To close out this one
See, that's the whole thing... it's not just about one event or one problem. It's one long string of things, each thing connected to, and made worse by, everything else that happened previous to it.
That's why I laughed, despite the fact that the reason why I was blind in one eye was due to an incurable, only semi-treatable disease. It was one big "you've got to be shittin' me!" laugh.
Honestly, if it weren't my own life, I wouldn't believe me either.
That's probably why I find it so difficult to let go of my past. I keep the good things fresh in my mind, because I need to mask the pain. I "idealize" just about everything, given time, and I've tried to go back into situations which nearly killed me, and tried to fix broken relationships, over and over again because I do. My present is painful, so I want to run back to when I wasn't hurting, unable to grasp the fact that there wasn't really a time when I wasn't hurting. I set it up that way in order to protect myself. I set it up in my head so that I remember the good moment, as opposed to the hellish day.
My writing? That's where I put the hellish day. I put it there to remind myself not to make the same mistakes again... to give myself suggestions as to how to handle things if they do happen again. At least, that's what I try to do. It often doesn't work too well here. See, with physical abuse, you're safe from it online. With emotional or mental abuse, you sort of open yourself up to it.
So... yeah, I tend to be more than a little cautious online. Trusting someone from this site is what landed me in Bumfuck Nowhere, half blind, pacing back and forth through deer shit, and screaming, "This FAG needs to get the fuck out of Montana!"
I think that I was hoping that someone would just shoot me already.
and it was cold
It's all pretty vague. It's tough to reach, then all of a sudden I'll remember something, and I'll feel like ...like ...like
I'll just feel is all, and it's not a good feel.
I wasn't writing much then. I really couldn't, for many reasons. Even the stuff I did manage to write makes me cringe now. Almost everything was written in fear. My writing is my memory. It's not just that I'll forget things if I don't write them down, it's that because my short term memory seems to be very, very affected, I feel that I have to read things over and over in order to be able to remember them at a later time.
I'll remember certain things... keys... but details disappear quickly.
I remember May through December of 2004, but I think that I remember it as I experienced it. It wasn't me. I wasn't there. I did what I had to do. I had no choice. It was either that, or die. I can't tell you how I knew that, I just did.
I remember being outside on the morning of November 30th, on the phone with the doctor. That she called me so early, I knew, meant something serious was up.
I'm tearing up as I write this. I feel like I'm going to cry. I feel like I probably felt, somewhere deep inside of myself, when she told me that I had MS.
Great. Now I have tears in my eyes.
...and I tried to sound all perky on the phone with her. I did laugh. I fuckin' laughed.
Trapped in hell with a psychotic, abusive woman, completely blind in one eye, in the middle of Bumfuck Nowhere, thousands of miles from where I'd called "home" only weeks previous...
I could go on... I could detail it. The long and short of it is though, she told me that I had MS, and I laughed.
When I called the CUNT, she got angry.
When I called the other CUNT, aka "my mother", I got "What do you want ME to do about it?!?!"
I walked to the doctor's office to go over the results with her.
Among other things, I got "I've NEVER seen a brain like this!"
The "You've had this for at least 10 years." part was not too surprising.
Sir Thinksalot was flattered. I felt momentarily validated.
I went outside for a smoke, and to call the CUNT.
Then, after they blew a vein or two, I had my first ever dose of Solu-Medrol. Tastes (yes, TASTES. It's a chemical which runs through your veins) like crap.
I'm pretty sure that I was very dissociated through the treatment. I vaguely remember laying there... everything seeming so surreal.
Welcome to your life, Cutter. You cannot pass GO. That'll be $200.
Patronize, or don't.
Apparently, I wrote this last night:
Both are acceptable - PAYtronize and PAtronize, but Americans seem to favor the former, Brits the latter.
The way I was nudged to use the word, PAYtronizing something was a good thing, as in patronizing your favorite restaurant. PAtronizing something was a bad thing, as in calling someone who speaks to someone their own age in the manner one would to a child, a "patronizing fuck".
A "patron" is a supporter. Being "paternal" suggests (father) adult/child.
The whole "patriarchy" thing is tricky for me, I suppose. I learned to say the word "PAYtriarchy", but I guess that it would make more sense to pronounce it "PATriarchy".
