area wants a go and I don’t believe I have to prove a thing.

It’s contributing to a hostile environment that is incredibly uncomfortable.

Every post I make objecting to abuse, any at all, sees the building explode with threats of violence. I don’t know by who. It echoes down the halls.

For all I know someone is fluxing (typo intended) with the whole building,

I’m not sure she even lives here.

It’s possible they’re getting a very bad summary of the posts, a summary with a pack of lies but I have no way to know.

It seems more likely they need to rejoin reality themselves as the adult world isn’t supposed to be like this!

It’s likely my nickname has yet again been “borrowed” by someone here who actually leaves her room – who might posture a bit more than I do. And it’s intended for her. But someone comes from outside the hall to yell down ours.

Apparently because I’d prefer to brush my hair rather than ever again have to wait all night with spikes in it, someone has mistaken it for weakness. My desire to dance rather than tango with fisticuffs is from confidence not empty crap

I don’t need a guardian or a fight. No matter how much I might be regarded as a “princess”. My own sister doesn’t know how tough I can be. But taking my name isn’t helping a soul.

Just leave me alone to fix a nail not fight, you and the arsehole you irritated. And I don’t know what the hell this “better Sylvanna” crap is because I was too badly hacked to see what is actually fucking going on with my name.

As previously pointed out, someone stole my identity, my life’s story, my writing, and shat on my friendships. She doesn’t sound lovely and she too uses my name.

The environment is toxic because of this situation. It may be why my neighbor makes up stories about me. But I can’t be held accountable for others bad behavior.

If true, I can’t control that someone has spread a reputation in my name. And others come in to posture. But my neighbor could control her attitude.

Yay, stigma on top of a troll-bot, or maybe why it was aimed at me . They are afraid of me in actuality and puff up their chests a bit.

Just because I’m bipolar doesn’t mean I’m dangerous.

Start a fight, I end one. But I’d rather not.

Also

Yes, I would prefer to deescalate and at least not escalate. But my blog is my outlet and you don’t seem all that scary if you get your panties in a bunch over a blog post.

Maybe learn to back off.

There have been objections from bystanders listening to someone bait, and me mutter and swear as a response. So my blog really is the best solution. Don’t like what I have to say? Don’t read it!