Grief is a strange thing, especially when you don't know what to believe. I've lost another friend. I have memories of her and the friend who found her body coming to me years ago to describe the circumstances of her mysterious death. I've also had other people who never met her tell me "Don't believe that your handler can bring her back to life like she's done with others. This friend really is dead."
It's the same as with anyone else I've lost under suspicious circumstances. Their absence is grief-worthy anyways. I still have to live as if they're dead and process the emotions of those around me who believe it, including those of the part of me that isn't sure.
The past week was really rough for the first few days. More pieces of our clandestine conversation came back. I remember her telling me she had a morbid sense of humor and that I should tell myself "I'm glad that beotch is dead!" and take myself to the gym for a workout. I started to feel better Thursday through Saturday...well, actually I guess I started to go downhill again on Saturday and today, Sunday, I'm a crying mess again.
Jen would probably tell me that I'm upset about a lot more than her "passing" and she'd be right. She's like a catalyst and also a symbol of the extremely unbelievable amount of hell and BS that we've all been put through. I am trying to drag myself to an undefined finish line and don't know if I'm going to make it.
Another level of strangeness...before I was conscious again of color programming as described by people like Svali, Jen had talked to me about it. She said I needed to turn "blue" back to what it's supposed to represent: sadness. Blue has always had a lot of meanings to me as it does to every other English speaker. It's the color of the sky. It's the color of water in the Caribbean as you fly in for an exciting vacation. In the West, it's typically the gendered color associated with the masculine.
In the world of my handlers, however, blue was for pedophiles who prevent people like me from transitioning, living, thriving, generally having a life. It's the color of their arrogance and ice cold attitudes towards normal human needs. If they were here now it would be the color their lips and face would be turning as I squeezed the last of their haggard old lives out of them, Darth Vader style.
Other survivors have said "You can't be this mad or want to lash out at them, it just hurts you." True enough until you are left resource-less and put through a reprogramming designed to target you and twist every trauma memory you ever thought you'd processed into a new source of pain. It's not just the past it's how all of it is being used to impact my present, and it's not all in my mind. I've experienced actual physical attacks on real property. I live daily around the silence of people who should be speaking up. I'm forced to go along as if anything wrong with me must come from some other source.
I'm not a fan of asking for help from anyone required to pretend that my issues are a character flaw and not the result of their participation in harming me and their cowardice and refusal to contact this really great group of folks called the FBI. I've survived this long by telling myself maybe it's more complicated that I'm allowed to know. I went to the FBI myself a few years ago as well as local police. Giving them the names of actual federal agents involved wasn't enough for them. To make matters worse, the gatekeeper at the Dallas FBI was a man I recognized from my past. I first met him when I was 16 and told I'd have to "get past Snoopy over here first".
So, what do I do? Nothing. I grieve. And pray I make it to the finish line.
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