Sylvanna Devlin

Reliving a version of what happened in 2023 made me think I was in September. Any year would do. I called February October.

Which helped me understand my current situation better.

It makes sense the past is haunting me. And I have a shared reputation from a fucking bitch.

“Snap back to reality.”

It’s not helpful to say that to someone who feels the incidents of past trauma are again happening. It seemed like a way to gaslight me. Besides no one “snaps back” to anything.

“When I snap my fingers…”

Fuck off stop tormenting the mentally ill you fucking bitch. That’s not how healing works.

I am connecting dots. My PTSD has been so bad I was indeed part of the problem here. I’m didn’t believe anyone. They were unpleasant about their comments and I thought it harrasment.

My response would seem like I wasn’t telling the truth.  I can see, that because I didn’t trust anyone, I was loud and experienced fugue. Particularly loud for me would seem like yelling. So I became frustrated and felt lied about. Because my yell would shake the building and I knew I hadn’t done that!

The thing about fugue is you don’t necessarily remember it ever even occurring and if everyone is an asshole to you, there’s no way you trust that part is happening.

“Breakthrough”

From what? Could the assholes have maybe been more specific to help me recognize when a fugue had started?

I have been disruptive during that time. But this is so new I thought I was being picked on and lied about.

I’m either sleeping through the day or awake for up to 72 hours and I am being driven mad. But I tried to overdose on the only real effective PTSD medication and I can’t get my psyche to try it again – as I’m certain my body will treat it as poison now.

I need to find a therapist who won’t ask why I feel a certain way – what made the trigger possible. just what I can do about it when abusive bitches use reactive abuse and send me into a PTSD spiral.

They snipe

“You’re not the real Sylvanna”.

Yes I am – well that is actually a name I used in a book. And the Torture Victim of the other one. But I don’t go by “the real” Sylvanna. The asshole does.

“Give it up Melissa – no one likes you, maybe you should kill yourself.”

Be careful. One day those could be the last one hears before they do.

Besides, I would be well liked if it weren’t for gossip and baiting like yours.

“Reactive abuse [like I’m doing right now] isn’t real”

Oh yeah? You are either lying or have your head in different sand.

They gossip and spread lies – and in part because some bitch out there took my names, my past, my work, my identity to dress herself in. My previously good reputation was useful to hide behind, I guess. Now we share one but I’m so hacked I don’t know the fuck she’s done – using my name.

People thought there was a split personality she’s so good at the con.

I was the village sweetheart, now I’m considered the wicked witch of the west and pushed into snapping so they don’t have to take responsibility for the seesaw

“See called me a bitch.”

Yes I did. I would like to go back to sweet Fae if you’re fucking done?

“Grow a thicker skin”

Yeah…. Not very easy when the slightest snipe spirals me into PTSD. You could shut up and not prod the wounded dragon.

The combination of Bipolar and PTSD is nasty – my reaction to what I experience has been intense and I’m experiencing periods when I can control my temper but not how loud I get. And the fury of my words.

I’m used to being well received and never a problem. I just didn’t believe I could be disruptive. The fugue state sends me spiraling then every asshole laughs at how crazy I am

You fucking abusive bitches.

And it’s usually women.

People have tried to hide behind my previously good reputation. I have to somehow deal with being confused about reactions to other people when I’ve been home alone off social media.

Combined I understand what happens to “the crazy person down the hall”. You can not let her alone and get upset she doesn’t respond well to your abuse.

“See she is the problem.”

On behalf of all people suffering with either schizophrenia, schizo-affective disorder, PTSD, or a combination?

“Fuck you. You’re the problem.”

I’d like to be left alone now. I’d like to lick my wounds and study academic pursuits and get into top bellydancing shape again.

But no. Somehow my mere presence is a fucking affront.

Most women in my building aren’t like that, but enough to be a problem and think history is repeating itself.

“All I said was….”

Yeah but cumulative abuse is real you gaggle of assholes. Combined it leaves me so vulnerable I’m crushed in one “strike”.

This is not fun and games you fucking gaslighting bitches. You prod me I’m going to call you names. Okay?

We could, I don’t know, not attack the vulnerable person and she could go back to being sweet and quiet. As she would be without your bullshit.

No one believes the me I was, and would like to be is real, because they’re twisting me up. Just back off.

This is viscous and an almost worse than torture. I don’t feel safe here because they’re the kind of bitches to attack the strange and vulnerable – then point the finger.

My PTSD is off the hook thanks to them. But while I’ll take responsibility for my response the bitches won’t for being the trigger.

Simple minded approach I guess.

Nothing happens in a vacuum here.

Word got back to me they don’t know the history of the past phrases – just that they hurt me.

Well. That’s better I suppose.

Still ever so charming.

I have things I’d like to do. Maybe they could shut up so we could all shut up.

Best sentence said to me (and it was actually facetious)

“You’e problem is you’re trying to please everyone and I’m not happy about that.

Good day sir, I said good day.

