Medication, Aryan Madness, Your Spying Lying WWW

I love klonopin. At least, once again I do, because lately my anxiety has meant taking the pill. I worry of course about the side effects, but say a little prayer of protection because frankly I feel like if I don't something heinous will happen. What we could not say, precisely, but someone told me that antidepressants have been linked to blood disorders down the road. Ah, how scary, how very scary! So, I take this little agent of relaxation with a judicious prudence only rarely glimpsed in the chambers of Parliament when people there aren't screaming at one another at the top of their wee little British lungs. Or something like that; I haven't a clue how the British judicial system really conducts itself, or the workings of Parliament in general, except apparently I am related to someone named Sir Matthew Hail. I may have the spelling wrong; let's hope it's not heil lest I be accused of indiscriminate, horrific activities devoted to the propogation and upward mobility of white people. Ergh, yuck, bluck! How I got from klonopin to the dubious workings of neo-nazi groups is beyond me, but the brain, it doth work in strange ways.
I continue to live, like a good little masochist (ye olde Freud, bugger ye off) in the horrific Chamber of Horrors with the landlady and her Creepy Ye Olde Boyfriend, a man so weird I have dubbed him the Pedophiliac Santa Claus. He looks like one, he smells like one, he probably IS one, and there is little to do except to leave the house when he appears and when he insists on telecasting his activities to me at the top of his voice. "HEY! I'm going to pick up Madame X now at the airport!" Wonderful, sir, and perhaps I was trying to sleep. Yes, that's OK, women are, for some, not human beings in their own rights but simply people to f---, and I think that this dubious gentlemen (and not of the old, proper, gentlemanly school, methinks) sees women as basically being his caretakers, sex partners, and, in general, people who are supposed to ward off his Inner Demons. His Inner Demons also seem to come about in various icky poems that I devoutly hope are never published, and in general this home is so rife with disgusting pathology one really needs some anti-bacterial agent to rub all over one's self after being in said home. Yes, a lovely image, but I have battled in this GodAwfulState (and it is, quite literally, awful) for almost five years as a poor person on disability attempting to secure HOUSING. Yes, remember back in the day when you had a decent place to live? The mind shudders, the heart aches, the body rejoices, and yet those days are gone, gone, and very gone SOME MORE. And so here I am, and it ain't been fun but, as Layne Staley once famously sang, they ain't found a way to kill me yet.
Yavoile, my dear departed heroin addict; how we loved that voice of yours. Ah, back in the day, the 90's, pining for glory, the good old days, days of youth, days of Bill and Hillary, days that shall never come again. Those were, indeed, the days.
In other news the internet apparently is making us SHALLOW (big surprise) and the counterattack/attack/insurgency of pop-ups and inflammatory content being constantly thrown at us (assaulting visual moments that cause, if not outright blindness, certainly some difficult cognitive activity according to this article I read) stinks. Stinks, sucks, blows, whatever you'd like to call it. We can only process so much information, and in fact are somehow changing our PLASTIC brains by becoming passive absorbers of shallow data. We consume, but do not actually analyze, we passively sit and, via technological osmosis, read but do not THINK. We are being overtaken by the government, folks, or so some AGING codger would have you think, the kind who also believes the FBI is speaking to him through his fillings. I wouldn't doubt it; everyone needs one good vast conspiracy. Klonopin is mine, honey; what's yours?
Peace, love, and downloads a-plenty, folks.

