The deterioration of my psychological state, whilst mappable and marked with distinct events, is for the purposes of this writing only a prelude. As I sit and reflect on how every part of me seems to deteriorate further, I want to tell something out in the open that I think needs to be understood by many. It relates to much of the basis of this journal, and since this is the 200th post (yes, it really has been that many), I want to make a definitive statement.
As I have stated a number of times, my mother was young when I was born. Her twenty-first birthday was in July 25, 1978. My twenty-first birthday was on October 27, 1999. I am sure you can work it out from those bits of information. If not, I am unsure I want your attention, anyway. But the thing is, whilst having a child shortly after your twenty-first birthday is a bit rough for all concerned, having a child with “special needs” that are destined to be ignored until it is really too late to do much anyway, when you are young, would be hell. For all concerned.
Add to this that I grew up during the 1980s, a time in which the politicians basically decided that the poor should just be left to rot, and that the middle class should be eliminated, then you can see that we had a big problem.
Yesterday, I went to an appointment with a psychologist that I spoke to about the subject of my life and how it became this way a fair bit. My relationship with my mother is in a fragile state, as is my emotional-psychological well-being. Oh, and if you are a police officer from Cabullshit, take a hint: police officers in places like Redfern or even relatively sedate places like Parramatta will tell you that when the person you are visiting is
- autistic and
- suffering severe anxiety as well as PTSD
addressing him in a threatening manner, behaving in a manner that gives him the idea you are going to shove a fist up his arse, that can end badly. As in people getting hurt in an irrevocable manner type hurt. That statement I made about how Queensland proves that sometimes, genocide is not automatically bad? Your behaviour proves me correct in every sense.
But that is only an aside from the point I had in mind when I started this writing. You see, the reason I went to the aforementioned psychologist is because I wanted to talk about setting up a meeting with my mother so we can discuss and hash out some of the problem or the components thereof. It is a bit like when one has a cancer in the side of their face. In spite of everything, I want my mother to have the chance to extract the bad with the least possible damage to the good. But the thing is, there are complications to all of that.
Whilst I had thought about it in abstract, detached terms, the truth is that it took this psychologist to make me really think about the uncomfortable position I am putting my mother in at present. As I have made abundantly clear to my audience, I have a hatred of my male parental unit and everything he professes to stand for now that would make neo-Nazis aghast. The problem there is that whilst I hate him, my feelings concerning my mother are an entirely different matter. And as valiant as my efforts to contain my hatred of one whilst dealing with another may well be, they have thus far failed. My mother is the one hearing about the feelings of hate coming out of me, and whilst these usually come out in situations of extreme frustration, I cannot begin to imagine what it must feel like to be in the line of fire when these frustrations turn into explosion.
That is the sum of the reasons why I have been wanting to have this meeting with the psychologist and my mother at once. So we can have a moderated talk about what needs to happen from this point going forward. Because I think when a person feels like they are fifty in spite of still having the majority of two decades to go before that point, and in a place that supposedly treats its people well (unless they are disabled, or otherwise different to the expected norm, but they do not count in mainstream eyes anyway), something is wrong. Which brings me to a point I need to make clear for all concerned.
Whilst I am forgiving to a degree of indirect participants, I am also limited in my ability that. I know that my mother loves my male parental unit to a degree sufficient to justify having stayed with him since before I was born, even being married to him for the Tyrannosaurus’ share of my lifetime. But the thing is, at multiple points in my life, she has had the chance to say to *him* things like no, this is not working, things need to be done differently, your behaviour and the behaviour you are allowing to go unquestioned is going to turn our child into a monster, and so on. She has never taken these opportunities, for whatever reason (the majority of which I cannot really blame her for), and thus we have the situation we are in today.
I love my mother, but as I said to the psychologist, I spend every minute of every day wanting to ask her why she did not give me up. Or abort me, as is covered in one of my stories (no, I did not tell the psychologist that). Because even after the family’s failures have been rubbed in their faces, they show no sign of even being slightly interested in correcting their mistakes. I have made it abundantly clear that I do not want to ever hear from my male parental unit ever again. But the truth is that when I started to investigate things like studying journalism in the tertiary education system of Melbourne, I had something very specific on my mind. Namely, I wanted to fix things up in my life so that I never had to hear from any member of my “family” ever again. Not the cousins or aunts or uncles that with one or two exceptions make me think they are legally retarded, not my sister, not my weakling male parental unit, not even my mother. None of them. Because on a psychological-emotional level, they really are like cancer to me.
