for the record–updated

I can finally demonstrate that my mother has changed toward me in a way that prejudices her in making judgments in the cases and situations of my disability.

She was good enough to call an ambulance when she found me a few hours from death after the overdose November two years ago; but she did not support my going back to the trailor she had said she woul pay for for me; and she scorned my suicide attempt saying, after that many (5) people don’t care any more.  She didn’t say it in those words but she shook her head.  In fact, people were falling all over themselves trying to be nice to me.  For once I spent time in physical medicine beds for about three weeks before going to the psych unit and I had a lovely time!  For the first time in my life I was a one on one patient, with a nurse sitting by my bed.  And after 4 1/2 months the doctor sent me on to the extended acute care unit where I stayed for 8 months  There, I ran into some serious racial bias from the Puerto Rican nurses and psych techs–there were a lot of them, and they targeted me for punishement.  I have never experienced relationships with our Spanish-speaking friends because I was always put off by the language and didn’t enounter it much so I go some experience.  Then I got into it with a young black male pysch tech who confused me and I wound up asking the psychologist what he meant and it got me into trouble.  It was a horrible stay after that but as they kept saying, we don’t WANT you to like it here.  So from there I went to the personal boarding care boarding home and FINALLY, looking back 6 1/2 months later I see what the doctor on the extended acute care unit meant.  He said, how did you feel when we agreed with you (about going to the boarding home instead of one of their group homes.)  It made me paranoid about it!  But now I see that it was for the good.  I found Jesus there, finally, for the first time in my life, face to face, after all my believing.  And He said “Remember that you found me here.”

But the doctors on the first psych unit I went to, after the ICU and physical medicine bed, emphasized that they wanted to help me.

And they did.

As for my mother, she made herself famous when I was a young woman over a pet raccoon she had adopted and everyone knew her for it.  There is a picture of her with him–and another of him with my sister–in the book my father has written and self–published.  So there was a sick raccoon wandering around in the back yard on Friday afternoon.  The cats were outside.  I went running and shouting for my mother,  Mom, Mom, a raccoon, mom!  So she came and she said maybe we should call the police and I said no call animal rescue and she said no they would just shoot it, I’ll ask (the neighbor) if he wants to do that, he has a gun…  This is not my old mother.

So I am much better now.  She has me in a trap because they need help and they are getting it through me and my son.  It is a terrible pattern that has played out ever since they bought this house.  I went to the state hospital and that secured them here in this unknown and God-forsaken location which they turned to the good as a “historic” site, they have an official plaque.  One of the barns has a certain unique feature so now it’s in a book.

So she takes in dying cats from by the road who wander in and saves them, even although one was a little bit too far gone,  I said if youre going to save them do it but don’t mess around.  So one of the neighbors took that on and wrote a blog about him.  She still has the other one, who was found sooner–she still has “street psychosis” from almost dying by the roadside.  Yes, I would know this because Ive had it myself.

Gradually my mother is learning the facts of life but she doesn’t know them well enough to be responsible for making important decisions and my father is intellectually disabled by his “mini” stroke:  it interferes with the mental processing of vision in one eye.  It affected him enough that his speech was affected a few years later and there was a period where he was getting lost inside his mind.  Now he has created a disability personality–I’m very familiar with this because of my time at the state hospital, where there were cases like a head trauma misdiagnosed with schizophrenia; a man who had been hit in the head with a baseball bat when he was a child (one eye was wild); a man who had been given a medication to help with a cocaine overdose but instead it fried his brain;  a man who had shot himself in the head but lived.

And, oddly, both my father and I suffer from having lost a part of our sense of smell.  It is an oddly disabling condition.

So his decision-making is poor and according to me (as I was the recipient of some bad logic of his, lets not go into it) it always was; but the important point is that my mother is relying on him when in fact he isn’t able to make a good decision and they are looking on who they can pass it off on, and, as I said, I can demonstrate that she is no longer fond of me at all let alone responsibly conerned for my well-being, and she has always been able to pass herself off as that when right now her secret wish (which has been stated) is that I return to the state hospital.  Which WOULD NOT be appropriate.  But if it did happen she would take is as a feather in her cap.  There is no reason that such a step should be taken,  but I am not all that far away from fear that something like that could happen, just because I don’t have enough money to live.  They would pass it off that consequently as a function of my mental illness leaving me unable to work therefore I neede to be incarcerated for it, because there’s nobody to provide for me, which doesn’t follow.  That begs the question.  How is (me) to be taken care of?  The state hospital is not the obvious answer and in fact shouldn’t even come up.  It comes up because it was the status quo at one time in the past; it shouldn’t have been.  Always and everywhere they are trying to put me away away to cover over the incident of sexual abuse when I was 17 and a whole lot of other things.

Praying a Novena to St Jude for lost and impossible causes.  Day 5.




It took going to the state hospital to identify the life-long problem of having been kneed in the crotch (also, another early traume, my mother held on waiting for my father after her water broke shen she was getting ready to deliver me, and they hahd to slap me to get me to breath);

but now that that has finally been generally reported and understood the question needs to be asked in the present.  Its not a no-brainer to put me in the state hospital again.  That was then, this is now.

I guess I need to pray for an income as one of the favors from St. Jude  I do have some income already from disability pay.

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