As you can see from the image, that's me transferring files to my external harddrive. My computer is on its last legs (or battery). I knew this day was coming. I just didn't want it to.
This computer is very special to me. A few years ago, I sent up a facebook fundraiser to purchase a MacBook. And the Facebook fundraiser provided not just a refurbished MacBook, but the one I wanted to purchase when I graduated university.
For those that don't know, when I graduated from university, my mother wouldn't let me leave my bedroom beyond having a boyfriend (in those situations, you literally only attract the worst of the worst). But I had a plan to freelance and work in secret until I had enough money saved to move out (probably in the middle of the night). Unfortunately, my tooth broke (really terrible NHS dentistry, my mother would force me to see a dentist that drilled into healthy teeth before I became an adult, and when I did, my tooth broke). I had to go to the USA to have it repaired. I am still weary of dentists, but no longer need to take diazepam to go to an appointment (not just for the appointment but for the weeks leading up to it).
As I had just graduated, I had thought the American side of my family would finally treat with respect and let me work and dress how I wanted and be a human being (in the USA, children are treated like property, yes, I am aware of how abusive that is). I had proof of what I was doing. But that either wasn't enough, or controlling people don't like letting go. There were even arguments about the operating system I use. OSX being industry-standard. But American boomers and American boomer men apparently know better despite their complete lack of experience or education in the field in which I fucking work. And that's how I started to develop PTSD. I was prevented from working and everything little thing I did or wanted to do, right down to the stuff that makes me, me was an argument. Everything. I saw my life taken away in that trip. It felt like my death warrant had been signed.
I was hoping when I returned home, I'd be able to recover and do what I could on my old G3. But, alas, my mother when someone was weak (despite improvements in our relationship prior to having to go to the USA) attacked and I wasn't allowed to do anything at all (except have a man to 'look after me'). And I was, once again, the dumping ground for her problems and my sister's problems and everyone else's fucking problems.
Recovery never happened. And with the way the UK was set up, right until Theresa May changed the law along with the #metoo movement, people who experienced bad things HAPPENING to them (emphasis on the happening, this was not something I did to myself, it is something that happened to me) were not allowed to take steps to change their lot in life (I still did so, in secret at 5AM). Oh, and during that time, I was somehow meant to be responsible for the behaviour of my son's father. Just like I was expected to be responsible for my mother's behaviour. The son's father was diagnosed as having borderline personality disorder. And my mother likely had c-PTSD. These basically amount to the same thing for the people around them. And both of them had narcissistic traits. Plus, people over here are very mean to those in poverty and will go out of their way to dump on them.
Then the same shit, but different faces when I moved to Liverpool. As I was meant to take responsibility for my son's father, despite not being with him, his first batch of unstable behaviour brought me to the attention of my son's primary school. They made everything worse. In addition to that, at the time, I was still expected to have a boyfriend and couldn't phone the police on creeps without things being made worse and my life being further turned upside down further (I did not want to lose what little I could do to improve my life). As mentioned earlier, you don't attract decent people who treat others with any level of respect in that sort of situation. So, he gave me a bunch of real practical problems I didn't have before which in turn, made my own PTSD worse (and him, or him and his family for round one and him and his so-called friend for round two, decided that they knew more about my situation and frame of mind than me and my doctors, so I wasn't allowed to engage with behaviours that would have helped my mental health, such as working towards my goals and staying away from people I found toxic and destructive).
Well, ten years after graduating, the #metoo movement occurred. And the UK already had laws that were a step in the right direction in place. So, I was free. Finally. I went through Hell to get that degree so I could work and have the life I desired.
But after ten years of this shit (same cycles, different faces and I had no control over my own life, minus waking up at 5AM to take steps in the hour and a half before I had to wake my son up to put my life where I wanted it), I was free but I had nothing except debt and little chance of recovery in any sense (mentally, physically and financially). It took three months to write like how I used to before that ten years of pointlessness and extra abuse (bare in mind, I went to university so I could get away from people like that in the future, because my life up to and including university was like that). And then I wrote a second book before the creeps came along and thought 'ooo single woman and a broken one at that' we're going to bother and harass her. But things were different. Society changed. The law changed. These creeps and their enablers (including people who turn a blindeye) can go get fucked. So the stress of the creeps prevented me from finishing anything else until I started posting daily selfies on my social media (creeps, much like the people from my past, do not like a woman that has confidence in their appearance). And I was able to take steps to recover my mental health and look after myself (even if I still have symptoms, they're managed now, that wasn't allowed in the past).