Back in 11/04
Looking back at what (sadly) little I do have to refer back to, the 29th was a Monday. It was Monday morning when I walked to the doctor's office. By Sunday evening, I could barely see a thing. With my left eye, things were very, very dim. With my right? By Sunday night, I couldn't even see the moon anymore.
I'll skip over the drama, and right to the part after I informed the doctor that with my right eye, I couldn't even see that there was an eye chart.
She looked into my eyes using that high tech flashlight thingee, and then scribbled on her paper. After that, she informed me that I needed to get an MRI done, that even the left optic nerve was dusky, blah blah blah leave out information here as to not sell out the ex (aka "the cunt") No, I'd never had an MRI before. No, I wasn't sure that I could get there tonight because I had to ask for a ride to the hospital, and the hospital was about an hour away, and things were, shall we say, not so good where I lived.
Drama skip. Fast-forward to that night.
So, I took my very first Valium ever, before going into the MRI machine. I then drifted off as the very noisy machine took SirThinksalot's very first pictures. It took a long time. I don't remember exactly, but I want to say about an hour and a half.
After I walked out, back towards the waiting area, which was past the little room where the techs were, I asked the tech, who was pointing me in the correct direction of the waiting area, whether or not she'd seen the "alien in my brain".
She looked at me weird. I chuckled and explained, "I keep telling people! There's an alien in my brain!" and then proceeded to ask her whether or not I was allowed to look at the pictures on the screen.
She seemed to move back towards the screen in the little room, but then stopped herself and said that she'd better not.
"Dernit! I wanted to see whether or not there actually was an alien!"
"You never had an MRI before!?!?" She seemed to be turning even whiter than she already was, but then my eyes were messed up, and I was on Valium.
I told her how I'd always wanted to see what my brain looked like... back to the alien references... etc., etc., chuckle chuckle. Why was this tech looking at me like I was the alien?
She told me that my doctor would definitely call me the next day.
Skip over A LOT of drama
I did not sleep very well at all that night... despite the Valium.
The last days in November
Thinking back exactly two years, because I can't help but to do so... I really was worried. I was so worried that I scheduled a doctor's appointment... in a strange, small minded, mountain town. I would have to go alone, despite the promise made to me before I trashed my life, that I would not have to do so, should I choose to throw caution to the wind and sacrifice my medical safety net. That's how worried I was... so worried that I'd face one of my biggest fears... a fear which had dictated the course of my life for more than a decade... I'd face a new doctor... alone. I'd walk over the ice covered road for a bit. I'd find the building. There wasn't much else in the area. It was, pretty much, walking in a straight line, not that I hadn't gotten lost walking in a straight line before, even in my own hometown, but I had a cell phone. So, it'd be ok. It'd be ok. It'd be ok.
I think that I prayed...
...if you could do me a little favor, even if you can't let me have the sight back in my right eye, please.... please.... PLEASE don't let it be that I drank myself blind.
A-fuckin'-men.
2CP
I keep trying to force myself to get out of bed in the morning. Why? To feel "normal"? I never felt abnormal because I worked nights. I preferred it, actually. Can't help but wonder if I preferred it because it served to add to the list of things which uniqueefied me though.
My head hurts a little too much to go into heavy self-psychoanalysis mode right now. Spent too much time yesterday getting sucked into going through some old writing which I stumbled across. Then, I got sucked into watching tv. The result? I'm tired and have a headache, which sucks.
I'm hoping to snag a couple of blog entries from the writing I found. It'll take a while to go through it all, but that's ok. I was wanting something to do. Hopefully, this will keep me occupied for a little while, and somehow not do me more harm than good.
It could happen.
stupid noise
There is an air raid siren going off outside, somewhere near by. ...has been for a while. Nothing on the news.
I really, really, REALLY DO NOT LIKE THAT SOUND.
Now it's the sound of the train. I suppose it's the sound trains make that is supposed to serve as a horn.
Almost always, I like that sound even less.
(It's messed up that upon sticking my head out the door, all I heard was something that sounded like a wood chipper. Kinda says where my subconscious thoughts are, I guess.)
From yesterday
My best writing is done when I don't fear having to answer questions about it... when I don't have to "explain myself". The problem with the whole blog thing is that I've grown fond of the bits of cyber-human-contact it affords me, and so my writing is affected. Instead of just writing, I'm writing, knowing that people might put me on the spot about what I wrote. I write, worrying too much about people's feelings, and about prompting an attack that will push me over the edge.
