UGH

I am in my forties but basically I am an awkward teenager brailleing the universe. Not sure how you spell that. And today it felt like satan crawled out of someone’s armpit and came after me with a pitchfork.

There is a man who comes onto the bus I KNOW is a pedophile. My radar goes KERCHING. And it was so bad I pretended I had an emergency and ran off. The driver, a nice man, was like, “you are not going to Dasbumfuckville?” and I just said, “nope” and ran off like my pants were on fire. They were, but just metaphorically, I guess. Anyway, this town, although not my hometown, is still full of the same awful, “insecure assholes”, as someone else termed it. Oh so poetically. There is a subtext of humiliation and aggression as CT ppl like to think they are New Yorkers. My grandmother was from Brooklyn, folks. Let me tell you something: you ain’t New Yorkers. Not even close.

But, they all act like tough guys, gals, and like they are Rocky Balboa. Alarming. First idiot woman in deli — too cool to actually speak to me and take my order, just looked at me- triggered me as did her friend, who was staring at me. People here will just STARE. Nevermind it’s primal  fuckery, rude, and primitive. They act like they own you. Bitch, come own me, and we’ll see how good your liver looks pinned to your ears, eh?? I hate it. I am gentle at heart but after a lifetime spent climbing upwards I can be quite mouthy if provoked. Anyway, she made my sandwich and I somehow got out of that damn store unscathed, although the bagger smirked at me when I forgot to remove my card. Everyone here is like that – always too cool for school, the kind of pricks who stop speaking when you pass them then resume their convo once you are past. It makes me actually long for the South, where ppl are also, um, special but at least not as arrogant as these dickwads. Anyway, I went over to the library and a man asked me if I was waiting in line to check out my books. No, doofus, I’m waiting in line to get my skis waxed. I told him rather tensely myself that I was going to get change for the coffee. It’s guaranteed if you are socially anxious and just want to disappear everyone and their goddamned mother wants to talk to you. I felt a bit guilty but I wasn’t able to put on my pollyana hat today.

I somehow managed to sit and eat and then called a warmline, where an asshole named Jimmy answered. Jimmy has a weird, hangdog, passive aggressive voice that triggers my bells, and sanctimoniously informed me that the warmline wasn’t a substitute for therapy. Well, duh, Matilda. He was what my adopted son calls, charmingly, a douchebag — haha! My vagina is great, thanks for asking. Anyway, I’ve talked to Jimmy before, and I told him he was being a jerk and then called back to complain, as I was in the mood to not take anyone’s crap lying down. Kevin , who is a legit angel, was very warm hearted – hence the term warmline? – and helped me out. Kevin, you live in San Francisco, so very likely you enjoy batting for the home team, but I wanted to say I fell in love with you. Which means you are gay.

Anyway, I then “enjoyed” a brief sojourn to buy some tops at the local thrift store, all run by rich women who need something to do, I guess. I opted out of the five dollar capris pants, as my hairy white legs are the stuff of nightmares. Shapely yes, hair free, no. Think old man on boardwalk in Florida. I made the mistake of telling the chatty chicks working there I had hated math – one is a former math teacher – and then had a super awkward tag team convo. I call those the weird type where you are one person being stared down by two bitches who have solidarity whilst you are the customer . It’s an awkward, subtle power dynamic and I don’t do well with undercurrents. I’m also paranoid , but hey, we all needy a hobby. So the woman asked me where I went to High School and acted like I should be SO HAPPY I WENT THERE. I went to the kind of John Hughes fuckfest, super rich, snotty ass, suburban CT high school that made me cry damn near every day. This is the day I move, no? Yes, anywhere but here. So I just told her I was shy and the teachers were aggressive. I bet you were too, darlin’!

