Strange. Nice. But strange.
Not much more to add!
Sunday, 30 August 2009
Thursday, 13 August 2009
What the fuck do they know?
Dear Mr Gilder,
I'm afraid to say we're screwing you and your Mother over. Just to rub it in, we're going to pay you fuck all money starting from... er... this week.
Well thanks. Thanks alot.
Yup, that's what the letter might aswell have said.
Now don't get me wrong, I'm well down the road to finding my true self again, to finding my own pathway, to wanting, nay, demanding my name be the one that's lit up bright and proudly. There is no way further for me to help others 'til I help myself and become a little more greedy. That is for certain. And ironically perhaps, as part of this long, but rewarding process, the first steps were to cut the ties. Not completely, but a thin snip, enough to begin to heal the wounds of years of strangulation and breathlessness. Enough to stand on my own two feet, to put pressure on myself, knowing I'd be relying on my income to survive. That's the kind of pressure I want, need. That's the kind of pressure that scares me. And boy, I need to be scared.
But regardless, those issues are not important. Whether I come off Carers Allowance is an irrelevance. My Mum still needs that money to give to someone else. It's vital for her survival. That's not an over-dramatization, but simply a statement of fact. Without the help she would buckle. She would melt faster than a pale-skinned Brit in the exotic sun, dieting on alcohol-fuelled ignorance and protecting their dumb, precious skin by slapping on a tube full of something particularly unsuitable. Lubricant perhaps. The point is, take away the support and she would fall to her death. Literally, I fear...
Things have been awful of late. Truly, brutally awful. In a way I am glad, it's been the making and toughening of me, and I am flourishing - slowly perhaps - but with a fair amount of grace and dignity, qualities that were lacking before. A solid foundation. Good, healthy soil. In my mind, in my bones. Those are the things that will make the flowers turn the most beautiful, rare and tempting colours. Okay. Haha. Perhaps I was pushing it with the grace. But still..
So what fucking right, what fucking right have THEY to tell ME that things have gotten better? Can they see the bigger picture on a form? Can they see the constant, exhausting battle to stop her from tipping over the edge of insanity? Because I can assure you, she's been teetering on the brink for a long, long time now. But how would they know that? Have they come to visit? Have they seen her bedridden, anxious, frail, completely at the mercy of a perceived cruel and dangerous World? Of course, the physical work is nothing. Not having come out of the years of dozy-eyed meandering, a drugged up zombie living off nothing more than an addiction to depression. No, the physical work is the easy thing.
Ironing, cooking, washing-up. Who really gives a fuck. We all have hands. There are always arguments. Always. But these are inconsequential, in the bigger picture. But clearly, they don't see the bigger picture. The braindead morons buy the picture, seeing it's signed 'Van Gogh'. That's enough for them. That's alright. That's proof enough that it will be a masterpiece. They forget to look at it. I mean, really look. They don't notice there's nothing there except the bleakness and emptiness of a blank canvas.
Because people are fucking braindead nowadays. They'd rather make a decision based on a bit of paper. Rather make life-changing decisions based solely on the mundane, uninformative, characterless text staring lifelessly at them from the murky screen. What if they cared to listen? Just for a change. Just for old times sake? What if they came round, and saw the shit that I have to put up with.
I'm not going to whinge. That's in the past. I could whinge 'about' the shit. But the shit has been shatted out long before now. I live with it. Of course I regret it. I regret it impacting negatively on other people. Especially one of them. But as it goes, now sometimes I think the shit makes me stronger. This is not a whinge. This is anger, pure and thoughtful, but furious in it's own right. I am angry that they dare take my money, our money away from us without even so much as a proper explanation. I am angry that it takes 5 fucking phone-calls to get the right sodding number. What if I was a brainless moron like them? I'd stand no chance. I'm angry about their lack of empathy. understanding. Lack of anything. Lack of life. They need 'evidence' in writing do they now? Or over the phone? WELL HOW ABOUT THE FUCKING EVIDENCE THAT WOULD BE STARING THEM, GRIMLY AND FRAILY RIGHT IN THE RUCKING FACE IF THEY BOTHERED AS TO SO MUCH WASTE THEIR PRECIOUS TIME PAYING US A VISIT? How about that evidence, hey? Does that not count?