Don’t mind me.

“Please don’t kill yourself but you’re not allowed to cope”

That’s the message. Fuck off.

Yeah, whatever.

Some science is ridiculous.

Like flight.

Some try anyway and don’t succeed.

So it’s still ridiculous.

Then the wright brothers get off the ground – in something that flys but looks ridiculous!

I every once in a while have a ridiculous question. Not because it’s the end of all understanding. But the process is interesting.

I believe there is “likely, and not very likely but we should try anyway.”

Like space flight.

I don’t want to post today. I don’t want to be alive. So here. What I look like when I’m out of “fucks” to give.

I am struggling with severe and ever worsening PTSD. My nightmares are roaring darkness at me ever more so. Even in sleep there’s no escape.

I start to emerge from sleep and the first thing I hear is how evidence has been falsified and publicly posted.

“Good luck getting into the University of Washington now”

I want to write and swear and ask the gods if she’s fucking illiterate and incapable of grasping the idea of an academically inclined mind.

Everything, the gaslighting, the weekly change to the story and motivations is now down to

I did have terrorists on my arse.

I did have a hacker shit on my digital life.

I have been put in a virtual prison of misinformation and a google bubble that won’t break.

I did have someone want to use my writing for a cult.

I did have someone steal my identity and try to take my work.

Someone does want to stop me from releasing Game Over

And someone does want to sell me into sexual slavery or at least turn me into a whore.

Every way to use someone like a street hustler getting you to dig for change for everything valuable in my life till I’m a husk.

Oh I forgot

Someone does want to steal everything old of mine.

And someone does want to steal my cat – apparently already paid for even though she’s not hers to sell.

And it’s either all those or some mean girls crap but that seems just swirled in as a method of control.

I can’t take another 10 minutes more. I’d rather die than be treated like a fucking mine for goods and trying to force me into services

I want to fucking die.

I spit back at normal volume?

“Be quiet, keep your voice down”

I whisper my frustrations?

“Be quiet, keep your voice down.”

Fuck you all.

I return to kindness and compassion. To academic goals and ways to improve lives. And that’s ripped into. Because I won’t spread my legs for the bitch.

I said this morning I didn’t think I could try anymore. She wants me suffering in filth? A bed that needs to be changed? Dirty clothes, dirty body, garbage piling including biological waste. No clean teeth, drying skin, no more plans for life? Fine she could have that but not me.

I couldn’t climb up the ladder to be washed down again:

I was gently persuaded to take care of my moisture needs and teeth, take the two trips necessary to deal with garbage, sort my laundry. My clothes and bed were next. I could skip everything and just shampoo cap my hair again. Maybe tomorrow I could vacuum. But for now just Garbage out and Laundry sorted

He was guiding me through, step by step, to recovery. I could do this just one more time.

I did every step and fell asleep trying to recover enough to do more. And I am but waking and some bitch is clawing into me.

I want to fucking die.

No one is stopping her so I want to stop my heart. It’s happened before and I could skip out on being saved this time.

There’s my cat – she’s trying to steal

My family – relationships only just being repaired after her fuckery

Most of my friends wouldn’t listen that some divisive bitch was ruining my life and she successfully alienated them.

Those relationships I had to just walk away from.

I had still dealings with those who said there was no stalker, or that I was stalking myself. Those who didn’t stop to listen and didn’t believe a thing.

Fine.

Whatever.

You’re either blind or an asshole. Maybe both.

But whatever.

Things seemed to ease but because I can barely make my bed. I get better the bitch is back. And I am out permanently before becoming a whore.

My brain is being dented by this bitch because she doesn’t value intelligence – only what she can force or steal.

So her little coterie has to snipe on the way past.

Fuck them all.

And fuck this.

I have mentioned that I am pansexual but lean towards a preference for male bodied genderqueer individuals. It’s not that I would turn away the attention of a man who is gentle in the living room. It’s that I prefer those who identify somewhere else on the gender wheel but I certainly could be convinced to be more flexible.

A lot of individuals in my generation have no label for how they’ve felt all their lives which is frankly, none of “those” when the world was binary only.

Younger generations have different feelings but some (myself included) want to change and push perception of our preferred gender.

I was mistaken for a boy at five and was quite upset. I grew my hair out and wore skirts and climbed trees in heels!

I want to change stereotypes of what women can be like. But I am settled into my gender. I find it unreasonable and unfair to presume to describe the dysmorphia felt by those who know they lean elsewhere but not to what. I am lucky and won’t say more than there are labels and the gender wheel.

The spectrum is a circle not a line. You can be middle one way or an entirely different gender elsewhere on the wheel but lean towards one of the others.

There are resources and ways to explore gender and gender orientated therapists. I don’t feel comfortable telling anyone what to do or where to look. Only that those of us attracted to that gender need a better term.

I’m still attracted to men and have sexually been with a woman or two. But attraction is more than how the body leans. Otherwise gender as an identity wouldn’t really exist.