So, escape from witch mountain (kerchoo; no mommy issues here!) and off to sit in the church library basement. I put on my new tops there, I got a neon pink one (hahahaha), and a yellow one. The woman was trying to sell me on another one, but I was too triggered to go try shit on. I do like the neon pink top, although it is indeed barbie like, oh my mama (waves to mama). I had no clue it was so neon until I was outside. So I just grabbed my shit and fled. So somehow I managed to sit for awhile and just have a bit of quiet, although a janitor was bumbling around. I also cried but hey, why care, world?

I finally got home after yet another asshole asked me if the bus had come although I had clearly arrived when he was standing there. Inexplicably he called the macho driver “Mate” although had no discernible accent. Huh. Just another weirdo in CT!

I’m at home now, trying to chill, clean, and be OK. HA!

 

ADDENDUM: Health food store owners are evil. Who knew? Discrimination? Superiority complexes? Nah, not in CT!!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Well Hell Matilda

Huh. How’s it going, y’all? I’m having a fucking nervous breakdown due to ptsd and super stress from living with freaks, deviants, and assholes. Yep. Don’t worry, no plans to go to heaven or hell – yet! God, abuse, and life (call dem tings TRIGGERS) have fucked me up hard. Hell, that’s OK, I got me some ice cream, I got me a Mama (she lives in SC, and I adopted her), and I got me some fish! Two betta, one nano, and three tanks (one is a bowl, but hey, whatever).

I thought I’d write this to not go crazy before my nightly walk. They are reviewing my disability – SUPER STRESS – and my hair is freaking, fucking long. Tomorrow – hair cut! I hate my state, everyone here is so rude and nasty. I was on the bus today and this freaky woman – the freaks ALWAYS FIND ME – and with their freak ass radar always try and glom onto me energetically. In New England, ppl are really weird. I think Americans are lame in general – no civility, no true culture, no custody of the eyes, no inner life – it’s an outward, materialistic, competitive, bullshit culture and if you don’t fit in – beware, fucker!!!! I don’t fit in. Ergo, ugh. Messiness. And shite. Anywho, I always run into the same lame boring assholes over and over and over again – yea right now, I guess I’m the queen of the assholes, but if ya don’t like, papi, don’t read now!!!!! Kerchoo. And they always try and hit me up for change – one beyootchhhh did not pay me back the 75 cents – yes, I am this petty, it’s just the principle of the thing, you curs !! – and the other just stares. I’m going to tell her off soon. Either switch your medications, admit you are a lesbian, or stop fucking stare at me, you fucking wanker!!!! Merci buckets, sweeties.

I’m exhausted from my old lady neighbour who is a really, legit (but not 2 legit to quit, haha!) horrible human being who thinks, like most narcissists, that she’s wonderful. She is a sad story, but I prayed every time she makes noise – great for ptsd, let me tell you, motherfuckas! – that she’s blessed x. Noise destabilises me horribly. Fun. Fun. I start to pray, sometimes I think I’m going crazy, I’m sure they are doing it on purpose, and I long to run to them to make them stop and beg them, grovel, anything. Oh yes, my life has been fun – about as fun as a napalm attack in Saigon. And ptsd from childhood sexual abuse is the worst. My mask is so good, so good, my acting skills, superlative, really. Sad.

And, sadly, I fell in love with a narcissistic creepface in England who haunts me to this day, who told me he’d hate me forever – burning and searing my soul to the core. I long for cats, bongs, and skateboards – and at least I get one of those items pretty easily. The medical marijuana is a nightmare, and ordering in the mail is scary – everything is a triggerfest as I have no car, am afraid to talk to ppl b.c. I can’t bond with anyone and am scared they will smash thru my boundaries, and due to money and a fixed income. Yes, fun times.

I am barely surviving, my internet tribe, fellow survivors, are the reason I’m still here and not dead.

And, it’s hard.

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Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

 

 

 

 

Assholes in Church

I was at my church the other day and the senior warden walked in. The senior warden sexually harassed my friend’s daughter. It was hard for me to stay in that church, so I left. I left because too often, church is a lie. Assholes do abound, even in churches. Sometimes it seems wherever control or a lust for power is to be had for the taking, a bully may be found. Even in a church which should, by its very nature, be a place where care for the poor and needy come first, where humans are safe from abuse, where love is doled out without strings attached, and where judgment is kept at bay.

