Sylvanna Devlin

Not a bone in my body hated. I didn’t understand it. Didn’t really want to. I loved everyone and everything and that was to my detriment.

I had experienced a fleeting moment before. A defensive spell that were the only words I could weave to be left alone by my abusive ex spouse.

In a battle for my very soul.

Now another has earned her permanent spot as someone I hate.

It’s a survival mechanism, in this form.

So let’s separate it from bigotry and bad behavior. Feeling an emotion is not enough of a cause for violence, or harassment.

I hate the woman responsible for the collapse of my ear canal – and the mutilation of my genitalia, all because she wanted to “see what I would do.” And that’s a survival mechanism.

Stay the fuck away from her and the people she manipulates and controls into her bullshit.

She toys with people and calls it writing.

When you’re a real writer characters show up in your head and do what they want. Plot is characters going against each other’s desires. Not a long story of suffering.

Writers have read at some point. A lot. We chewed through books. We read the advice of writers we admired and some we didn’t know but had good ideas we could recognize.

It takes work and practice to get through the “copycat” phase that has you sounding like everyone else – anyone you’re reading at the time.

It takes work and patience to persevere long enough to get confident in your ability to work- and even then there may be times you doubt you ever write again.

Practice, Patience, Perseverance.

Few can claim to have written under the kind of psychological duress my stalker put me through. Just to see what I would do!

So it’s worth mentioning the difference between a story- an endless collection of meaningless events – and a plot that has conflict and resolution, characters struggling and fighting to overcome an obstacle there for a reason.

The odyssey is more a story than the novel. The first accessible novel (if we’re not counting an attempt by an unknown woman in the 12th century) was Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein. The birth of the horror genre and the accessible modern novel. In 1816 – published in 1818.

Even Emily Brontë – famous for her work and her place in history, published her work after Mary Shelly produced hers.

The modern novel exists because a woman wrote one.

And that tends to get lost to history.

The difference is plot. Before that we had stories. And what has happened to me is more a story – at least by actions performed by others.

Favors for fivers to wound and intrigue and produce nothing of literary value.

Until I produce a story of overcoming cumulative abuse and the kind of circumstances I have been put through because someone thought she could pay her way not practice. Then I will write nonfiction with the undulating style of a novel. But I’m of the few who can without actually fictionalizing it.

I am a revolutionary writer and her jealousy is dangerous.

She has money and a gui. But the odyssey she has put me through is a more series of challenges than anything that the police could grip onto.

It seemed meaningless and pointless.

Was this terrorism on a world famous mathematicians daughter? Was this to see if she could so trash someone who was well liked and respected before that bitch got going?

Was it to see how long before anyone listened to the truth while she tortured and tormented me?

You knew it was happening.

And gaslighted me out of the truth.

Lied to the American public.

And no newspaper picked me up.

So citizen journalists wrote their heavily biased versions of the few morsels she fed them.

No one seemed to have the truth but the government.

And they let it happen.

Why would you help her hurt me? What financial hold does she have on America than you think it’s okay to do this to someone?

She hacked – well paid for hacking. She created a group project of how to torment me and wove lies of how I “deserved” it – like anyone does. Except maybe her, now. If you can find her.

You made me battle just to exist then tried to “cancel” me when that became inconvenient. Your boyfriend hacking into all my backups to destroy them before my very eyes. Suicide attempt two, the final version on it’s way.

How often do you use sex as a weapon honey? I sure hope you’re fucking worth it.

Nahhhh no one is.

Not the soul destroying crap you’ve had others do to me. Not the potential cost of a life. Not again. You make murderers out of hackers you manipulative bitch.

Too right I hate you.

It’s a survival mechanism. Loving everyone put a target on my back. Learning to hate a woman so personally despicable took about four years.

But I have now. And I’m comfortable with it. Because hate does not mar the soul unless acted upon.

You can have your feelings – and they matter. Motivation matters. But it is your behavior everyone responds to.

They may listen to lies of what you have done. They may have no patience for the results of baiting. If reduced to a frothing madness after 72 hours of torment it’s a miracle to have any self control left.

But that’s what it took isn’t it?

I don’t drink or do drugs. You can’t hook me on anything. And as much as I would like my muscles to be eased my ligaments won’t hold the joints together- it’s potentially fatal.

So fibromyalgia pain has to be handled differently. Thanks to Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, EDS hyper mobility. Pain is something I just have to live with.

It was brought on by an abusive ex who harassed me and tormented me trying to force me to lose control.

And he almost succeeded. And it would have been fatal for him. Stupid fuckwit.

Yes stupid exits. I see that now. And the danger they pose to the intelligent is quite high. Because they all think they’re the end all be all of what one can be capable of.

At least if she’s a woman.

So some stupid bitch put me through this and tried to condition me into “Simon says” control because she’s too stupid to understand two things:

Real, fictional characters don’t do or sound in a way entirely in your power. They show up in your head and you have to learn about them. With your fucking imagination.

