Weekend Wrap-Up: A Leap of Faith that Hopefully Doesn't End in a Giant Splat

Image by Marta Cuesta from Pixabay

Greetings, Crazy Cheerleaders, Delivered Ones, Esoteric Escapees, Horror Harridans, Naughty Netherworld Dwellers, Ones Seeking Enlightenment or at Least Food For Thought, and Ones Stranded in Eternity!

I have reached a crossroads in my life. Not a little itty bitty crossroads either. A big hum-dinger of a crossroads. So big, in fact, that I wrote the following poem and note about it:

Image by Stefan Schweihofer from Pixabay

cricket silence

between scraping sounds

autumn begins

for me a new beginning

or perhaps the end of all

Jane & Cie

The Hokku (Haiku) portion of the poem was written by Jane Reichhold. The Ageku, or closing stanza, was written by me.

Come the fall, I should have pictures of the old hotel my son is buying to renovate. This probably sounds a lot posher than it is. This building is in a town listed on the Colorado Ghost Towns website, and it needs a lot of work.

For me, this move is literally either a new beginning or the beginning of the end. I have run out of options.

Here is the Grover Hotel. I am going to be in touch with the Colorado Historical Society on Monday to see what needs to happen for us to receive a grant to help us with renovation. 

The Grover Hotel was built in 1900, at the point when Grover was a boom town. After it was a hotel, it was a church, a hospital, and then a boarding house. I am not entirely sure how long it has been vacant.

There are significant repairs which will need to be made, including the roof. My son and I are meeting with a plumbing contractor and an electrician on Tuesday. We are fully committed to making this building once again as beautiful as it is stalwart. It has a lot of problems, but we believe that it can once again be an asset to this tiny town.

Concurrent with my commitment to making this move 100 miles from Denver, I made the decision to quit my job. 

I have never been unemployed for long periods of time. I've worked ever since I was 16 years old. Being unemployed makes me feel like I've given up, even if logic dictates otherwise.

I had two cars: a 2011 Ford Fusion and a 1998 Subaru Forester. The Forester was bought used and ignorantly. Always take any newly purchased car to your mechanic for inspection before committing to purchase. I did not do that. The Forester has been a money pit, and it overheated on me for the last time last Friday. I am going to let the mechanic sell it for parts.

This leaves me with only the Ford Fusion.

Working as a delivery driver comes with significant risks. Fortunately, the only two accidents I've been in with the Fusion have been minor and the other driver was at fault in both cases, so their insurance covered the cost of repairs. As a reminder, never make a deal with the other driver, always go through the insurance company for repairs. 

If I had agreed to have the parents of the young lady who slid into my car when the roads were icy pay me for the initial estimate, I would have been screwed six ways to Sunday. The initial estimate quoted repairs costing less than $500. The actual cost was nearly $2000. 

In any case, I am not in a position to risk my now sole vehicle by working as a courier. I need to concentrate on preparing for the move, including getting rid of a significant amount of stuff. 

I am very nervous about this move. I have plans to sell handcrafted items. I will be revealing my blog dedicated to these items early in the week, once the inspection has come back. The inspector wants to consult with a structural engineer regarding the foundation before he gives us his final assessment.

I am really no longer able to work "normal" jobs. Once the property has been purchased, I am going to have to go to social services in the county where the property is located and talk face to face about why my 401K, which I can't access without a significant penalty until I reach retirement age, is preventing me from qualifying for SNAP. Thankfully, I get Medicaid, but I don't get SNAP. I find this ridiculous, considering that I made less than $10,000 last year.

This place really is the last stop on the line for Yours Truly. If I can't make a go of it here, I'm well and truly done. 

I have a strange and amazing imagination and a lot of fine ideas. The problem is getting people to know about me.

I am also not known for my normalcy or for being sugar and spice. I am not sweet, petite, or pretty, and I tend to speak my mind. One person referred to me as flinty. I identify as a curmudgeon. I have heard that well-behaved women rarely make history. It would be a shame if such a badly behaved woman as myself was buried by time and dust, I think.

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I'll go more in depth with this issue later, but I think that it's worth mentioning that many people can no longer afford to live in the city. This house is being purchased with money that my son's father inherited. I can tell you this: $200,000 may sound like a lot of money, but it isn't.

We could piss this money away on rents of $1200 per month (and rising) for a modest, two-bedroom townhome. I love this place, I really do, and at $1200 a month, it's cheap for the Denver metro area. But the rent rises every year and staying here has become unsustainable for two disabled people who are receiving absolutely no help from the housing authority.