I managed to get back on track, but to reach my goals, I needed a Mac. Enter a facebook fundraiser and the kindness of the Internet purchased this one.
This poor laptop has gone through so much. In the ten years, I completely lost my art and graphic design skills as well as my soundart skills and what few filming and editing skills I had but I still had my writing skills (those were the least likely to be noticed by those around me). So, while I was working on regaining my lost art skills, I started freelancing in various types of writing until something clicked (my memory is fucked after those ten years). But I have some vague memories of wanting to work in advertising and marketing and picking a degree that wasn't through a business school but would lead to that sort of career. (I do actually have a few business qualifications, but I don't know what level, with my memory being screwed, I know where the certificates are but would need to dig them out to know what level.)
Unfortunately, one of my relatives snapped at me in the public forum that is facebook and I lost the bulk of my freelance clients. Bare in mind, I went through absolute Hell to have a career and live my life. At least I had enough money saved to give my son Christmas that year. But I stupidly thought I'd be able to get more work. By this point, I knew this wonderful laptop that had given me work and helped me start to get my graphic design skills back and had given me my art skills (that and those Prismacolor pencils I bought with one of my early freelancing payments) was on its way out. And I had no means to get a new one. But I carried on.
Once I was nearly evicted (as I said, I wasn't getting enough work) and I explained to the housing association complete with screenshots of my relative's behaviour, they tried to convince me to let them help me. Now, part of what made my PTSD worse was "help" inflicted on me prior to the #metoo movement, which usually resulted in more abuse of every variety (not usually, it did, every single fucking time, I ended up in a worse situation with more abuse of various intensities and more debt). It took them a few tries to convince me and promised that if it was making things worse, I could back out. They must have found a very special employment support officer for me. He was amazing. He was truthful (he had never heard of content marketing before although he did find it interesting when I explain it to him). He said it would probably take at least three months before I saw any work beyond the trickle I was getting in (bare in mind, during the height of my freelancing, I may have been working 16 hour days, but I was pulling in a few hundred pounds per day, which was helping me and my son get to where I wanted us to be - new clothes, healthy food, etc. and a few treats for him, my treats were work related and my glasses, first non-NHS pair since college). The plan was to help me get some freelance clients so I could pay back the debts. And with his involvement and some kind people on facebook, I wasn't evicted. He set me up an account on Indeed and would apply for freelance work for me, but as part of this, I was able to look when I could (single mother and my son was feeling the stress of all of this too, so he needed help managing his emotions - please note, this is acceptable for children and teens who need guidance, this is why you aren't allowed to vote until you're 18, etc., so I didn't have to apply if I didn't have time - this isn't the Job Centre, because he'd do it for me). So I found a job that was local to me and thought it wouldn't hurt to apply, but with my last non-self employed job being during my first year of university and my reputation ruined locally by my ex (he created a fictional version of me), plus as demonstrated by my relative's outburst I will never be allowed to be happy and comfortable. I applied with little hope of getting the job. I didn't even tell the employment support worker until I was invited for an interview (the housing association had grants to help me not look like a train-wreck during it and one of my old hoarding clients gave me a dress). I got the job! It is graduate level but in the field in which I wished to make my career in all those years ago.
But my job is graduate level with graduate level wages. I'm still paying the debt of nearly being evicted. 2020 is a long way in the past when you have a growing teen. I'm still in debt from the ten years prior to the #metoo movement (I did pay off some while freelancing, but worked it back up again upon losing the bulk of my clients). Plus the cost of living crisis, Brexit etc pushing the costs of everything up.
So I'm back to not being able to afford a laptop. When I got this one, I was hoping I'd be able to afford a brand new, latest model MacBook Pro. But I basically had to start employment over again (there's been a lot of starting over when things are taken away and it breaks my body a little more each time).