And as for your pronouncements, real people are not to be treated like characters in a book. You stupid bitch.

Too right I hate you.

And as tempted as I am to go dark side because of it and show you real old world magic to tie you up and destroy you?

My hatred is an emotion not a behavior.

There’s a fucking difference.

I’m not just exhausted of all your paid talking points. I’m angry on a level that is obscene. Too calm and ice cold to show. I want my death.

Everything you have put me through is on my blog. Every lie told but one.

That love lingers for this tired, twisted and tormented soul.

Stop.

Before I cast this world into eternal darkness and seal it with my death.

For you can not imagine the fury I am experiencing right now that actors and characters have played with my heart.

I am done.

You should be too.

May my nightmares be yours till you stop.

Your karma come due and quickly too.

And you each get the luck you deserve.

I’m done. Are you?

Those curses would be blessings if you hadn’t been so abysmal to me. I risk nothing but some stupid lecture by some sanctimonious asshole who doesn’t understand chaos magic.

Things had settled down.

I was writing less, admittedly. But I didn’t have as much to comment on and had gone into recovery mode.

Sigh. I’m being harassed by suggestions of what to say. Like the brainless behavior can be overlooked by copying my thoughts as I write them and pretending they’re hers. Proof hacking is still an issue.

As is harassment.

You know what? If they are the same ideas you are for some reason suddenly trying to write? Shut the fuck up. Because that would be quite a good thing, unlikely as it is.

I’m writing this. I don’t need assistance thank you. Stop your AI generated suggestions. I don’t fucking need them – while based on my work I’m still a better writer than any AI.

I should be after 30+ years. You’re not good at what you do after that long? Fucking quit.

My PTSD, like the kind you gave me, prevents me from maintaining a job not from writing well – when I can.

A blog post, I can manage. And if you don’t know why I would prefer not to use an AI to generate my content? Why I’m insulted that you would suggest it?

I can’t help you work hard enough to get good.

PTSD can’t be fixed by AI. Writing doesn’t work that way. No art does.

The system you’re using is based on my stolen work, anyway. Mine. Erase your fucking cache or whatever.

Yep. It’s too fucking early for harassment and bullying, tormenting and whatever we can call trying to call out suggestions of what to write.

I mean you need to be hooked into a system hooked into what write – so maybe log off the hacking based website.

You shouldn’t have access to my private world you bitch, and you can wait to read what I’ve sorted out like a fucking adult.

No one gave you permission to invade my privacy, not my father, and not me. So you can stop your gaslighting right now. Because my father never was in a position to give the say so anyway. Even if I had become a ward of the state he was never the boss of me.

Also he wouldn’t have. Give it up. It’s supposed to be over. Stop trying to drive a wedge between my father and myself.

You can’t make yourself feel better by shitting on me, I’m still not your punching bag and you’re still being an asshole.

Now. What is going on?

I was woken up by someone playing a clip of a man saying, “people were making fun of her. That’s all.”

Oh my god. A man said it. So it must be true? You’re supposed to be hen pecking bitches who don’t care what men think about me.

Oh you don’t like someone saying how “you’re supposed” to feel? What to say? What to do.

Yeah think about that for long enough to remember that’s part of the bullshit done to me.

Now go back and read my whole blog. Listen to the audio clip on gaslighting. Does that sound like you were “only making fun”?

Oh there’s that word abusers love “only”. You “only” what. Were only cruel and invasive? Dog piled with hurtful talking points you knew wounded but not why? You only joined a mob that swirled around me in a witch hunt for anyone to scapegoat? You were only an asshole because I was so different?

Yeah you weren’t “only” anything.

You need to sleep through the night, don’t do it with lies. But let’s talk about what it means to make fun of someone – wait that’s rude and obnoxious and bullying under a tamer name. Sardonic humor is still being an asshole,

There’s a difference between poking fun – starting a bantering exchange or gentle teasing and what you did. If you don’t know it? Don’t talk to anyone till you figure it out.

Then stop being an asshole.

Here’s that clip for you.

You are going to need a real therapist and be honest that you screwed up. But if you don’t admit what you’ve done to yourself? Maybe shut the fuck up.

Oh wait.

Apparently you seem to think you can manipulate and toy with someone to write a story.

Create reality, pay people to do what they do. Because you are too lazy and impatient to work at writing till you get good.

You use an AI based on my writing to describe what you put me through – with characters inspired by such but not actually real.

I am real.

I did survive all that.

And the last person who said “no one can” to me before you? Was the last to speak to me before a serious suicide attempt.

Do you want to knock me into suicide? Keep pushing and you might. It turns out no one can resist trying to kill themselves, eventually. Do you really want to be that right?

I survived all the bullshit she put me through and no one is stopping her. You’re all assholes.

The truth does indeed hurt.