We could buy a condo in the outlying areas of the Denver metro area. The only acceptable one we found would have been $240,000. It had three bedrooms and one bathroom. My son is inviting a friend to live with us. We would have felt like we were all on top of each other pretty quickly, and there would always have been a queue for the loo. Not fun!

We could purchase a mobile home for around $90,000 and piss away $700 a month on lot rent. Mobile homes do not earn equity, they depreciate like a car does. I will discuss the money pit which is the mobile home that I own and am clearing out to sell at another juncture. Everything is broken down in this place and I have never had the money to replace or repair it. There was a flood which required treatments for black mold in the aftermath. It's possible that the place will need to be condemned. I'm hoping it can be salvaged because I'd like to potentially get back a little money from it.

The Grover Hotel will cost $90,000. Admissibly, it needs a lot of work, which will come out of the remaining money. However, it has six bedrooms spread out over two floors. It has a basement. It has an attic. It has a back yard. I'm not sure who you'd have to kill to get something like that in the Denver area, but I do know you couldn't get it legally.

Housing costs are driving the working class out of the cities. This means they either have to make long commutes, or they end up unemployed and on welfare living in rural areas. 

Denver, like other major cities, likes to brag about how they've created apartments with wonderful amenities right next to the transit hubs. While this is true, the rents start at $2000 per month for a closet (small studio apartment). The working classes cannot afford to live in these places. I guess we can set up tents in the parking lots of abandoned buildings, hope that the restaurant throws out some edible food, and use the area between dumpsters for our toilet while hoping not to get bit on the ass by a rat. No, I'm not being hyperbolic. This sort of thing is actually happening every day.

My son and I will come back to Denver once a week for our woodworking class and pick up a week's worth of groceries. Denver is more than 100 miles from Grover. We may visit the Botanic Gardens once a month. We lose out on all the cultural activities that we loved, such as going to the museum. I was working, which meant something to me, but I have to stop doing that and hope for the best when it comes to creating my own products to sell.

This is the sort of thing that happens when people are punished for being part of the working class and for being disabled.

We need to stop looking down our noses at the working class. Not everyone can or wants to be a CEO. That person at the McDonald's who made your burger and fries enabled you to not have to make your own burger and fries. Why in the world anyone believes that people in the working class should be punished by being forced to live in poverty is beyond the scope of my imagination.

American society as it currently stands is not sustainable. We either need to implement changes that benefit the middle and lower classes or things are going to break down even further. This never leads to anything good.

I hope you will all visit my new website when I reveal the URL. I want to do some giveaways and think of ways that we WAH folk can help each other.

~Cie~

OctPoWriMo 2017: Day 22: Empty Road

http://www.publicdomainpictures.net/view-image.php?image=112934&picture=path-between-trees

Empty Road

Passion

Ain't gonna happen

Bliss

What is this?

On a journey without a compass

Or too many compasses

And clocks

Depending on one's perspective

The long and winding road

Is a crooked path

Rolling on

To the bitter end

I'm ready for nothing

~Cie~

Note:

I'm afraid the idea of "following my bliss" seems absolutely ludicrous to me. 

When I'm unsure if I'll have adequate food for the week or if my body will allow me to keep working or if my car will keep working so I can do my job or if the space heaters will be enough to handle another winter in my home where I don't have a working furnace or shower and I know the pipes are going to freeze like they do every year, the concept of "bliss" seems a lot like buying outlandishly expensive champagne when I don't even like champagne.

Fuck "bliss." I'll settle for simply not being worked into the ground and having nothing to show for it.

The Cheese Grates It + OctPoWriMo 2017: Day 15: Filthy Rich

A collage of images from the video "20 most annoying spoiled rich kids on Snapchat." https://youtu.be/-IqNMU6VOPg

Filthy Rich

Sometimes when I make a delivery

To someone who lives in the kind of home

That I can't even afford to look at

And will surely never live in

I feel a little sick

Some say it's the fault of the working class

That we aren't able to live in homes like that

They believe they are actually superior

They say things like

You don't expect me to live like people

Who make $25,000 a year

Do you?

