Moving to Oregon, Curly Hair Gone Straight

It took me a few months to figure it out, but since I moved here 5 months ago, my hair has gone from crazy curly to straight.
I don't know if it's the weather or location but my hair has definitely gone whackadoodle.
I posted on facebook and a few friends responded that the same thing happened to them when they moved or visited the Pacific coast.
I'm not dismayed, per se...I just don't know what to do with my hair these days. I'm not into high or even mid maintenance so no new products or treatments.
My best recourse is to wear hats and not worry about it.
It is what it is. No big deal, just weirdy. I've never seen myself with straight hair before.

Junction City, Oregon

Junction City is the only other Oregon city, thus far, that I have found to have the same clean, relaxed feel that Corvallis has.
I ventured to Salem again today. It constantly feels rushed and dirty. I'm so glad I wasn't inclined to pick that city to live in.
As I travel more, once Spring rolls around the corner, I will be interested to see if any other cities have a good feel to them.

Yeah

No one ever dies "before their time"

There is no such thing. It's just one of those stupid ass things people say in the throes of grief. Admit it, when someone dies it is intrinsically their time.
I will never unwelcome death. Hell, I've got a personal story that probably traumatizes each person that hears or reads it. For the girl that never wanted to reveal the details, and took 20 years to discover what exactly they were...to what end? This time line, story, the details alllll are the messed up experiences that have impacted and created who I am today....and I can't even tell my own fucking story because it's pure grotesque and hideousness makes people slam the book, avoid the page and close their ears, minds and hearts because it is so fucking painful.
It's like sitting around with an arrow in my chest...pull it out and I die...leave it in and I die a slow, gruesome death having never been heard. It feels like such a no-win clusterfuck.
I've walked around, head down, arms crossed in the mean, unforgiving streets of internal madness only to find the doors out, the open windows, when I could be heard, as I'm willing to tell my truths...it just hurts people.
God, I'm fucking Frankenstein's monster, still trapped deeply within myself as the outlets are barred and blocked. God, yes, there are dozens of disgusting, hideous reasons why my mind fractured. It is so clear....yet, there is no way out of this stinking, fetid, knee-deep pool of life sucking muck...and no one can get past the stench to pull me out by my outstretched hand.
Do you see?...there is no way out. Double-bind. Twice beaten. Heavy whipped. Castigated. Trapped within my own torture inflicted by others.
I was always innocent....never did anything to deserve this plate of massacred memories.
There is no applause, no reward, for each and every day that I have screwed my head on, put on an extra overcoat, strapped on climbing boots, threw opened the door and stumbled into the turbulent storm that forever howls on the outside.
I carry around this pain in fifty pound sacks of bloody nail and beaten barbed wire clutched closely to my chest because it's all me, all I've ever had and no one's ever given a shit or, I don't even think anyone's capable of getting close enough to me without getting burned or wounded or losing their fucking mind. Easy to see why I lost mine. God, Fuck, so easy to see how they destroyed me so thoroughly and viciously.
And maybe someone wonders why I am so sad, angry and despondent when all they have to do is be there to listen but they can't.
This shit, these fucked up series of dozens of highly disturbing incidents wounds even the strongest of caring listeners.
I feel, yet cannot share.
Surely, I shall die alone
And no one will never know the whole story.

The scope of prostitution grows

Ah, but the incidents in the neighbors basement, where my father attanged for the men to "visit" has grown. It was not the only occasion where men paid to see me naked and performing.
The new memories so hard to fathom yet the visual flashback so clear that I cannot wish them away as dreams.
The vivid yellow 2 story motel where my father made phone calls and men knocked on the door. The bargaining which took place, the description of prices and acts and me, all of 10 and 11, being photographed. A black and white picture of me that I cannot erase from memory. The hotel room bed, the phone by which dad called soliciting. The knocks at the door. The men wanting photos of their own and more. Making money for groceries so my siblings could eat in the leanest of times. How mom never questioned where the money came from. My dad's lies that it was from kind relatives. No credit for me.
Degrading as I lay naked on the hotel bed performing tasks for foreign cameras or worse, acts of excitement as my father sat in the bathroom monitoring, callously the transactions.
It still seems so blessed unreal and far away yet the vividness counters my denial, messes with my mind and devalues my worth as human.
I was but a child of 10 and 11 as I made money for my family because dad couldn't find a job.
In therapy, 11 felt so strange in clothes, asking therapist if she had given the clothes to her. Some parts of me spent most of their time naked with hands in proactive positions, performing, a puppet being pulled by visible strings and a well trained pimp.
The feelings surrounding are like wagons circling a bonfire with hostile reality trying to weasel in.
I don't know if or when I'll be able to acknowledge and accept these acts as my own or of someone living within me. I wish I could categorically deny it but the pictures, the memory film procludes that.
My therapist is handling the extreme switching and disturbing memories well. Methinks she be another gift from the universe, from God, via the heavens as she doesn't flinch as painful memories are surfaced, spoken and delved.
My emotions regarding this long string of events continues to be stymied and fogged, unable to grasp the gravity of what it feels like for a father to repeatedly, actively prostitute his own daughter.
I sleep rarely, fitfully and with great consternation.
What shall happen to my heart and mind once I integrate, process these experiences.
Oh how it gets worse, the growing litany of egregious actions perpetrated on the children within.
Truth is continually leaking out and I don't know how to handle this foreign, egregious recent twist.

Therapy, a confusing mess

Today resembled last week's session. At the end of the hour and for the rest of the day, therapy doesn't make any sense. It looks like a gowpen sized, messy, oscillating ball of rubber bands. I feel confused as to whether anything useful was accomplished or if we just wasted our and therapist's time.
I'm guessing that, just like last week, each day will bring some sort of clarity so that, by next week's appointment I'll see the usefulness of the bits of information.
I guess I'm kinda like a snowglobe....therapy shakes everything up and it takes a few days to settle.
Yep, just talking to myself again.
Scary thing is...the flashbacks are getting clearer and messing more with reality, kinda. The visual clarity is more then I've experienced before. This sucks. Naw, it's just different and with an increase in awareness.
Not making as much sense as I would like today. Oh, well.

Sign Flyers...Aspie Hell...Unpredictable Variables

One of the new things I've encountered here in Oregon, is the large volume of "sign flyers." In Michigan we called them homeless or, worse yet, beggars. They are men, women, young and old that sit or stand at popular entrances to stores and shops.
Almost everyone carries a sign: "Anything will help", "Spare change", "Dying of cancer", "Hungry Need Food", or something similar. The same individuals occupy the same spots, for the most part.
The Post Office has two entrances. It's the most popular sign flying space in town as both entrances are usually covered.
I'm far from prejudice or judgemental but I'm having anxiety navigating through the sign flyers. Each and every individual is an unknown variable in my autistic world, thus they scare me and I try and avoid. I never know if someone will speak to me, ask a question, offer small talk or let me pass wordlessly on my way.
I've changed plans a number of times, to avoid possible conversations, altercations, or discomfort. There is no way to fix my anxiety except by avoidance.
I'm a really good recluse and I have damn good reasons.
Strangers make me nervous, especially strangers at doorways. Unpredictable variables, sigh.