Self censorship.
---------
Subsequent trauma serves to hide previous ones.
If you tried to guess what percentage of my body is covered in scars from self-inflicted wounds, you'd probably be WAY off.
One should not be asked why one cuts, but asked what hurts one worse than doing so.
---------
I can't help but wonder how much of a part my breaking down in 2004 had to do with my telling my Shrinkydink the first 15 years of my life story. Usually, they try to get DID patients to do most of that work "in-patient". I didn't. I couldn't.
...and so, here I am at 37, still adding more traumas to the wall.
---------
People can't remember their own lives. Why is it that I think that they might remember mine if I tell them the story?
I guess that I count on the distance allowing them to.
---------
I'm starting to feel that I'm much too serious for this site.
Am I too serious for life, in general?
It's still November
If I'm lucky, I'll be able to make it through this. Everything is... tenuous. Everything.
I don't know that I can explain it any better than that.
Thankfully through
11/23 4pm
The older I get, the more I realize that it's not simply that I am a combination of my parents, but that I'm a combination of all of my grandparents. This saddens me on some levels, but I'm sure that at least one of them is laughing themselves silly because of the whole thing, and that makes me smirk just a bit. You reap what you sow, indeed.
4:15pm
I don't need a special day to be thankful for anything. I'm thankful every day. I'm not feeling well at all, and I don't have to pretend to be happy. The only thing I really like about Thanksgiving is the heaping dose of crunchy turkey skin, and the mountain of my own stuffing. THANKS to the people who can actually kill the critters, and can afford the land to keep them on before doing so, and to everyone else who gets the critters from the scene of their murders to the poultry section of my grocery store, I can cook a fucking turkey on any day of the year, provided I can afford it and that I can cook at all. I don't need permission.
All that the holiday does to me is make me more depressed than I already usually am. Depressed. Bitter. Angry. Envious. ...and craving shit loads of salt and cholesterol.
Crappy Thanksgiving
Brain burps from the past 24 hours or so:
Don't touch me. Don't even THINK about touching me. Don't even motherfucking CYBER touch me!!!!!
It is NOT love to me!!!! It is NOT CARING to me!!!
Touch = SEX. If we're NOT fucking, DON'T FUCKING TOUCH ME.
------------------------- ---
Sometimes, the only difference between an asset and a liability is timing.
------------------------- ---
Musicians are often very good pinball players.
------------------------- ---
Even the word "fart" is funny.
------------------------- ---
I don't dream of sittin' still.
THINK!
What no one seems to realize is that it's not about me looking for things to keep me alive. I'm a human being, and as such, I have a very deep rooted self preservation instinct.
What I'm looking for is something to blame my killing myself on. ...someONE to blame it on.
I'm a human being, and as such, I know that my parents will never be blamed, despite the fact that they more than deserve to be.
My comments will be off until I feel that I can risk reading them.
When I'm like this, especially at this time of year, you ALL BECOME my parents!!!!!! YOU ARE SAFE TO BLAME!!!
whatthefuckever
I wouldn't want you to go out of your fucking way.
Fuck it.
Fuck all of you.
Stupid Turkeys
It is less painful for me to huff rancid beer than it is to smell Thanksgiving in the air.
It's every day.
I read a really great entry on one of the blogs I keep up with, and am in the process of getting permission to post a link to it, because I'd love to pass on the address to those of you who might be interested in reading.
I'm not good with email or tmail, or messages, or anything like that, so there are a lot of blogs which I read that I've yet to list.
I've written so much on the subjects of sex, gender, and sexuality over the course of my Internet existence... posted the same (to me) simple truths over and over and over again... fought against the same cookie-cutter-idiots...
I'm tired. I'm still trying, and yes, it does often feel like "trying to stop a landslide with toothpicks and super-glue", but I'm still trying.
I'm trying, because people are still suffering and still dying. MY people. MY (fellow) troops.
For the right to not be discriminated against because of one's own body, what one chooses to wear, or whom one admits to loving, we fight. We fight hard, we fight humanely, we don't kill or injure, but use whatever tools or skills we have been allowed to use by our own enemies.
We fight, and we often die in battle.
We don't get medals though. If we're lucky, we're remembered on some website somewhere, after being killed.