My cat began to worry

This what everyone was afraid of? Someone paid a lot of money to “write” the Sylvanna books?

You all knew.

It is enough to push me closer to the edge and I was already suicidal.

A surgeon used a revolutionary procedure to save me.

But god returned my soul.

The events may have been crafted. And characters created instead of people. But my reactions and abilities are that genuine.

I am that pretty. I was that nice. I was that capable. I am that smart. And I am done.

Everything I said was a real reaction. I really did feel that way and think those things.

The only part about this?

Everything I did was true.

Even when events were crafted into being.

I am, still, and always have been that honest.

Careful editing may have made a bitch out of me. But that part isn’t of the truth.

I am and might again be the village sweetheart, not the wicked witch of the west.

No clearing your conscience with warped reality done through tricks and lies. You have been cruel and awful to a real person who only wanted to be a real sweetheart.

I am the only real part of this.

And I want to die.

Leave me be.

I am real.

And in case you missed it?

Fuck off with your talking points.

And so we are clear on “the AI?”

You didn’t have to program a thing but provide and existing AI with all my writing.

You’re still using an AI based on me, then. Aren’t you?

Clear your fucking cache you arseholes.

My voice is my own.

No matter how long I look at a picture, I don’t recognize myself.

If we take out the pink of youth and good lighting. Here it is, yet again. My favorite picture of me.

I’m a good 90 lbs heavier- some of it muscle. But the closest I recently came was this.

I want to diet. I know how. Cut the sugar and my body does it for me. And after the holidays I am slowly cutting back to a slow trickle of starbursts.

I want my thinner, fitter self. But part of me doesn’t care anymore. My apathy towards myself getting frustrating.

I want my woods. The ones near I lived. The ones that once got so coated in fog it was like stepping into another realm.

The only other person I saw on the trail agreed it was a beautiful day.

Emerging from the mist with a smile on his face.

I miss damp weather walks, and slight muddy ground. I miss putting all tracking equipment in the car and disappearing into the captured wild for an hour and a half.

I miss Ian and Cybelle, though I’m so grateful for Tabitha and I swear – born 30 days after Cybelle’s death, Tabitha is the same spirit.

I miss working from the comfort of white bamboo sheets. And the kind of heavy duty magic I swore kept us going.

I miss cups of tea and my climbing rose. Outside being unchallenging. The laundry a short walk to the wash room.

I miss, most of all, recognizing my life as mine.

There’s something so strange about what happened to me. I was supposed to have a writing career. It was taking off.

Circumstances were not in the stars I suppose. And love has been dangled like a carrot for enduring agony of the soul.

I want the quiet to last.

I want to never go experience harassment, bullying and gaslighting again.

I want to feel like my life makes sense.

That last part being hard.

I miss feeling like I am me.

Who am I again?

I guess I’m her.

No powder – couldn’t be arsed.

Slight eyeshadow and mascara (the latter is running out)

Nude lip gloss (as in clear)

Is that gold in those Hazel mood changing eyes? Or are you just Fae to seem?

Trying to recreate the wet look

I think it’s better from the other side

And dry again

I can’t quite get the lighting right that I had on the first one. But this is interesting, I guess.

I blurred my mascara and that gave me an idea.

Still only really happy with the first one. But this isn’t bad.

Maybe eventually I’ll write a post again instead of screwing around with photo angles, lighting, and now makeup!

(And cropping so they match size a little)

I have a twitch that looks like a sneer

What my mouth should look like

And the twitch!

If I don’t chill out my face really will freeze that way!

Well…

And because my cat is cute!

I spent a good 16 hours (admittedly with some breaks) tidying up the mess in here yesterday.

And now I’m too exhausted to do anything.

I still have trash to take out, recycling to be rid of, dishes to do, and maybe I should even vacuum.

But meh.

Fibromyalgia says, “Too bad, so sad, I’m tired”.

I’m regaining water so I’m puffy again. And I can’t get anything good. So here’s my favorite from yesterday.

I’m having a bad picture day so far because I’m sagging a bit. But I know it’s possible not to!

And this is what I look like puffy!

I need to lose weight!

I did have one liked that was more arty.

And because I’m fucking around with cropping and B&W

And here we go!

And because Tabitha

Not much to report on the relationship front so here’s a toast to all the single but love-sick puppies!

(And great fuck off dragons that turn into a pussycat or pixie at will!)

It’s none alcoholic and I’ve been up 9 hours.

I say that more for the characters in, “The Stranger”. By Camu.

They were stuck in a state of pervasive boredom and didn’t really care if they lived or died. Either would be fine.

For me I have plenty to do. But no energy for it. I have a serious case of the blahs.

It occurred to me that after everything I’ve been through I need rest. Like any other injury my brain wants a break.

So rest it is.

And the hope resolution can be found.

Well after about half an hour of fiddling with my clasp I moved a necklace! I got something done. (And some housework)