There's been a lot of tears this week. Although I was able to afford Christmas 2020 (it wasn't the best Christmas, I couldn't get my son the iPad he keeps asking for, but he had presents), I wasn't able to afford Christmas 2021. And my mind keeps returning there (or trying to, I have troubleshooting to manage the symptoms when they're threatening to take control). I felt so alone. My own family doesn't even like me enough to not take their emotional problems out on me (or not drive my mother insane, which anyone that drives someone's mother insane cannot love that person). I'm never going to be allowed that MacBook Pro.
Then there's a bit of a toxic clique operating within indie horror right now. The main ringleader doesn't even seem to like me because I get from her, "why do you get your nails done" etc. followed by "i just wear a sweatshirt" which is the same as the people who wouldn't let me live my life prior to the #metoo movement. Because I want to. There's no point in explaining self care to these people, but I don't get why they want me as part of their clique if they don't even like me. Just like a few of my relatives (not all my family are childish dickheads) and my son's father's relatives (again, most aren't childish dickheads but the few that are ruin it) and my ex's merry band of really fucking toxic associates. I haven't been posting about my nails even though they bring me happiness on social media because of this, so I've been censoring myself for a few months now, which is taking its toll because I thought with all the changes that people who don't behave in a respectful manner and want to pull me into their destruction would leave me alone after these past four years.
I've been saying for probably about 12 months now and thinking since my relative's outburst, that the only way I'm going to not only have the life I want but any life at all is if I disappear (then I can have the latest MacBook Pro purchased with money I earned). But, in order to do that, I need a MacBook of some variety to work and earn extra income. Plus, although my art and graphic design skills improved, they aren't where they need to be to get freelance work. I don't want to lose what skills I've regained. And I just really thought I'd have the money to buy a MacBook (not the latest) for myself at this point.
I keep trying to focus on the positives. I was able to back up my files without my ex saying how negative I was being and demanding I do something destructive instead because he needed a temporary boost). Backing up my files because I know my laptop is breaking is being positive. It is taking action to prevent destroying my life (losing my files would do so, I'd lose all my writing, including unpublished things and stuff ready to be re-issued). Maybe social media will provide me with another MacBook. It won't be as special as this one, but it'll still be special because it'll help me continue in the direction I'm going in. If they don't, I'm still on tax credits so I will be getting that second cost of living payment which I can spend on a refurbished MacBook (I did buy my son's main Christmas present with the first one, so he's at least getting something this year, even if it is just the one thing and we have to cut back on Christmas dinner).
Someone on facebook showed me how to mute messages. So I won't have to deal with the clique who really are like all these people from my past (and maybe after my next salon appointment, I'll be brave and post, I did post a little picture of my last manicure). So I'm not on edge about that. So that can't trigger me anymore.
I can still get done some of what I intended on getting done. (I'll post about that next.) I'm going to be meeting other horror people in a few weeks which I'm super excited about. I have a salon appointment in a few weeks. Apart from the aforementioned toxic people, no one is trying to get me to self-destruct because they want attention, which is apparently more important than me and my son's actual needs to not destruct (as I said, I had years of dealing with people like this, it was at its worst in Liverpool).
And I'm trying so hard, but last Christmas (which was horrible, I tried my best, but I could tell my son was really disappointed) and the toxic people are there in the shadows. Thankfully, this time around, the toxic people are only online. It isn't in person. Although these people seem to think that no one has a life outside of social media and horror. I know if the internet doesn't buy me a refurbished laptop, I'll have one before December and I keep telling this to myself. And that because after the #metoo movement, I didn't have people around me trying to force me to fight the PTSD while giving me more stress, that I can accept that I have it and can manage it with selfcare. But this is hard. This laptop means so much to me. It gave me back my life even if it can't give me back my ten years.
And I keep trying to focus on the future, when I'm living in an undisclosed location under a different identity. I keep thinking that when the time comes, there will be a way I can remain in touch with my friends. And how I'm going to unpack the latest desktop Mac and set it up with multiple monitors in the middle of a bunch of analogue equipment.
If you did want to buy me a refurbished MacBook I have put together this amazon wishlist. I only need one but when you buy refurbished, they go out of stock quickly.
I'm sorry this was so long. This MacBook just really means so much to me and then with the toxic people that don't even like me, I'm on edge. At least today is house cleaning day, so I haven't missed any writing time (or art, I can't do it digitally right now, but I still have my Prismacolors). I'll put up a list of what I can realistically accomplish while I'm Mac-less.