Exorcising Old Demons in an Indifferent World

Ever been so tired you wanted to throw up on somebody? Yeah, that's me, too. I feel my life winding down and it's been a sad life...a hard life...a lonely life. Boohoo, you say, cry me a river, cry me another, play me a violin. Maybe I shall, because I have lived for just a little too long with this feeling of helplessness, monstrous shyness, an inability to trust, to reach out, all the by-products of sexual abuse in a society that doesn't seem to care much about anyone. At all. Selfishness, one could say, the modern hallmark of a society that seems to run faster and faster and trample on more and more people. I wish I could feel better about things. I wish I could feel that God really loves me, or that I have people to talk to, or that my entire life is not a bomb waiting to explode, wired to a totally horrific family in which I was the scapegoat and, kaboom, one false move would lead to their entire demise. Somehow, they did to me, and there you have it - it wired my brain to feel as if I am responsible for everything and everyone.
And now, somehow, I don't care anymore. I can't find a place to hang my hat in this state. I can't find a decent life. I have been unable to work. Well-meaning people tell me it will get better. It doesn't get better, and the world gets much worse. Who cares about anyone? Who cares, period? Certainly no one in my family has ever cared for me. And the bad days are so very bad, the sense of aloneness, the indifference of the people around me, the sense that I am alone, rejected, unwanted, unloved, ignored. All of it. That's how I feel, most of the time, and to reach out to another is hard, too, although I've done that mostly with anonymous strangers on crisis lines.
So, today, I set myself free from my perpetrator, whom I have written to to renounce the curse of his cruelty. A car may come next and then, who knows? A job? A move to another state? Something better despite how damned hard it's been even living where I'm living which has triggered my symptoms so badly? I can't take another second of it and yet here I am, writing about it, sure the world will now blow up in my face. I can't walk anymore, take the bus, worry that my perpetrator will die if I tell him the truth and again, as it always was, that it will be ALL MY FAULT. I need a quiet place to write, and to live, and to live without being reminded daily, constantly, hourly it seems, of what happened to me as a child. I need to feel confident and able to support myself once more in a world that, without money, is full of very horrific horrors indeed. I sometimes feel that all of my options are no options at all. That's how I feel. Sometimes my life seems like a sick and brutal joke indeed. Yes, it surely does.
And that's the end of my therapy for today. Forgive me for how self-seeking it has been, but it was a necessary exorcism for my soul.
The end.

Forsooth, I See a Tiger and Lo, It is Laughing

Remember those perfume commercials from years ago when women walked through smoky European streets after using some kind of product made by a Frenchman who likes to talk about "notes" and presumably drives a really nice car? Invariably there would be some black jaguar or spotted cheetah or SOME kind of wild cat lurking in the midst, presumably because if you use really expensive perfume it turns you into a wild, sexual creature as implied by the presence of the wild cat. I think this came to me, as all things inevitably must, as I lay on my bed clutching my teddy bear and staring at the sad remnants of my remaining Chanel No. 5 - ah, Chanel, we hardly knew ye! This perfume is really truly my favorite - and I haved loved perfume ever since my grandmother first taught me how to dab it on my wrists, one of many priceless gifts a grandmother might impart. It's a love affair that started young. The other gifts she imparted were her abhorrence of Vanna White and her love of classy TV dinners - once, in an attempt to buy something cheap, I was assaulted by my grandmother's caustic tongue. I, of course, thought that I was doing her and her limited income a favor, but my grandmother was not shy about drubbing any and all humans in her midst with her various opinions. My father, who was abused by this wonderful misguided woman, would later turn his wrath on me, and hence my many years spent rearranging knicknacks on therapist's couches mentally as they attempted (yet, not very hard, she thinks) to determine what makes me tick. I find therapy useless and the world frightening, particularly in the relentless gentrification slowly bleeding through the land. But what, you ask, in a confused and righteous tone of voice, does this have to do with perfume?
Well, now that I'm poor, I long for nice things, and this bottle is a very nice thing indeed. And I think a lot lately about things like status and power and money and racism and oppression and how it seems to me we are creating a world in which the rich will one day literally walk over the backs of the poor. In fact, it calls to mind something I saw on my telly - a picture of a naked woman covered with fruit at a party for a very wealthy celebrity. The fruit was being eaten by various guests as she lay there, supine, presumably being paid well for her time and trouble but what, I ask you, is the point of this? Other than to show off how rich the owner is and what he might do in the way of humiliating people in this manner? Truly sad, sick, and bizarre, my friends, but the world has come to this, I think, and it will only get worse. Much, much worse.
And yet I still like things - my perfume - and wild cats. And I even loved my grandmother, horrible and kind though she was, all at once (although not horrible to me - but certainly she was to my father, and so the sad cycle of abuse began). I wish for nice things. I wish for a world that is a level playing field all might enjoy nice things in - starting with a liveable wage for all. No racism, no oppression, no have and have nots, no inequality, but a place of opportunity, the place our Founding Fathers, subjugated though they were to the mores of their day, did wish to see flourish.
It's a little bit of contemplation, I guess, to garner from a bottle of perfume. But for some reason it did call to mind this last thought: how can the rich possibly enjoy their luxury unless all can enjoy it with them?
Wild cats in the jungle, roaring, demanding to be heard.
May we all be heard in this world, my friends.