It's Thanksgiving this week.
For those who gave their lives so that I might fight another day, and for those fighting beside me, I am thankful.
Transgender Day of Remembrance 2006
The morning spins
I was going to add this as a comment to the other day's "Lone Wolf" entry, but after I typed it, my thoughts started running all over the place.
What I'd written was:
I suppose that what I was thinking is something along the lines of "getting out of an abusive or painful situation" can also be seen as weakness... failure. Is it not akin to giving up information under torture?
...and that's at the heart of a lot of my own psychological crap. It's not that I was brave or strong, it's that I broke... I was too weak... I am too weak.
If your life is abusive and painful, is suicide a sign of strength? If you're in pain, is getting out of the painful situation a sign of weakness?
This line of thought goes very deep... into areas I do not feel comfortable opening up about to the public. Is my choosing not to do so a sign of my own weakness? Am I not letting my own fear control me? Then... fear is what keeps us alive, often. Fear is what keeps us from touching a hot stove. ...or is that just "knowing better".
See... round and round I go... trying to what? What is it I'm trying to say here? ...and who the fuck am I really talking to?
These are days...
There are days on which I want to walk away from all of this.
Sometimes, I want to crawl into my past and hide there. Sometimes, I want to leave my bags here and start fresh somewhere else. Sometimes, I just want to vanish completely.
Even in my dreams, you torture me.
Even in my dreams, I'm missing you.
Even in my dreams, I keep trying to get home.
Even in my dreams.
At least I'm fuckin' trying.
It's not too difficult to find things to feel crappy about. The real challenge for me is finding things to counter the crappy shit. I suppose that it can come across as my not appreciating the good things in life, but really, that's not the case. It's like a balance... like math. -9 plus 1 equals -8. It's better than -9, but it's still a negative number. I do try to look for the more positive stuff, and I actually do find a lot of it...
The reason why I seem to write about the crappy shit more than the good shit? Well, there's just more crappy shit than good shit to write about, and I write, at least once, every fucking day. Ever try to read through my archives? It's a fucking full time job just trying to. I can't even get through them in less than a day, and I mean 24 hours. ...and it's not entry after entry of fluff, or cut and pasted bullshit either. The entries are about 95% substance... real substance. Shit, for the most part, I spend hours writing, checking, and editing each entry. ...and I'm usually in fuck loads of pain, blurry eyed, and losing track of what I'm even thinking about whether I'm reading or writing.
Some people see the glass as half empty, some people see it as half full. Every time I see my glass as half full, I'm quickly reminded that my glass has a fucking hole in it. ...and so I bitch about it.
Last I heard, it was my right to do so.
Lone Wolf
Would you rather have someone in your life abusing you, as opposed to no one in your life at all?
Sit. Stay.
No thanks.
Here we go again...
Thanksgiving is coming up. Depression on top of depression.
I can't cook this year. I'm struggling just to cook once a week, at this point.
I managed to cook last year. Somehow, I managed.
I'll get some beer on Monday, so that on Thursday I can just drink my way through. The following Monday, I will console myself with a sushi meal and the company of the only friend who I've seen in over a year. I'll be thankful for that.
Something to look forward to. Right? (Yes, that was written implying disgusting amounts of bitterness.)
Why should I care about you?
Why should I care about you?
From what I've learned...
The more I care about you, the more you'll feel free to manipulate me for even more proof that I actually do.
the more painful it will be when you break my heart.
the more I will feel forced to compete with other people for your time and attention.
the more I will push myself to be perfect in your eyes, so as not to lose you from my life.
the more I will notice your absence in my life.
The more I care about you, the less energy I will have for the people in my life who care about me.
From what I've learned, caring is an X-treme sport.
Overdue Avian Shoo
RavensWings took me grocery shopping today. After that, we came back here and indulged in conversation. My sparrow friends got a little jealous, and decided to try (again) to bust through the A/C.
They've been taking way more than the inch I give them, recently... waking me up... keeping me up... being rude in general.
So, RavensWings and I took the A/C unit out of the window. We also put the screen back in, so now I can get bird and (most) bug free air into my apartment.
My apartment is going into shock. Too much air, not enough cigarette smoke.
The sparrows are still cursing me out. Apparently, I took away their jungle gym, and now they have no idea what to do with themselves.