Lets forget the physical symptoms once again. I could list them on a big piece of paper. I could mention the fact I could probably pick her up with the strength of my little finger, due to the months and months of near-starvation. I could list the drugs she mostly throws away. I could list the upcoming hospital appointments. But even if those are not enough for you, what consideration is given to the fact that any sane person could see that she is a stark raving lunatic? What procedures have you for dealing with them, for the stress they cause those around them when they're confined...well...to the freedom of their own home and not locked up in some looney bin?
Oh yes...you've forgotten about those havn't you.
You've forgotten that some children lie awake at night, simply wondering with deadened eyes when they would hear the thud on the cold pavement outside. Oh sorry, suicide. That's a difficult topic. Better not fucking mention that to you, had I? It's black and white for you. You're either in an asylum, or you're out. You're either alive, or dead. There's no room for being stuck in the middle, in a permanent state of living deadness. Those people are aliens. Sorry, zombies.(Wow, two mentions of zombies in one post! I might read this back and get all sexually excited afterward. Well...who doesn't have a zombie fetish?!)
They don't exist.
Or if they do exist, we know about them. We know all about them. We keep them under lock and key. It hasn't once occurred to us that some of them might have escaped the 'perfect' system, that some of them might be putting on happy-go-lucky faces for the Doctors smiling back in approval, nodding in all the right places. Lying, blindly, but unconsciously, to themselves and to the outside World, and to the forms they stain their mad-blooded fingers on. Smudging the ink, manipulating it till it looked right to them. Not evidence of the facts, but evidence of delusional, misplaced thinking. But you'd never know, would you? You'd be such a dumb cunt, you wouldn't notice any smudges. Shiny, shiny paper.
Shiny, shiny World.
In with the white people. Out with the black. Fuck everything inbetween, it doesn't exist. At least, we'll pretend it doesn't.
Because that's easy.
It's easy to be a face behind a screen, a title behind a letter, a government shuffling together like mindles sheep to hide and cover up individual corruption.
We are all finding more and more ways to communicate, yet all losing our touch when it comes to remembering how to.
How about next time, you stop making a judgement based on how we respond to your own fixed, thoughtless, emotionless questions?
How about next time, you treat us humanely and let us have our say first? Let us write a script. Paint a picture. Then maybe you'll see the full story.
Life isn't black and white, you fcuking wankers.
So stop telling us it is.
I'm afraid to say we're screwing you and your Mother over. Just to rub it in, we're going to pay you fuck all money starting from... er... this week.
Well thanks. Thanks alot.
Yup, that's what the letter might aswell have said.
Now don't get me wrong, I'm well down the road to finding my true self again, to finding my own pathway, to wanting, nay, demanding my name be the one that's lit up bright and proudly. There is no way further for me to help others 'til I help myself and become a little more greedy. That is for certain. And ironically perhaps, as part of this long, but rewarding process, the first steps were to cut the ties. Not completely, but a thin snip, enough to begin to heal the wounds of years of strangulation and breathlessness. Enough to stand on my own two feet, to put pressure on myself, knowing I'd be relying on my income to survive. That's the kind of pressure I want, need. That's the kind of pressure that scares me. And boy, I need to be scared.
But regardless, those issues are not important. Whether I come off Carers Allowance is an irrelevance. My Mum still needs that money to give to someone else. It's vital for her survival. That's not an over-dramatization, but simply a statement of fact. Without the help she would buckle. She would melt faster than a pale-skinned Brit in the exotic sun, dieting on alcohol-fuelled ignorance and protecting their dumb, precious skin by slapping on a tube full of something particularly unsuitable. Lubricant perhaps. The point is, take away the support and she would fall to her death. Literally, I fear...
Things have been awful of late. Truly, brutally awful. In a way I am glad, it's been the making and toughening of me, and I am flourishing - slowly perhaps - but with a fair amount of grace and dignity, qualities that were lacking before. A solid foundation. Good, healthy soil. In my mind, in my bones. Those are the things that will make the flowers turn the most beautiful, rare and tempting colours. Okay. Haha. Perhaps I was pushing it with the grace. But still..
So what fucking right, what fucking right have THEY to tell ME that things have gotten better? Can they see the bigger picture on a form? Can they see the constant, exhausting battle to stop her from tipping over the edge of insanity? Because I can assure you, she's been teetering on the brink for a long, long time now. But how would they know that? Have they come to visit? Have they seen her bedridden, anxious, frail, completely at the mercy of a perceived cruel and dangerous World? Of course, the physical work is nothing. Not having come out of the years of dozy-eyed meandering, a drugged up zombie living off nothing more than an addiction to depression. No, the physical work is the easy thing.