I love my mother, but I doubt that she would disagree with me that having me gone from her life and never coming back would have been the best option for all parties, especially at the earliest possible stages of my life. It is too late now for my departure to make any difference to her. And the barbed-wire web that my male parental unit’s indifference to others abusing me has formed will probably never let me go now.
As I have mentioned previously, there is a cancer in the side of my face, in what the doctor calls the parotid gland. Whilst I did make some efforts to get it investigated, I think right now I am believing that just leaving it go would be a better idea. I no longer fear that it might have spread into my brain. I fear that it has not spread into my brain, that it will not kill me. I fear that I am going to live forever, and nothing will ever change, and I will just get progressively sicker inside, more deranged, until I am completely grotesque. So whatever is going to come along and kill me, I would prefer that it just get “it” over with.
Oh yeah, as it turns out, when I came home from the appointment, I found an email in one of my numerous inboxes that was from the Every Australian Counts campaign. Quite aside from the fact that autistic and Australian do not go in the same document as far as I am concerned, the biggest thing that stood out to me about this email was that it proclaimed that whilst several states in Australia have begun working to implement the National Disability Insurance Scheme, Queensland is not one of them. Act surprised. Not only did its Premier not commit, but it has recently come to light that Queensland’s government would apparently rather spend a hundred and ten million dollars on horse racing than a mere twenty million to get started on implementing the NDIS. This is what happens when you “elect” a Liberal In Name Only candidate, cuntslanders.
So we have several basic problems with my current living situation.
- Both the house itself, and the people living nearby, are causing me health problems that include but are not limited to an anxiety/panic disorder.
- My feelings concerning the overwhelming majority of the people in the same “city” (and I use this word loosely) have deteriorated from moderate dislike to hatred to genocidal.
- Social services have proven time and time again that they are both unwilling and unable to do anything that would actually help, as opposed to merely presenting the appearance to bosses of helping.
- Sensations of extreme despondency and hostility are building, having started with a minor undercurrent and are now so extreme that even police officers do a slight flinch when I start snarling.
What does this remind me of? Oh, that is right. Every other fukking time that I have erupted in violence and had to pay the consequences of other people provoking me for far longer than they should be allowed. Well, fukk you, cuntsland, I will not allow it again. This time, if you want to stop me when I do erupt, and whilst I am in cuntsland that is when, not if, then you are going to have to kill me.
Or, you could do what a person who wants to solve a problem instead of prolong or exacerbate it generally does. In this context, that means taking me and what I need to live down to somewhere in Sydney and leaving me there. If you are really in the mood to solve a problem, you tell me that I am not welcome in Queensland ever again. Under pain of death. At which point, I laugh and say that if I were to ever set foot in Queensland again, it would be at the head of an army that is carrying enough weaponry and ammunition to utterly annihilate the populace at least twice over. How much clearer do you want to be shown that you are not as perfect or amazing as you think you are? If half of your egoistic beliefs about yourselves were true, things like what I am describing here would never happen. I do not believe that even the most underclass citizen of Oslo or Stockholm feels violently towards nearly the entire population of the place they are in. And the opinions of such psychological specialists as Anthony Attwood concerning my intellectual mean only strengthens my point about Queensland, not weakens it.
Okay, let us get back to the point here. Often, when I am writing fiction, and trying to develop believable reactions to the actions of characters, I reverse the positions of the characters. If Character X is pushing a squash ball up the bottom of Character Y, for example, I reverse the scenario and picture what would happen if Character Y were pushing a squash ball up Character X’s bottom. And that is one thing that fuels my anger towards my male parental unit. What if he were told that he has leukaemia, and needs my bone marrow to have a chance to live? And what if I told him I would rather see him die in horrible agony than so much as lift a finger to save him? What then?
If you read those last couple of sentences and felt incredibly devastated, even moved to think what a horrible person I must be, then congratulations. You have figured out what my male parental unit and the jack-offs that he has been allowing to freely abuse me have been making me feel for most of my life.
