Complex PTSD is a funny thing. A dissociation hole in particular is a funny thing. A remarkably funny thing, even. Or it isn’t. About as funny as violent incel misogyny or smear tactics, maybe. Or psychological damage.
Are we actually allowed to talk about psychological damage, or is that manchild attention-seeking?
Well yeah, you know what’s funny: I’m going out of my way to draw attention to what Complex PTSD does A to your libido and B to your nervous system. Bending over backwards to confirm what everyone knows: oh you’re fucked up, thanks for all the effort you’re going to with whatever the shit this half-baked hoofwank is, Captain Obvious. Just as long as you feel like you’re using your time on the planet wisely. I’m going out of my way to draw attention to feeling fucking frozen and numb, and so locked in that hole I can’t relax.
It beats the shit out of me where incel comes from out of frigid, if you want to know the honest truth. Once you get to about last base (or whatever) and things go haywire because you’re fucked up about being touched, it gets easier every time to give up on yourself, and eventually you do. Apparently being in a dissociation hole with attachment disorder chaser means you nurse a grudge against women because you’re not getting sexual opportunities because you couldn’t be better placed for emotional and physical intimacy in the first place.
Who would choose a dissociation hole? Why would you do that?
The mindless conformity and craven codependence of ability supremacists is a theatre of the absurd that keeps on giving. Anyone who says otherwise is a liar.
You do start to feel like, my love would freeze you, though. You start to feel like, I can’t even love myself. Why am I going to waste anyone else’s time acting like I’m going to be able to show up for them.
You still have to laugh. The facts of the matter are these: I have long dreamed of this moment, when I could share such embarrassing details about myself publicly, where anyone anywhere on the planet could read it, and would know that this moment was indelibly associated with yours truly. I know people think I don’t wear a red face every day of my life at my shit, but they don’t know the half and I mean to accelerate the process into overdrive stat. You know what has gotten me to sleep all these years? Everyone everywhere thinks they know some shit about me, but one day they will know my deepest darkest secret. And haven’t I slept like the dead knowing the day for this sort of attention would one day arrive.
Women at their best are enchanting, breathtaking, spellbinding, captivating, empowering and inspiring you to be your best self. What’s not to love. Confusing dissociation with anything else is hurtful at best, and calculated, punitive, sadistic cruelty otherwise. A dissociation hole means being locked out of your senses, like being locked out of the house, but just frozen. For most of your adult life. And knowing you’re fated to disappoint, at least until you get that wacky dissociation hole problemo sorted out, even halfway. Maybe.
Yeah sorry it’s such a freakshow and all, at any rate. What sort of jumped-up bag of dicks Elliot Roger wannabe would choose that? Can’t you think of any better way of drawing attention to yourself? Why don’t you do something positive?
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