This computer is very special to me. A few years ago, I sent up a facebook fundraiser to purchase a MacBook. And the Facebook fundraiser provided not just a refurbished MacBook, but the one I wanted to purchase when I graduated university.
For those that don't know, when I graduated from university, my mother wouldn't let me leave my bedroom beyond having a boyfriend (in those situations, you literally only attract the worst of the worst). But I had a plan to freelance and work in secret until I had enough money saved to move out (probably in the middle of the night). Unfortunately, my tooth broke (really terrible NHS dentistry, my mother would force me to see a dentist that drilled into healthy teeth before I became an adult, and when I did, my tooth broke). I had to go to the USA to have it repaired. I am still weary of dentists, but no longer need to take diazepam to go to an appointment (not just for the appointment but for the weeks leading up to it).
As I had just graduated, I had thought the American side of my family would finally treat with respect and let me work and dress how I wanted and be a human being (in the USA, children are treated like property, yes, I am aware of how abusive that is). I had proof of what I was doing. But that either wasn't enough, or controlling people don't like letting go. There were even arguments about the operating system I use. OSX being industry-standard. But American boomers and American boomer men apparently know better despite their complete lack of experience or education in the field in which I fucking work. And that's how I started to develop PTSD. I was prevented from working and everything little thing I did or wanted to do, right down to the stuff that makes me, me was an argument. Everything. I saw my life taken away in that trip. It felt like my death warrant had been signed.
I was hoping when I returned home, I'd be able to recover and do what I could on my old G3. But, alas, my mother when someone was weak (despite improvements in our relationship prior to having to go to the USA) attacked and I wasn't allowed to do anything at all (except have a man to 'look after me'). And I was, once again, the dumping ground for her problems and my sister's problems and everyone else's fucking problems.
Recovery never happened. And with the way the UK was set up, right until Theresa May changed the law along with the #metoo movement, people who experienced bad things HAPPENING to them (emphasis on the happening, this was not something I did to myself, it is something that happened to me) were not allowed to take steps to change their lot in life (I still did so, in secret at 5AM). Oh, and during that time, I was somehow meant to be responsible for the behaviour of my son's father. Just like I was expected to be responsible for my mother's behaviour. The son's father was diagnosed as having borderline personality disorder. And my mother likely had c-PTSD. These basically amount to the same thing for the people around them. And both of them had narcissistic traits. Plus, people over here are very mean to those in poverty and will go out of their way to dump on them.
Then the same shit, but different faces when I moved to Liverpool. As I was meant to take responsibility for my son's father, despite not being with him, his first batch of unstable behaviour brought me to the attention of my son's primary school. They made everything worse. In addition to that, at the time, I was still expected to have a boyfriend and couldn't phone the police on creeps without things being made worse and my life being further turned upside down further (I did not want to lose what little I could do to improve my life). As mentioned earlier, you don't attract decent people who treat others with any level of respect in that sort of situation. So, he gave me a bunch of real practical problems I didn't have before which in turn, made my own PTSD worse (and him, or him and his family for round one and him and his so-called friend for round two, decided that they knew more about my situation and frame of mind than me and my doctors, so I wasn't allowed to engage with behaviours that would have helped my mental health, such as working towards my goals and staying away from people I found toxic and destructive).
Well, ten years after graduating, the #metoo movement occurred. And the UK already had laws that were a step in the right direction in place. So, I was free. Finally. I went through Hell to get that degree so I could work and have the life I desired.
But after ten years of this shit (same cycles, different faces and I had no control over my own life, minus waking up at 5AM to take steps in the hour and a half before I had to wake my son up to put my life where I wanted it), I was free but I had nothing except debt and little chance of recovery in any sense (mentally, physically and financially). It took three months to write like how I used to before that ten years of pointlessness and extra abuse (bare in mind, I went to university so I could get away from people like that in the future, because my life up to and including university was like that). And then I wrote a second book before the creeps came along and thought 'ooo single woman and a broken one at that' we're going to bother and harass her. But things were different. Society changed. The law changed. These creeps and their enablers (including people who turn a blindeye) can go get fucked. So the stress of the creeps prevented me from finishing anything else until I started posting daily selfies on my social media (creeps, much like the people from my past, do not like a woman that has confidence in their appearance). And I was able to take steps to recover my mental health and look after myself (even if I still have symptoms, they're managed now, that wasn't allowed in the past).
