This is a “journal” entry using the mask of a narrator for my own life. I really do keep a journal labeled exactly like this. It’s a worse mess than the blogs. I write everything like a first draft of an eye witness account to a car accident I was injured in. It’s incoherent sometimes. I mean, worse than the blog. Not that this is reaching any high standard of writing. But the real journal is all gut level and I don’t care if it makes any sense at all. In fact since I am basically imprisoned in my own life, and they are watching everything, I hope they can’t understand it.
Just wanted to give a little background and setting for this blog. I’m not trying to sensationalize, but if anyone ever reads this blog, I want you to have your instincts stirred. I hope you feel real emotions and that the experience is informative and somewhat cathartic. If we can’t help each other out, they are going to hook us all up to the “Matrix” and harvest us.
Today I want to share with you what it feels like to be one of their shared slaves. When I say “they” I am generically referring to government agencies and civilian businesses. I am clearly a guinea pig for testing constantly in someone’s opinion, who has a lot of power. Others seem determined that I am a slave and others that I am a prisoner. The slave people have the attitude that they bought me and they expect a return. The prisoner people act like I should be punished for being born. I’ve been dealing with this vicious tug-of-war for my entire life.
As I awaken, bits and pieces of memory take on completely different meanings. We moved constantly when I was a kid. Every town made a big deal about us moving there. Some group or other would make a big deal about it. Usually there were two opposing groups who welcomed us including our parents, but also threw in the vital information about how things worked “around here”. Me and my sister were approved of as being healthy, polite children. Then we got put in whatever programs or school activities were the thing “around here’.
When we got old enough to play basketball the day after the welcoming committee would come around, the coaches would come by. A couple of times the conversation between Dad and the Coach was going something like this: Coach (C), “Our girls basketball could really use some good solid help.”
Dad (D), “I let my girls make their own decisions on that. The youngest one is a basketball player.”
C, “Not the oldest one?”
D, “Naw. She is more in the books and such.”
C, “Well, she looks like she could play ok. Maybe not first string but an alternate. She could go to all the games. Be with the other girls. It’s good for the kids.”
D, “No. She’s not interested in it, and I don’t force my kids into sports. If she wants to play she can. You can ask her.”
Once in a while a coach would ask me, but I always said “no”. I didn’t have time with all the other stuff I was doing…especially when it was working full time and going to school full time.
But the coaches would just keep on at Dad. Sometimes they would be mad at him. Now that I’m seeing all of this in a different light, I think since I am some guinea pig that these places get special funding for having me around.
That has to be what was going on. Then Dad would be shut out of the community, and mom, too. Christy and I were accepted and shunned at the same time. That had to be because they got money for having me in the community. I believe that is happening this minute, as I write this, today.
For my entire life there have been mean spirited, cruel people around me calling me ungrateful, a spoiled brat, acting like I had no right to any opinions or preferences of my own. I have had to listen to lecture after lecture in odd places at odd times when I could not escape. They were complaining about scholarship kids and how they get an unfair advantage.
First of all, I don’t think scholarship kids get an unfair advantage. I think our school systems are a ridiculous joke and we all get an unfair disadvantage, even at the college level. Second, if they are comparing the abuse, neglect, and constant trauma I have lived in for my entire life as some plush scholarship program, they are just bold face lying.
I’ve probably said it before and I will say it again. I am just the audience in my own life. Everyone I talk to, even my own husband, is scripted. I just watch all the performances. I am supposed to do a little Improv to prove I am living my life. They throw me an obvious place to speak and make the opinion I should have very plain. If I won’t talk they get mad and start “punishing me”. If I talk and don’t say what they want me to say, they “punish me”. If I talk and do what they want, they still punish me because they just want to. They think it is fun.
Every environment I am in is set up a certain way, including the house I ended up buying. It didn’t matter because the only houses available for me to look at weren’t even close to as nice as this house. It was obvious I would get it.
The neighbors are what I call “plants”. They are planted to be around me. The flowers and trees on my land were already chosen for me. The people who walk by or drive by. All planted.
All Masons I think. Like nothing is level in this house. Everything is a little off. And when people walk by or drive by they are doing “square” gestures or straight line type gestures. I think because they are geometrical that it is the Masons.
Anything I do gets complained about bitterly around me. “We don’t want women to be unhealthy and fat.” “We don’t want women to be too quiet and doormats.” “We don’t want women to wear too much make-up.” “We don’t want women going around like they just got out of bed with no makeup on.”
In the workplace “we don’t want women wearing jeans”, “we want women to be able to dress like the men do”. “We want business casual.” “We want casual at the level the men dress. Women should not have to dress up while men do the same job in jeans and a baseball cap. Make them dress bette.”
“Everyone should be vegetarian”. Then I am just bombarded with all kinds of advice about cleanses and such. “People should be able to eat what they want within moderation.” “Adkins and high protein is way to go.” It became such a staged war in people around me, and I was being punished and made to be sick at my stomach all the time, I couldn’t eat anything but the “BRAT” diet, bananas, rice, applesauce, toast. That is too coincidental — the “Brat” diet and calling me “brat” all the time.
People talking around me in school and work places have said stuff like, “In her case we got this certain result.” Or “the way they do it now…of course, with her it was a lot different. That was a long time ago.” “She still does good. She works hard.” “She will fight if she gets angry enough. You can make her mad.”
The exhausting phenomenon of people talking around me, but it is about me. Talking to people and they keep walking like they can’t see or hear me. No one can start a conversation with me. I have to start the conversations. No one can give me real advice. I have to figure out everything myself. People can’t interact with me too much because I am like a military dog. I’m a working animal so no one can make a domesticated pet of me.
And one of the oddest things was how Dad advised me and my sister as we grew up. He said that “they will use you”. “They will you all of you. Don’t give them anything.” I never knew what he was talking about. I had a vague idea it had to do with having talent and someone using your talent and hurting you.
When my sister and I were children, our Dad bragged about us all the time. He stopped doing that by the time we were graduating from high school. I think he did sign us into a program, but it didn’t turn out to be the idealistic program he thought it was.
That’s why I write anonymously and not seriously. My Dad was right. They steal great ideas I have right out of my journals, or out of the air if I have only spoken them. They twist every minute form of communication to make me look bad and make them come out as heroes. That’s just how it is. We really have to keep talking for as long as we can. But we don’t have to give them anything really creative.
One of these twins pretends he’s a writer. Problem is that he’s a spoiled brat who has not lived. He’s boring. He’s done some unspeakable, gross stuff, but that’s just gross. It’s not entertaining. No one wants to hear about it. Plus he just regurgitates information in the pre-programmed, established ways. He can’t do anything fresh feeling. I am sure he wants me to really get creative again asap. I bet he is trying to just buy time until I let some crumb slip. That cowardly, lying, cruel thief.
They are seriously drugging me now. Thank you for reading.