The blue jay is laughing his ass off.
just a thought
If life isn't difficult for you, maybe you're just not trying hard enough.
Truth is
Although I often condemn people for being "delusional", in many ways I envy them.
Nobody knows
Truth is, although when you read this you'll probably disagree, you're not real. You're not real to me.
Rumor has it that when I read the words on this screen which I'm certain I did not put there, the words were written by another person. I have that rumor to go on, but generally speaking, that's about it.
The same is true for you. You read my words, but I'm not really real to you. You have no real way of knowing that I, as you have created me in your head, am actually anything like your creation.
There are only three people on the planet who can say "I know Cutter.", and come close to not lying. I, the person typing this, can say that. My brother can say that. The person I refer to as "RavensWings " can say that. Everyone else knows someone they created in their head, with the help of someone behind a computer screen, or someone who is much like someone they might have come close to knowing years ago. The truth is that they don't really know me though. The truth is that aside from my brother, RavensWings, and myself, anyone who claims to know me is, in effect, lying.
So, am I "mean"? You'd have to either ask my brother, or RavensWings, if you want to get an accurate truth aside from my own. You'll also have to clearly define "mean" to them, before giving that answer any weight.
I don't think that I'm "mean". I can accept "brutally honest" sometimes though.
Online, it's pretty rare that I suffer silently.
November is fun.
There are many days in my life that I spend fighting off the urge to disappear. From the beginning of this blog, I explained that. My days are spent trying not to kill myself and trying not to kill anyone else. Every day, it's an effort. Every day, I have to find reasons not to. Every day I have to manage to just keep going.
It's not easy for me. I have very few reasons not to just off myself. It's more difficult than not killing anyone else. All I have to do is stay away from people if I feel dangerous. Too, I often am capable of just walking away from people if I get too riled up.
I can go on, page after page, attempting to explain why it is that I want to check out. My reasons are valid. I've done that already though. Day after day, page after page, reply after reply, I've explained myself.
People are jumping up and down because of an election result. "There's hope! There's hope!" Yeah. Hope for you, maybe. For me? There is little to none.
...but people want to tell me that I'm mean?
Bitch, you don't know what mean is.
"Mean" is what put me here. "Mean" is what is keeping me here.
I'm a fucking sweetheart.
May you never know what it's like to be fucked up the ass so hard that you have cum shooting out of your mouth.
Now go fake like you care somewhere else. Your costume is transparent here.
for whatever reason
I had written the beginnings of a pretty good entry, but then it magically disappeared as I was typing.
I'll just take it as a sign, and keep my beak shut until I have a better thought.
and I should care because?...
It's not just that I don't have anything positive to say, it's also that I don't even feel capable of hurling shit in a creative fashion.
just because
One of the local crows thought it necessary to bark me up and out of bed. In turn, I'm now fighting the urge to bark at people who are sleeping.
I have no idea what was so important. I seem to have lost my crow dictionary.
I'll just assume that everyone has lost their Cutter dictionary, and keep my barking to myself.
just say, "ugh".
The truth hurts, and so do lies.
Sort of puts a damper on communication, doesn't it?
just thinking
I don't think that the problem with this country is that the majority of people are assholes. The majority of people in this country are simply followers. That's the nature of humanity though, and it only makes sense. If we were all leaders, we'd keep colliding with one another, and lose the benefit of having one another's support.
I think that the problem right now is that the leaders aren't listening to the advice of the majority of the followers. Followers may be content following, but ultimately they know where it is they want to end up. It's the leader's responsibility to get them there. A good leader will get them there as quickly and as painlessly as possible.
This country's hurtin'. Bad.
Just shut up!
I don't want to write about this... but I need to write about it. I'm very angry. Angry with myself for listening to people who have this need to condemn me in order to make themselves feel better.
See, in my head, there are the voices of many, many people. These voices have become a part of who I am. My parents, my family, my friends, doctors, teachers, strangers, "the media"... I've absorbed their accusations.
I keep blaming the fucking alcohol, just like they do. They keep insisting that I'm just an alcoholic. That there's nothing really wrong with me. Even after the diagnosis, and even after seeing the MRI images. They keep insisting that they know me better than I do. They keep insisting that it's the alcohol.
So, time after time I hear those voices, and time after time I listen to them. I keep blaming the alcohol... which translates into, "I keep blaming myself."