I managed to get back on track, but to reach my goals, I needed a Mac. Enter a facebook fundraiser and the kindness of the Internet purchased this one.
This poor laptop has gone through so much. In the ten years, I completely lost my art and graphic design skills as well as my soundart skills and what few filming and editing skills I had but I still had my writing skills (those were the least likely to be noticed by those around me). So, while I was working on regaining my lost art skills, I started freelancing in various types of writing until something clicked (my memory is fucked after those ten years). But I have some vague memories of wanting to work in advertising and marketing and picking a degree that wasn't through a business school but would lead to that sort of career. (I do actually have a few business qualifications, but I don't know what level, with my memory being screwed, I know where the certificates are but would need to dig them out to know what level.)
Unfortunately, one of my relatives snapped at me in the public forum that is facebook and I lost the bulk of my freelance clients. Bare in mind, I went through absolute Hell to have a career and live my life. At least I had enough money saved to give my son Christmas that year. But I stupidly thought I'd be able to get more work. By this point, I knew this wonderful laptop that had given me work and helped me start to get my graphic design skills back and had given me my art skills (that and those Prismacolor pencils I bought with one of my early freelancing payments) was on its way out. And I had no means to get a new one. But I carried on.
Once I was nearly evicted (as I said, I wasn't getting enough work) and I explained to the housing association complete with screenshots of my relative's behaviour, they tried to convince me to let them help me. Now, part of what made my PTSD worse was "help" inflicted on me prior to the #metoo movement, which usually resulted in more abuse of every variety (not usually, it did, every single fucking time, I ended up in a worse situation with more abuse of various intensities and more debt). It took them a few tries to convince me and promised that if it was making things worse, I could back out. They must have found a very special employment support officer for me. He was amazing. He was truthful (he had never heard of content marketing before although he did find it interesting when I explain it to him). He said it would probably take at least three months before I saw any work beyond the trickle I was getting in (bare in mind, during the height of my freelancing, I may have been working 16 hour days, but I was pulling in a few hundred pounds per day, which was helping me and my son get to where I wanted us to be - new clothes, healthy food, etc. and a few treats for him, my treats were work related and my glasses, first non-NHS pair since college). The plan was to help me get some freelance clients so I could pay back the debts. And with his involvement and some kind people on facebook, I wasn't evicted. He set me up an account on Indeed and would apply for freelance work for me, but as part of this, I was able to look when I could (single mother and my son was feeling the stress of all of this too, so he needed help managing his emotions - please note, this is acceptable for children and teens who need guidance, this is why you aren't allowed to vote until you're 18, etc., so I didn't have to apply if I didn't have time - this isn't the Job Centre, because he'd do it for me). So I found a job that was local to me and thought it wouldn't hurt to apply, but with my last non-self employed job being during my first year of university and my reputation ruined locally by my ex (he created a fictional version of me), plus as demonstrated by my relative's outburst I will never be allowed to be happy and comfortable. I applied with little hope of getting the job. I didn't even tell the employment support worker until I was invited for an interview (the housing association had grants to help me not look like a train-wreck during it and one of my old hoarding clients gave me a dress). I got the job! It is graduate level but in the field in which I wished to make my career in all those years ago.
But my job is graduate level with graduate level wages. I'm still paying the debt of nearly being evicted. 2020 is a long way in the past when you have a growing teen. I'm still in debt from the ten years prior to the #metoo movement (I did pay off some while freelancing, but worked it back up again upon losing the bulk of my clients). Plus the cost of living crisis, Brexit etc pushing the costs of everything up.
So I'm back to not being able to afford a laptop. When I got this one, I was hoping I'd be able to afford a brand new, latest model MacBook Pro. But I basically had to start employment over again (there's been a lot of starting over when things are taken away and it breaks my body a little more each time).