Ironing, cooking, washing-up. Who really gives a fuck. We all have hands. There are always arguments. Always. But these are inconsequential, in the bigger picture. But clearly, they don't see the bigger picture. The braindead morons buy the picture, seeing it's signed 'Van Gogh'. That's enough for them. That's alright. That's proof enough that it will be a masterpiece. They forget to look at it. I mean, really look. They don't notice there's nothing there except the bleakness and emptiness of a blank canvas.
Because people are fucking braindead nowadays. They'd rather make a decision based on a bit of paper. Rather make life-changing decisions based solely on the mundane, uninformative, characterless text staring lifelessly at them from the murky screen. What if they cared to listen? Just for a change. Just for old times sake? What if they came round, and saw the shit that I have to put up with.
I'm not going to whinge. That's in the past. I could whinge 'about' the shit. But the shit has been shatted out long before now. I live with it. Of course I regret it. I regret it impacting negatively on other people. Especially one of them. But as it goes, now sometimes I think the shit makes me stronger. This is not a whinge. This is anger, pure and thoughtful, but furious in it's own right. I am angry that they dare take my money, our money away from us without even so much as a proper explanation. I am angry that it takes 5 fucking phone-calls to get the right sodding number. What if I was a brainless moron like them? I'd stand no chance. I'm angry about their lack of empathy. understanding. Lack of anything. Lack of life. They need 'evidence' in writing do they now? Or over the phone? WELL HOW ABOUT THE FUCKING EVIDENCE THAT WOULD BE STARING THEM, GRIMLY AND FRAILY RIGHT IN THE RUCKING FACE IF THEY BOTHERED AS TO SO MUCH WASTE THEIR PRECIOUS TIME PAYING US A VISIT? How about that evidence, hey? Does that not count?
Lets forget the physical symptoms once again. I could list them on a big piece of paper. I could mention the fact I could probably pick her up with the strength of my little finger, due to the months and months of near-starvation. I could list the drugs she mostly throws away. I could list the upcoming hospital appointments. But even if those are not enough for you, what consideration is given to the fact that any sane person could see that she is a stark raving lunatic? What procedures have you for dealing with them, for the stress they cause those around them when they're confined...well...to the freedom of their own home and not locked up in some looney bin?
Oh yes...you've forgotten about those havn't you.
You've forgotten that some children lie awake at night, simply wondering with deadened eyes when they would hear the thud on the cold pavement outside. Oh sorry, suicide. That's a difficult topic. Better not fucking mention that to you, had I? It's black and white for you. You're either in an asylum, or you're out. You're either alive, or dead. There's no room for being stuck in the middle, in a permanent state of living deadness. Those people are aliens. Sorry, zombies.(Wow, two mentions of zombies in one post! I might read this back and get all sexually excited afterward. Well...who doesn't have a zombie fetish?!)
They don't exist.
Or if they do exist, we know about them. We know all about them. We keep them under lock and key. It hasn't once occurred to us that some of them might have escaped the 'perfect' system, that some of them might be putting on happy-go-lucky faces for the Doctors smiling back in approval, nodding in all the right places. Lying, blindly, but unconsciously, to themselves and to the outside World, and to the forms they stain their mad-blooded fingers on. Smudging the ink, manipulating it till it looked right to them. Not evidence of the facts, but evidence of delusional, misplaced thinking. But you'd never know, would you? You'd be such a dumb cunt, you wouldn't notice any smudges. Shiny, shiny paper.
Shiny, shiny World.
In with the white people. Out with the black. Fuck everything inbetween, it doesn't exist. At least, we'll pretend it doesn't.
Because that's easy.
It's easy to be a face behind a screen, a title behind a letter, a government shuffling together like mindles sheep to hide and cover up individual corruption.
We are all finding more and more ways to communicate, yet all losing our touch when it comes to remembering how to.
How about next time, you stop making a judgement based on how we respond to your own fixed, thoughtless, emotionless questions?
How about next time, you treat us humanely and let us have our say first? Let us write a script. Paint a picture. Then maybe you'll see the full story.
Life isn't black and white, you fcuking wankers.
So stop telling us it is.
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