Wilkomen du Auschwitz

Eight days into the new year and I see my hope draining away. I hoped I would at least make it through January not screwing up, but I messed up terribly. First I misjudged her time of arrival, so I wasn’t ready. Then I stepped in an an open can of cat food on the floor of her car. Then I didn’t have water for the strays we go feed. Then she brought up the challenged boy who she pays to feed another  set of cats and she told me what she thought of us.

The Nazis had it right. Send all the tards to Auschwitz. They shouldn’t have been born anyway.

Does she really feel that way about us?  The Auschwitz part, no, of course not. The not been born part? Maybe! While there is a big part of me that feels I should have been aborted, that I take up space in a world better off without me, what can I do? I’m already here annoying as I am. I think she’d miss me if Herr Trumpenfuhrer deported  me to Poland even though I’m a major fuck-up. I think my friend truly loves me, but her anger and unhappiness overwhelms  her sometimes. She hates the south, but stomachs me. I think of her as family and the thought of losing her is a punch to the stomach. She’s starting to lump me with every Southerner, the proverbial “you people.” I wanted to be good enough, but there’s stuff I can’t stop or have been part of me so long.

Anyway, if Trump can build a wall, I can build a bridge and get over this.

Club R

What fool said that the unexamined life isn’t worth living? I think I prefer not thinking about some things. I spoke to my  beloved first grade teacher today on the phone today and she basically affirmed what I already knew: Everyone thought I was the ‘R’ word, and I don’t mean republican. My teacher didn’t believe I was retarded. I think she might think I have autism, though. I’d rather be in Club Autism than Club’ R.’

What she said was that they doubted I could learn to read at that school.  It wasn’t  true. I began to learn under the tutelage of Ms. S, who hated me, but perfected phonics under Ms. H, who loved me. First off, Ms. S used to verbally abuse me, lie, threaten, and one time paddled me. Second,  the principal really, really, really  shouldn’t be talking about ‘slow. ‘ Her own son seemed dumb as a brick to me and still pissed himself at age 7. I looked him up and he still looks like trailer trash.What is worse is the principal there also beat me with a paddle a few times for not getting math in 3rd grade before before my mother took me out of that godforsaken Christian school. Thirty years ago and I’m still angry. 

Ms. H. wanted to know if I was OK and if I wanted to come live with her. I was extremely touched that even after 30 years she still loves me that much. I let her know that I was fine and that I was content in my life as a cat lady. I also  let her know that while I have psych issues, I’m not intellectually disabled.

A neurologist my mom took me to when I was 11 believed I suffered from  mild cerebral palsy, which explains my unusual gait. I may broach this subject with a doctor sometime because my back, legs and ankles are sore when I begin to walk these days. Ms. H commented that I would come into class walking like an octopus, my hair and backpack in disarray.  I later in life forced myself to stop walking tiptoe, but my person will always be disordered.

If I do have autism, I’m either at the very edge of the spectrum or I’ve learned to adapt. My emotions are normal…I think. I get jokes. I get social cues. I have empathy. But I’m missing something, or people wouldn’t  all the  time be thinking I’m “special.”

Maybe if my mom hadn’t gone fishing for a husband in the drunk tank and I was sired by someone else, or she had not waited until she was 35, maybe me genes would fit me better. There were enough undiagnosed anxiety disorders running amuck in my mom’s genes as well as hoarding cousins on Grandpa’s side that I really could’ve done just as well with another pop.  If I do have autism I wish it was confirmed, so I could get a reduced price bus pass.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I Originally Put This on Facebook

​I went to a Tim Kaine rally the day before the election. This is just a guess, but I think maybe 100 to 200 people showed tops. I’m almost certain they were  in a much better financial class than me (not difficult to  be since I’m on disability, but I surmised most were well off) and I saw maybe 4 minorities in all in a predominately black neighborhood.

 I knew we were going to  lose. 
There were certain variables, however, which made me hope I was wrong:

It was 3 pm on a Monday, when most people are at work or waiting for their kids after school.

Tim Kaine is a very nice person, but about as interesting as paint drying.

Other variables to consider, which made me  believe I was right that we would lose:
Donald Trump came to my town twice campaigning. Twice.  While we aren’t exactly a small town, we aren’t a big metropolis either. He made a lot of people believe he gave a damn about  them, which is laughable but true.

Hillary didn’t come here once this time. Where else didn’t she show up?
Trump rallies are circuses. People like a show and a place where their resentments can be openly displayed.
Hillary had baggage, big baggage. The emails. A huge segment who took their ball and went home when Bernie lost.
Hillary is no Obama. Few people possess the charisma, eloquence, and grace under pressure that Obama has. Likely, there may never be another person quite like him in politics while we are still living.
People underestimated  the hatred a huge population of Americans have for Obama. I didn’t, but a whole lot of people did.  The racism might be hidden under the surface, but  many  people think why am I working, while the ‘other’ gets all these benefits. If you don’t believe me, read any forum where someone mentions a question about her  government phone, food stamps, anything that might keep a poverty-stricken person from  falling through the net. Is it any wonder that Trump can mock a disabled person in front of his masses of supporters.

OK, I’m done. If you actually read this, wow thanks! (Don’t unfriend me)