There's been a lot of tears this week. Although I was able to afford Christmas 2020 (it wasn't the best Christmas, I couldn't get my son the iPad he keeps asking for, but he had presents), I wasn't able to afford Christmas 2021. And my mind keeps returning there (or trying to, I have troubleshooting to manage the symptoms when they're threatening to take control). I felt so alone. My own family doesn't even like me enough to not take their emotional problems out on me (or not drive my mother insane, which anyone that drives someone's mother insane cannot love that person). I'm never going to be allowed that MacBook Pro.
Then there's a bit of a toxic clique operating within indie horror right now. The main ringleader doesn't even seem to like me because I get from her, "why do you get your nails done" etc. followed by "i just wear a sweatshirt" which is the same as the people who wouldn't let me live my life prior to the #metoo movement. Because I want to. There's no point in explaining self care to these people, but I don't get why they want me as part of their clique if they don't even like me. Just like a few of my relatives (not all my family are childish dickheads) and my son's father's relatives (again, most aren't childish dickheads but the few that are ruin it) and my ex's merry band of really fucking toxic associates. I haven't been posting about my nails even though they bring me happiness on social media because of this, so I've been censoring myself for a few months now, which is taking its toll because I thought with all the changes that people who don't behave in a respectful manner and want to pull me into their destruction would leave me alone after these past four years.
I've been saying for probably about 12 months now and thinking since my relative's outburst, that the only way I'm going to not only have the life I want but any life at all is if I disappear (then I can have the latest MacBook Pro purchased with money I earned). But, in order to do that, I need a MacBook of some variety to work and earn extra income. Plus, although my art and graphic design skills improved, they aren't where they need to be to get freelance work. I don't want to lose what skills I've regained. And I just really thought I'd have the money to buy a MacBook (not the latest) for myself at this point.
I keep trying to focus on the positives. I was able to back up my files without my ex saying how negative I was being and demanding I do something destructive instead because he needed a temporary boost). Backing up my files because I know my laptop is breaking is being positive. It is taking action to prevent destroying my life (losing my files would do so, I'd lose all my writing, including unpublished things and stuff ready to be re-issued). Maybe social media will provide me with another MacBook. It won't be as special as this one, but it'll still be special because it'll help me continue in the direction I'm going in. If they don't, I'm still on tax credits so I will be getting that second cost of living payment which I can spend on a refurbished MacBook (I did buy my son's main Christmas present with the first one, so he's at least getting something this year, even if it is just the one thing and we have to cut back on Christmas dinner).
Someone on facebook showed me how to mute messages. So I won't have to deal with the clique who really are like all these people from my past (and maybe after my next salon appointment, I'll be brave and post, I did post a little picture of my last manicure). So I'm not on edge about that. So that can't trigger me anymore.
I can still get done some of what I intended on getting done. (I'll post about that next.) I'm going to be meeting other horror people in a few weeks which I'm super excited about. I have a salon appointment in a few weeks. Apart from the aforementioned toxic people, no one is trying to get me to self-destruct because they want attention, which is apparently more important than me and my son's actual needs to not destruct (as I said, I had years of dealing with people like this, it was at its worst in Liverpool).
And I'm trying so hard, but last Christmas (which was horrible, I tried my best, but I could tell my son was really disappointed) and the toxic people are there in the shadows. Thankfully, this time around, the toxic people are only online. It isn't in person. Although these people seem to think that no one has a life outside of social media and horror. I know if the internet doesn't buy me a refurbished laptop, I'll have one before December and I keep telling this to myself. And that because after the #metoo movement, I didn't have people around me trying to force me to fight the PTSD while giving me more stress, that I can accept that I have it and can manage it with selfcare. But this is hard. This laptop means so much to me. It gave me back my life even if it can't give me back my ten years.
And I keep trying to focus on the future, when I'm living in an undisclosed location under a different identity. I keep thinking that when the time comes, there will be a way I can remain in touch with my friends. And how I'm going to unpack the latest desktop Mac and set it up with multiple monitors in the middle of a bunch of analogue equipment.
If you did want to buy me a refurbished MacBook I have put together this amazon wishlist. I only need one but when you buy refurbished, they go out of stock quickly.
I'm sorry this was so long. This MacBook just really means so much to me and then with the toxic people that don't even like me, I'm on edge. At least today is house cleaning day, so I haven't missed any writing time (or art, I can't do it digitally right now, but I still have my Prismacolors). I'll put up a list of what I can realistically accomplish while I'm Mac-less.