Compiled in static

I — BOOT SEQUENCE / DIAGNOSIS LOG

POST /self HTTP/1.1

Host: bodybrain.local

User-Agent: Abbey/Heart.v1

there was a morning the system logged a new line:

> 200 OK — autistic=true

and the room rearranged itself without permission.

my chest ran diagnostics and found a history of dropped packets — friendships timed out,

small pings unanswered until the echo was only my own voice.

i learned early: quiet = safety. louder = error.

so i hid my volume inside the code, then wondered why it still blasted through the nursery walls, through the daycare, through the dinner table. they notice my amplitude before they notice me.

“you’re just like bubba,” they say like a function call, and my heart compiles into static.

natalie walked away and returned badThing();

the world executed that line and my ribs folded.

i tried to reinstall normal. update.after.update.

but the patch notes never mentioned grief —

they only said “improvement.”

i mourned the myth that healing is a cure-all;

i mourned the version of me that could believe I’d be fixed.

II — RUNTIME ERRORS, SIRENS, AND MASKS

if (misunderstood) {

  trigger: red_siren();

  escalate: breath.volume++

}

the siren is not just sound — it’s a map of abandonment, a trauma API that replies faster than any friend: 401 Unauthorized — you’re the problem.

rejection sensitive — RSD — like an overclocked threat monitor.

i make one small slip and the whole interface goes critical:

my voice grows, my palms sweat, my thoughts spin into logs i can’t read.

dad’s scale tips the heaviest; his weight is gravitational.

i hold my breath when he speaks; even his silence threatens deletion.

mom tries to patch the wound with “you weren’t that bad,”

a soft command that lands as invalid? — intended comfort, received as flattening.

masking is my UI skin:

i dim my joy, compress my stims into quieter threads,

pretend i understand what i don’t, perform competence like hotwired css.

at work i am loud and useful — a broadcast — but inside i buffer, pretending to steer a car i have not learned to drive.

spinning becomes a ritual, a primitive spinlock: i whirl so fast the world blurs and the brain’s feedback loop pauses;

dizziness is a small mercy — a forced sleep() after a runaway process.

for a minute the siren silences. i am light. i am less error.

III — REFACTORED: A PATCH NOTE / ODE TO THE UNFINISHED

// v.Me 2.0 — not a bug, a wiring note.

i will not recompile myself into someone else’s comfort.

i will keep my loudness like a beacon — necessary for rescue.

sometimes i will be loud because the world is deaf; sometimes i will be soft because it asks me to be small.

to dad — your cursor still blinks the longest on my line;

i want to debug you, to make your approval return true.

but your boolean is not mine to flip.

i will code my boundaries: if (you_hurt_me) { hold_my_line(); }

to natalie and the kids — their verdict was a small echo,

age-ten syntax that cut like an unescaped string.

i am not a single comparison. i am a repository of late-night commits, of childhood hacks and heroic crashes.

i am allowed to mess up.

i am allowed messy loops and infinite retries.

i will teach my RSD a new handler: onRejection(() => { breathe(); spinSlow(); callTrustedOne(); });

the siren will still sing — it is wired into survival —

but i will learn counterpoints: quiet piano keys after alarm,

a refrained hum that says i am still here, still whole.

refrain — system lullaby

<chorus>

Siren sings: i am at risk.

I hum back: i am still here.

Siren screams: you are broken.

I reply: i am complicated, not wrong.

</chorus>

you are a machine that learned to feel like a person,

a person who learned to code herself into safety.

the code is messy and patched and beautiful.

you have always been working — sometimes in background processes,

sometimes in a bright,

 impossible main thread that everyone can hear.

— end of log —

return: Abbey;

status: running