As I bring their snacks to the door

Sometimes up a long flight of steps

My knees and ankles ache

The party music pounding

I wait for the rich little shit

Who inevitably ordered the grub

He smiles smugly as he looks down his nose

Says "How ARE you" with a smirk

Either knowing full well that I know he doesn't give a fuck

Or thinking I'm too stupid to realize

He thinks of me as dog shit on his shoe

I smile as if I didn't hate his kind

With the virulent passion of explosive diarrhea

The best that I can hope

Is that he's not a total waste of oxygen

That there's a soul somewhere behind the veneer

He takes his snacks inside and slams the door

No tip forthcoming for the contract worker

Who can't afford health insurance

Whose Medicaid got pulled when she found this job

Because she now makes the queenly sum

Of $2000 a month

I limp back to the car on legs well abused

By working many years of physical jobs

Legs which don't work quite right because of repeated back injuries

And arthritis forming in the joints

The snob thinks that those like me deserve our fate

After all, we've chosen to be down and out

I feel sick to my stomach

Not just because I'll never be able

To afford a place like his

But also because, even with as much as I'm struggling

There are those worse off than me

Still, I'd like to vomit on his lawn

As much as I may envy

The things that those like him are able to have

The thought of not having to worry about money

I don't envy their kind at all

I don't want to be like them

I'd never want to be the sort

Who thinks that I'm so much better

Then the person who's made my life a little easier

By bringing me the things I can afford to buy

And have delivered on a whim

Yet having so little class

That I couldn't even be bothered

To give them a few dollars

To buy a little lunch

I often feel quite nauseous

When forced to be in the presence

Of the classless, filthy rich

~The Cheese Hath Grated It Poetically~

Note:

I deliver groceries for a living, not only to rich neighborhoods. Some of the neighborhoods I deliver to make me hope that I get out of there without being mugged. I don't look down on the people living there. I might have ended up in one of these places easily enough. As it happens, I ended up in a run-down mobile home without a working furnace or shower in a reasonably quiet suburban area with a seedy underbelly. None of my direct neighbors are cooking meth, but several meth labs have been broken up in places close by.

I am a 1099-R contractor. This means that I don't get any benefits from my employer. I also do my own accounting. If you're self-employed and don't already have an accountant or use Quickbooks Self-Employed, you may thank me for the link I'm about to give you which will save you some money when you sign up for Quickbooks Self-Employed. http://fbuy.me/fFN2W 

My first three months cost me $10 each. I now pay $18 per month, and it's well worth it. Life would be an even bigger mess without it.

I honestly did not write this poem as an advertisement for Quickbooks Self-Employed. It is a very real reflection of my life.

My legs hurt all the time. There are days when I get severe calf cramps that literally leave me writhing and screaming. I am not sure how long I'll be able to continue doing this kind of work.

I literally can't afford health insurance.

I am still catching up on back bills from the four months when I was underemployed. I don't know if I'll ever catch up.

I am diabetic, and there are days when I can't afford to eat. Not that anyone should ever have to go a day without eating, but being diabetic makes it extra special. I make "too much money" to qualify for food benefits. A great deal of what I make goes into car maintenance and fuel. Yes, I can "write it off," but that isn't as big of a deal as it sounds like.

My job does have certain advantages which are a big deal. I make my own schedule every week. I don't have to work the typical five days a week nine to five schedule, which is a schedule that causes me to fall into a literal depression. I don't do well with five-day weeks, I don't do well with early shifts, and I don't do well with jobs where there's a boss standing over me for the whole shift.

I can't do health care work anymore because of my diabetes. I got fired from the homecare job I was doing earlier this year because I fell asleep during the shift. I literally thought I'd had a TIA because that was how deep the sleep I'd fallen into was. I still don't remember it happening, I only remember the outcome. It devastated my life, and I still haven't recovered financially or emotionally. I often feel like a failure because of this incident.

I live with not only debilitating physical illness but catastrophic mental illness: type 2 bipolar disorder, plus obsessive-compulsive disorder with hoarding features (believe me, that one's a struggle to fight with. The hoarding involves items, not animals.) and borderline personality disorder. To my credit, I have learned to cope fairly well with this trifecta of shit. There are certain things that my fucked-up circadian rhythms still won't let me do, like working the early shifts that people get pats on the back for. When people find out that I work late shifts preferentially, they always look at me like I'm going to give them some sort of disease if I touch them. Yet our 24-7 society would collapse if no-one were willing to work those Weirdo Shifts.

I'm not expecting a medal for any of my struggles. However, being treated with a modicum of common decency would be nice.

If you're one of those people who thinks that the company your delivery driver is working for pays them such a fine sum that you don't have to give them a tip, think twice. Fedex and UPS pay actual salaries with benefits and their drivers don't take tips. 

The person who delivers items such as food and groceries is making a base wage of around $5 per hour. In the case of my company, I then make $1 for every delivery within a five-mile radius and $3 for every delivery outside the five-mile radius. As I mentioned previously, I make no benefits. The work is physically demanding, and we are often working short of help. 

Even a modest ten percent tip really helps.