I struggle with this man, knowing what happened to me as a child and knowing what he has done. My friend doesn’t want me to say anything about it, so I don’t. I don’t tell a soul. But as an intuitive, I already knew he was off. I can feel things others can’t, but his cloak is a good one. He’s a successful man, intelligent, reasonable {the devil often is}. He works hard. He seems good. He is far more successful than my friend’s daughter, who requires state assistance and is raising two girls on her own. He lives in a big house; she lives in a troubled neighborhood in an apartment.

It’s difficult to be a Christian in a world so hyper geared towards “success”. I myself am a failure in worldly terms. The world hasn’t been interested in the incest that devastated my life to the point of hearing his voice, having flashbacks and body memories, to this very day. I live in housing that keeps this hell alive and well. I struggle with a sad past and an inability, due to mental illness and post traumatic stress disorder, to have a conventional existence. I struggle not to blame myself. I didn’t marry or bond well with men, and my father is to blame for that. I find myself on the sidelines of life, extremely sensitive to all of its injustices, attempting to show Christ’s love in a world that despises me as both a woman and a marginalized person. Depersonalized at the age of six, used for his gratification, my life has been severely affected. The mask grows old and weary, his voice grows tiresome, the world’s relentless drumbeat rolls on, mowing down anyone in its way that doesn’t fit into its scheme.

The scheme is to kill and destroy. The scheme is to humiliate those already suffering, to make them beg for their bread instead of freely providing it. The scheme is to spread hatred instead of love, to tear down the weak, to uplift and adulate the wealthy and famous, the so-called powerful and strong, at the expense of those who go without. In a world designed to keep them down. Bullies need victims like my friend’s daughter. They need good places to hide, like a church. They need a world in which power and control and money and success now thrive even in Jesus’ temple, which should be devoted to those most cruelly hurt by life’s abusiveness and its inability to show or teach any compassion.

Oh, I have stories, of abuse, and heartache, and how the world treats those who dare to need any assistance, who have been thrown off to the sidelines and forced to endure its callousness. Who have the eyes to see the daily crucifixion of its innocents, what they are forced to endure.

Take drugs? You’re a weak addict and you deserve to die.

On welfare? You abuse the system and must be a liar and a fraud.

On disability for an invisible mental illness? You’re just weak. You didn’t try hard enough.

On the street? It’s your own damn fault, not the fault of a world that hasn’t bothered to care enough for its citizens to provide housing for all of them.

Need help from a church? I might deny it to you or make you do a song and dance first in order to get it. Want to come stay at my place until you get a leg up? I might pull you aside and berate you for not having a job. Homeless people with ptsd, you say? Surely not. Not in my world.

Sexual abuse of children leading to lifelong consequences of the most severe kind? You seem fine to me! If I can’t see it, it’s not real. Not in my worldview.

This is a deeply troubled world. Jesus, in His compassion and wisdom for those on the sidelines, for those who were raised to gratify the sexual needs of fathers instead of given love, knows this better than anyone. He came to die for the world’s sins, but mostly, he came so that those unloved, unacknowledged, the uncared for, would be loved. For those most despised by the conventional, successful human beings, the callous and callow, self-congratulatory status quo. For those most wiling to let people die on the street so they can go to bed fat and happy, untroubled by the suffering of those most unlike them. Yet most in need of care.

Not my problem. Their fault. Tear down the innocent. Degrade the homeless. Harass my friend’s daughter and hide in church using my position and title to justify my abuse. The woman who, like me, was raped by her own father. Crucify those who aren’t on the top of the heap. Blame, turn away. Destroy. Keep the ancient fires burning. The old story that is destroying us all. There is a circle, and all of us belong in it, no justification required. Simply by virtue of the fact that we are all God’s children. Believe it.

Or, turn a blind eye. Do not see. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. Learn. To love. To see.

And do know you will never pass this way again.