I've been pretty much fucked over my whole life -- particularly now when it comes to exterior and interior work on my house. Yes, I say MY house, even though Michael's name is on the deed. He has barely lifted a finger to do anything around here. Don't think that has gone unnoticed.
You know from my prior post that I feel trapped and paranoid. So let's layer on to that incredible frustration that I can't get the work done AND I'm not allowed to converse openly with my husband about it (or anything else). I challenge any one of you to sustain such a situation for an extended period of time. You know damn well only a few can do it -- and a big requirement is to have your self-esteem in the toilet.
I'm drugged up, bored, highly restricted in movement, chided like a toddler, psychologically manipulated (despite good intentions), trying to get sober, getting fatter, and on and on. I HATE this town for there are nothing but bad memories for me; traumatic events; mental manipulation; treated like shit in the office, etc. I wake up every day feeling like I am in a war zone. I didn't enlist for this. Hell, I'm past the draft age.
I will again state for the record that the evil Puppet Master has absolutely no fucking clue what he is doing. Now, the puppeteer could be a woman, but I highly doubt it. This individual has most likely no wartime experience, and by this I mean never gotten dirty in the trenches, never killed someone, never sustained a serious injury himself and certainly has never been taken captive as a POW. Here's an idea: Go find and interview a POW that's still alive and ask them if they think a woman could endure what they went through. That would include not having Tampax during her menstruation.
The core damage is done by the existing situation where I cannot converse openly with the Puppet Master -- I am talking about having a frank, one-on-one conversation as to just what in the hell he is currently doing and planning. Fuck the "Silence Is Golden" credo at AMC theater. I've had enough, I'm getting small vestiges of suicidal ideations. This has gone far enough.
* * *
So now my husband and I have agreed that I will be taking Haldol to completely knock me down. That's better than Zyprexa and will keep me out of the loony bin. I've been on Haldol before and I know what happened to me: I was down and out for 6 months. I'm sure the Puppet Master (and his esteemed cabal) is thrilled about this. It will keep my trap shut for a good long while. Possibly, I won't be able to "see" anymore nor question that which needs to be questioned. I anticipate being bed-ridden. I don't know if I will be able to write, hell, even use a computer. But we must do this (so I am told) so my purportedly "nonsensical and irrational" thought patterns are eradicated. So I am shut down.
Before they drug me out completely, may I not forget two things: 1.) The image inserted in my yellow cookbook; and b.) the cover of the record by Roots held up by Jimmy Fallen. It is these images (and others) that are used to manipulate thought patterns. I'm sure it's an old spook practice. There are other things burned into my memory and I will never forget them. No, I'm not crazy. I've never felt more sane.
I am living in hell, in a deteriorating house both inside and out. It's like me, actually. A perfect reflection of me. And I am not going to accept any longer any rationalizations supporting the conclusion that I continue to live "in limbo." That is a crock of shit. "In limbo" keeps me sick, rips me apart emotionally, causes suicidal thoughts, and requires a strength that, as a severely traumatized woman, I am not sure I have. Stop the bullshit now. And if legal machinations are responsible for "in limbo" I want to fucking converse with my legal "Dream Team." I am a U.S. citizen who has rights. This you know.
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