You Thought I Ran Away But I Was Hiding

Ah, to be or not to be, that is the question teeming inside my subconscious mind...or is it unconscious? Evidently and apparently there is some kind of war between these two words! At least, so I read on that oh so helpful website, wikipedia. Wikipedia, coming soon to an Internet near you! I think that wikipedia has written many a shyly sly high school freshman's first term paper, but I could be overreaching with this kind of speculation. At any rate, evidently the weird subconscious is really not a very academic word at all and the word "unconscious" is the preferred word because it has a specific Freudian interpretation. Should be, 'cause that coke-snorting fiend invented it! Ah, me and Sigmund, Daddy issues galore. Perhaps it could have been a match made in heaven, or at least one stretched out on his couch while he took notes and I free-associated while he interrupted me periodically to snort lines off a cracked mirror. Oh, is that your fantasy, too?
Anywho, once I was young, now I am not, and the old mind well, it is still depressed. I have been living (and you thought that this particular blog came streaking in from that fabled afterlife! Admit it, you thought I've been hanging out with that John Edwards guy!) in a house run by a very strange woman whose life is as chaotic as Imelda Marcos' former sock drawer. Admit it, Imelda, you had the shoe thing down, but dropped the ball on the socks!
Anywho, I like living here in the way that some people enjoy root canals or Tom Cruise enjoys being alone. You get my meaning, folks. For awhile renting a room in a complete stranger's house seemed a fun time, but gradually the eerie facade she wore dropped away and I was left with the hallmark of the twenty-first century. e.g., dsyfunction! Lots and lots of it, plus sinks that don't drain, leaking pipes that never get fixed, suicidal boyfriends, snotty sons who never speak to me, dogs that barked so much I finally blew up at her, and of course the little niggling, nasty feeling that I was only loved for my money. Sacrebleu! Could it be? And here I thought, like Kermit the Frog, they loved me just for me. Sigh.
To make a long story short, in this hell state the theme of my life has been this: no fucking housing. The other theme: lots of fucking depression. The third theme: what in hell am I doing with my life? There are little sub themes, themes that only spend the night, and occasionally themes that wake me up early demanding to be exorcised only no exorcist ever seems available, alas and alack! Alack is prettier than alas, but alas is so much more demanding!
So there you have it. I'm really a nut, but in a nice way, the way that a man can't keep his hand out of that little jar of salted peanuts at a bar...what do I mean, exactly? Well, does everything need an explanation, do our rational western minds need to be curried to and fawned over incessantly, people? I thought not! Ah, God bless you.
So, my life's been ticking along. I have no car so walk frequently, and attend an Episcopal church overrun by a lot of elitist types who like to exercise their need for friendly condescension. It's mildly irritating, but human hemmrhoids do exist, folks! Alas and alack (alack, stop scratching that! we'll be there soon!). Just going on with the hemmrhoid theme, really! I write a lot, never date, have a few friends, and continue to struggle with MDD, PTSD, and that one lone space alien who just won't leave me alone. Sigh. It's so hard people, really! Tired of being superwoman. Tired of being a woman. Tired.
That's my story and yes, I am sticking to it! Later, gators.