It’s basically like emotionally-charged needles are sticking into every nerve ending in my body, making me feel hurt, angry, depressed, defeated, abandoned, betrayed, and alone. It makes me feel like I can’t do anything but focus and fixate on the pain I’m dealing with, or doing destructive (not of the scale or type that I did in my youth, and not physically destructive to me, but still destructive; compulsive spending has been my weapon of choice in recent years) things to try and blot it out somehow. Yet, I know that if I get it to go away or lessen before I put as much of this feeling into words as I can, I’ll be betraying myself alongside the betrayal I’m experiencing from the people who I’ve put in charge of my care, so I have to just write as much as I can about it, while it’s here, hang onto it, try to externalize it, and hope that someone with a conscience and a soul gets to read it and decides to show some decency and compassion in the situation I’m in with them.

I fucking HATE that I even have to look for that from a person or an organization that I feel so thoroughly fucked over by right now, being a sometimes-too-proud person, one for whom trust is in short supply, and one who does like to stand up for what’s right and against what’s wrong when I recognize things as being such, but this is the way things are right now. I have 6 weeks until my currently scheduled day in court, one that will determine the course of at least my next few years, if not the rest of my life, and these people are trying to make me go away for reasons that still hold absolutely no water, ring as inauthentic, and seem to lack even the most basic compassion. Not to mention the “Hey, fuck them” I feel for putting me in a situation where someone else who exhibited very poor judgment in a great many situations that affected both them and myself may read this and get to feel even the slightest bit of “I was right” smugness. The person in question wasn’t right as it applies to this, and my even caring about what they think about this situation in the first place is still only stupid pride and a vague interest in that someone not having any more deluded ideas about The Way Things Were, but hey, fuck these people for giving me even a second of that distraction and possibly screwing the other person up further as well, when I have so many much more important things to think about.

It’s been said that being able to communicate brings us closer together and is one of our (or at least my) greatest strengths. Normally I’m inclined to degree, but in situations where my life and my personal survival truly depends on it, my ability to communicate these thoughts and feelings clearly and the least bit eloquently just seems to make the people I’m communicating them to think that “if I’m OK enough to say all of this rather than just fucking drooling on myself and illiterately begging for mercy, I must be “OK” in general”. Either that, or they just plain don’t give a shit, or aren’t paid enough or unafraid enough to stand up to the people who give less of a shit than they do. Either way, I’m mad as hell at a world that deals with things this way, and I can’t help but be mad at myself sometimes for having so much of that “potential” that I’ve heard about having for my entire fucking life, the stuff that makes certain people doubt that I could ever be weak or incapable or anything short of brilliant, to sound immodest for a moment, when the reality is that I’m a few weeks shy of 37 years old, still suffering from serious mental, emotional, and probably neurological issues that have plagued me my entire life (documented back as far as early childhood), unable to really take care of or provide for myself in a lot of the ways that count, show up for things on any kind of a sustainable basis, unable to trust, unable to forge lasting friendships and relationships with people without serious difficulty, and most of the time, unable to speak one one-hundredth of the words I’ve just spoken about my difficulties out loud in any attempt to convey the weight and severity of my issues when asked. Sometimes, I’m too riddled with anxiety to speak to people at all, even if I have no reason to fear anything from them. I was too terrified to talk to Jane fucking Wiedlin a few weeks ago without severe prodding and a few attempts, and I have at least one witness to this. It sure as hell isn’t pretty, and when I talk like this, it guts me to, because it’s never easy to be candid about this much weakness for anyone, I don’t think, but does this even begin to illustrate just how totally, royally and completely fucked I am? I hope it does.

I still feel those needles after typing this. I don’t know what I’m going to do about that. Do I dull them with what I’ve been legally prescribed and responsibly dulling them with over the past few years? Do I leave them there? Will I be able to get any sleep in the next 16 hours or so before I have what may be my final discussion with the people entrusted with my care about these things either way, and what shape will I show up in there if I do or don’t sleep? When I hand them a print-out of this post, as well as print-outs of several other things I’ve posted or written about in recent weeks, will any of it make any fucking difference to my situation, regardless of what shape I show up in?

This entry was posted on Monday, May 30th, 2011 at 11:50 am and is filed under Man, fuck those guys., My Big, Black Cock.. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.