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.