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i can't hold a 40 week job. I have very poor impulse control and tend toward psychotic breaks when under extreme stress. My facial expressions are extreme. I cannot lie or cover up what I am feeling. My memory is very, dangerously bad. I ca...n't remember names. Sometimes, I can't remember faces. I am dyslexic. I have terrible trouble with numbers, such as balancing a bank account. I smell words, and sometimes, they stink so bad, I can't hide my revulsion. I have neural fatigue: I become nearly paralyzed after physical exertion.
I self medicate with nicotine and caffeine and am diagnosed with emphysema. I talk to myself, so I can remember what I'm doing better; I can remember hearing something better than I can remember thinking it. People are repulsed by my physical appearance, facial expressions, gestures. I unconsciously whisper-whistle little tunes under my breath.
I don't dress like a pod person; I dress like Ugly Betty.
I am intelligent and articulate and many people find that offensive, either because I "think you're better than everybody else" and, since I'm low income and live in slum housing, this has gotten me beaten on occasion. Social workers, cops, people who run food banks, etc. find my articulation and self-advocacy threatening to their concept of authority.
I am not physically attractive by popular cultural standards: I am an older woman, with bad teeth. i am fat. My hair is gray and short (easier to groom without running water).
I am a social pariah, an outcast. My family, church, business colleagues, social contacts have all rejected me.
I live in almost total isolation, without any friends or family. I am sick and broke, 7 miles from the nearest groceries, without a car or public transportation, so must hitch hike, which makes the neighbors look down on me.
Speaking of the neighbors, I found out from the only one here I like that a woman I don't know told her at our communal mail boxes that I worship the devil. Her proof is that I have goats.
I have lived without sewage, heat or running water for over a year now. I am constantly dirty and disheveled.
I am 55 years old. I am hardly a poster child for Department of Vocational Rehabilitation, which immediately rejected my requests for continued education and some inexpensive recording equipment, so I can more easily pursue my ONLY skills: writing and public radio documentary production.
I self medicate with nicotine and caffeine and am diagnosed with emphysema. I talk to myself, so I can remember what I'm doing better; I can remember hearing something better than I can remember thinking it. People are repulsed by my physical appearance, facial expressions, gestures. I unconsciously whisper-whistle little tunes under my breath.
I don't dress like a pod person; I dress like Ugly Betty.
I am intelligent and articulate and many people find that offensive, either because I "think you're better than everybody else" and, since I'm low income and live in slum housing, this has gotten me beaten on occasion. Social workers, cops, people who run food banks, etc. find my articulation and self-advocacy threatening to their concept of authority.
I am not physically attractive by popular cultural standards: I am an older woman, with bad teeth. i am fat. My hair is gray and short (easier to groom without running water).
I am a social pariah, an outcast. My family, church, business colleagues, social contacts have all rejected me.
I live in almost total isolation, without any friends or family. I am sick and broke, 7 miles from the nearest groceries, without a car or public transportation, so must hitch hike, which makes the neighbors look down on me.
Speaking of the neighbors, I found out from the only one here I like that a woman I don't know told her at our communal mail boxes that I worship the devil. Her proof is that I have goats.
I have lived without sewage, heat or running water for over a year now. I am constantly dirty and disheveled.
I am 55 years old. I am hardly a poster child for Department of Vocational Rehabilitation, which immediately rejected my requests for continued education and some inexpensive recording equipment, so I can more easily pursue my ONLY skills: writing and public radio documentary production.
1 comment:
Lordy, Rogi, your post on the effects of your brain injuries reads like my life. I see you are a stalwart and fearless soul. Amen-and a little woman, dear friend!
I am fortunate to live in subsidized federal housing where my rent is controlled, yet I still struggle with buying food. I've had an added diagnosis: Malnutrition. I am wracked with the effects of PTSD from being first witness to much violence inflicted upon my son who suffers from untreated schizophrenia. I was a painter for 15 years and taught at university for a few before I collapsed from fatigue and mental confusion. I talk to myself all day too, in order to keep myself on track and have no on the ground friends. I am aware of a movie called: It Was a Wonderful Life, narrated by Jodie Foster. Haven't seen it, yet, I understand she talks about thousands of women, our age in this very same boat. Hmmmmmm...as an avowed feminist, I can't help but wonder that our generation of women bore much of the pain body of our mothers and the heavy narcisstic and patriarchal mores put upon them during 1950's.
Hang in there, friend. I walk with you,
Annie
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