I go to bed in pain. I get up in the morning, and I'm in pain. I can't stop the rage. I can't clear my head. I can't keep myself from colliding with walls or from having my legs collapse for no apparent reason. I can't stop the shaking. My ears don't stop ringing. Nothing comes into focus quickly enough. My grasp on reality slips and slips again... and I'm completely exhausted. I can barely care for myself. I'm paranoid. The world is too loud.
It's my own damn fault. It'll stop. I just drank too much last night. It'll clear up.
Did I mention that a while back I stopped drinking? No! Of course I didn't mention it! I didn't mention it because if I read something that even slightly came off as a "pat on the back" I'd have snapped. Why? Because a pat on the back would mean that YOU were insinuating that the alcohol was part of the problem... a BAD THING in the first place.
Yeah... so, FUCK YOU.
and you know what? I'm NOT a fucking alcoholic!!!!!! It's a fucking BEVERAGE!!! I choose to drink it, or I choose not to. I'm not powerless over a fucking beer!!! Just because I enjoy something does NOT make me powerless over it.
Drinking did NOT destroy my life or cause me to destroy anyone else's, nor did it destroy my body or my brain. MS and a VERY long list of complete ASSHOLES did that. My only regret is that I allowed myself to listen to those assholes, and even when I got away from them, I continued to beat myself for them. I continued to listen to the echoes in my head.
People will blame me, even after I'm dead and gone... "sober" or with a blood alcohol level that's more alcohol than blood.
People are assholes. That's what assholes do, they do everything but trust that you know more about yourself than they know about you. ...and they blow hot air and spew shit.
...and they can also drive you to drink, so that you can end up as stupid as they are when they're sober, in an effort to not feel so damn alone.
Is there a card for this?
It's an anniversary. 22 years.
22 years, and the words which came out of my mother's mouth that night, the night before I left, still echo in my head.
"I have a son, and a daughter, and an I don't know what!"
Will I ever just "let it go"? No fucking way. See, I KNOW what I am. I'm a human being. ...and us human beings? We carry some grudges to the death.
Sometimes
Sometimes
at the end of the day
it all comes down to
Sometimes
spending money makes me cranky.
E equals wha?
Taking the risk of personally offending many I care for, I have to say that recently I have been feeling what I can only describe as "intellectually starved".
Perhaps that is what I'm seeking. No, it's not that I'm searching for people who seem to want to choke everyone else with their text book knowledge. I think that it's more along the lines of seeking those who have mastered making their own original thoughts and discoveries truly delectable to many others. I suppose that, in a way, I find that to be indicative of true intelligence. ...that ability to communicate. If an uneducated (or ignorant) person can't understand you, how do you think that you're really going to make a difference in the areas where one really needs to be made? If only your "intellectual equals" or people who have had the benefit of being exposed to a myriad of concepts can understand you, you're just preaching to the choir!
To me, the virtuoso is not the true genius. To me, the true genius is the visionary. I don't care if you know that E = mc2. Can you explain what that means to the average person who has an average education? How about someone who has a below average education? Can you do it without patronizing them? Can you do it and leave them wanting to know even more about the theory? Could you come up with and deliver a theory which impresses and challenges even the virtuoso?
Anyway... that's where I've been at (in my head) recently. Looking for knowledge... looking for people with knowledge who know how to pass it on without offending. Not that I'm without any sources, but I'm craving more and more... more people, more knowlege, more to build on, more to enjoy, more which causes me to smile... Thinkers who are true thinkers.
(Sometimes it makes me feel good to be a snob, Miss Thang.)
tired of coming up with titles for everything
once, life was an adventure
now, life is all about the daily challenge of finding the next adventure
and it feels more like looking for a needle in a haystack
and it's boring me sick
my boots are rotting
much like my brain
my jacket has lost its practicality
much like my train of thought
the sound of your voice keeps fading
Watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat!
Looking over my entries for the month of October, it is very evident to me that I allowed myself to be rattled by too many other people. There is very little of substance to choose from, to put into my condensed archives.
Even as I write this, I'm fighting off the urge to explain myself in response to some recent correspondence I've received. That is not healthy, nor is it productive.
Perhaps it's past the time to start another blog project. I need something to distract me from the aspects of this blog which are doing me more harm than good.