It does, and labels help, and some of have settled on a different more average gender for ourselves but are very interested in door number three.

We exist, they exist. Genderqueer individuals are coming out of the closet. What do we say about those of us are considered a little gay for being pansexual, but really that’s because our minds are set on a direction of attraction we have no particular label for.

What am I like? A ferocious dragon in public, or mischievous pixie if in the right group. Some have thought I’m an angel and… okay. Pixie is better.

But I’m a pussycat in private and don’t meet many who are gentle with my soft center but less so in the bedroom.

Otherwise I am as stated.

Quite a while ago I tried to write an explanation of what suicidal thinking is really like and why some commit suicide young or seem at peace once the plan is made.

It helped my mother cope with a friends experience with her neighbors suicide.

How could one take on such suffering?

How could one suddenly seem at peace a few days before the planned out kind?

How does a young super star take his life when “he had everything going for him.”?

I had tried when I was 17.

I explained that with the young death there may have been pressure he was really too young to endure – at least without someone older to help offer perspective.

Great family, great girlfriend, great grades. Athletic and heading to an Ivy League.

Depression is chemical. You can’t always reason it away and can have everything going for you, be working so hard at everything expected of you, and all it does is mask misery.

From the emotional standpoint he was about to be plucked from a successful familiar life into the great unknown.

Combined they can indeed be lethal.

Death like that is usually what I call a “sudden snap”. Others likely refer to it without really understanding what happens when the pressure breaks and death becomes more inviting than life.

That was what I experienced.

I was depressed, dysphoric however so it was hard to detect from a certain wildness. I had friends over and my best friend at the time was in the next room.

I got off the phone – someone I had met in San Francisco and had a crush on was departing for Alaska to join a lucrative position on a boat- the dangerous kind made popular by TV.

We weren’t involved. We hadn’t even had sex – though we had certainly fooled around. I loved him but I wasn’t Shakespeare in love watching my heart’s desire leaving. (As the movie had it, reality is probably less exciting).

It makes no sense logically.

But I was 17. It was finals week at St Mary’s College. Expectations were high, and my learning disabilities were finally being recognized. I didn’t have a boyfriend – intellect like mine was off putting to male classmates.

But I had life and energy.

And depression.

I snapped. I swallowed pills, lots of them. Enough ritilin to cause a heart attack. I ended up in the hospital. A triage nurse was on the receiving end of a teenage attempt at death and had the unfortunate question, “And why did you take so many?”

I cocked my head to the side. “Why do you think?”

What can I say? I was 17 and it’s an understatement to say I was “in a mood”.

I somehow didn’t end up on a two week hold but I wouldn’t even take tynanol after that.

At least until 2004 when I started treatment for bipolar. I promised to to take meds and never missed a day. I was late once early on because I wasn’t used to regular medication. And that was it.

Even homeless and sleeping in my car I took my meds.

I did everything I was supposed to, ad nasium, pulled back by bullies and gaslighting, harassment and abuse.

I tried fell and again.

July 15th, 2025 I made a very serious attempt at killing myself.

I should be dead.

I saw God. It was all over for me.

But not the surgeon who couldn’t lose another that day.

A week later I woke in in a hospital bed.

I had been depressed and suicidal so long,

When the danger was acute it was ignored. When the desire to give up, the ideation, started May 2023, I warned everyone. Had my meds restricted by my choice. Fought to fight my mood and mind.

A week before my attempt I went into the hospital for a psychiatric emergency.

I fell asleep. I was safe.

I was sent home without an interview with the psychiatrist. I only met her for as she was informing me I was “okay.”

Gee thanks.

Even halfway there 30 pills of 120Xl propanol down? I called 911 and “turned myself in”

But the paramedics were bored and disinterested, and I wasn’t communicating at my best. I sent them away and took 120 pills of 15mg of buspar.

My rescue was a miracle of modern science and cutting edge medical theory. I had tried, I had fought. But one too many people said “no one can live through all that” And I agreed.

I did forgive him. But he knew never to take the desire for death lightly again. I had made a similar mistake of not listening when I was in my twenties. He lived but I cleaned the blood from the bathtub.

So I understood the mistake. But neither of us will ever make it again.

Be careful of your words, the other might not always be alive for you to take them back.

The planned kind? No to far off the sudden peace that fell over me when I was certain I was dying.

“She seemed so happy.”

My mums friend took in the pup of a woman who had suddenly seemed at peace and deliberately drowned in her pool. She put her affairs in order. She left a note. And it was going to be painful but death was alluring and waiting so the numb waiting and preparation seemed like happiness on the surface.

Really be careful. Take every impulse seriously. It’s no always time for the hospital but it’s never the time for cruelty.

You can’t always tell who is about to snap, who was ignored to her death, who is peacefully planning.

Please be more careful with your words.

I understand the exchange in that I’ve wielded words as weapons in defense. But I regret falling to nasty quick wit. I may be funny but death isn’t.