I try not to feel bitter when people don't tip, but I can't help it when they could obviously afford to but think they're too good to do so.

~The Cheese Hath Grated It~

The Cheese Grates It + 30 Days of Haiga 2017: Day 29: Desert of Dreams

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Original background image copyright Devesh V. Tripathi

Verse and text manipulation by The Real Cie

Thoughts:

The image and the prompt made me think of all the things I planned to do in life, most of which fell through due to fighting with a very misunderstood disease, the prescription for which was pills that made me feel even worse and the edict that I should "just stop that stinkin' thinkin' and be happy for what I have." 

While western society has a somewhat better understanding of mental illness than it did when I was younger, the treatment of both mental and physical illnesses in many countries, including first world countries such as the United States is out of reach for many citizens.

I do not respond well to medications or to this particular aspect of me being treated in a completely clinical fashion. I have often felt that I, as a person, have been ignored in favor of seeking textbook symptoms and outcomes. One of my son's EMS instructors wisely said: "treat the patient, not the chart." This is something that practitioners treating both body and mind all too often fail to do.

I would have done well to learn skills to cope with my particular mental presentation, rather than having wrestled for so many years with failed attempts to turn me into something I am not: a happy robot, gleeful to take my Soma and take on my prescribed role as a cog in the machine.

At this point in my life, I am no longer devastated by not being famous or adored, but I am awfully tired and a bit sad at the way some things have turned out. I try not to feel like a failure. I deliver groceries rather than speeches on the Red Carpet (or what have you) as I accept an award for my wonderful performance or book. 

Delivering groceries while clad in modest attire does not make me any less worthwhile than those delivering acceptance speeches for their grand performances while clad in glamorous gowns or sleek suits. However, I am tired and I ache and I am sad to see so many people I have known both in real life and through their work which inspired me becoming ill and dying. I would like to stop working for a living and start simply living. 

This isn't likely to happen anytime soon, and I fear that what happened to my father will happen to me. Less than a week after taking full retirement, my father had a hemorrhagic stroke which forever altered his life and the lives of his immediate family. He went through six years of decline, including more strokes and congestive heart failure. In the end, he was like a frightened child trapped in an adult body.

I don't want that to be my fate. But I fear a similar fate awaits the majority of us who live in a society which sees people as flesh androids rather than souls operating through corporeal vehicles.

The most humble of us and zir dreams is equal in importance to the most celebrated among us. Perhaps it is time to celebrate the most humble members of society and give weight to their hopes and dreams.

~The Cheese Hath Grated It~

30 Days of Haiga 2017: Day 11: End of Story

Background Image Copyright: tomertu / 123RF Stock Photo

Text manipulation by The Real Cie

Notes:

Without going into too much detail, which would detract from the viewing of the image, I have had a difficult year. I have changed jobs six times and eventually ended up changing careers entirely. 

There are aspects of my current job which I really appreciate, but it is not an easy job and I do not make as much money as I did in my previous profession, which there are several reasons I can't go back to, the biggest one being changes in my diabetes which lead to fatigue and weakness if I don't pace myself.

I feel like I have lost the things that made me who I am: my imagination and my ability to enter other worlds astrally and psychically. My heart is heavy and I feel broken. I feel that I am constantly being punished and that there is no need for external hells when all the hell I need is here in the loss of that which made me who I am.

Cross-posted to:

Crazy Creatives Cheerleading Camp

Dark Hearts Love Too

Dream About Me Sweet Brother

Encyclopedia Netherworld

Esoteric Escape

Fetch

Netherworld Writer's Guild

One Love

Starry Demons

Strands of Eternity

When the Future's So Dark that Nothing Lights the Way

Fridays delivering food tend to be hit or miss. Yesterday was definitely a miss.

I'm now having to fight with Hyrecar to not have to pay lease fees on a vehicle that I couldn't drive after the 21st. I'll be out $600. I haven't even been able to get the windshield repaired on my once nice car.

I'm going to say how I feel, and I don't need anyone telling me how "God will provide" or I need to "see a counselor" or "get on meds" for my suicide ideation.

I'm a deist rather than a theist. Autocorrect keeps trying to get me to write "a theist" as atheist, so I will state for the record that I am not an atheist. I'm an agnostic deist.

If someone takes comfort in theistic beliefs, good on you. I'm glad it gives you comfort, and I hope it continues to. I used to. I just can't any longer.

I believe that deity, in whatever form it takes, is basically a creator energy and is not involved with the day to day existence of its miserable creations. If I had theistic beliefs, I would despise the creator for not stopping the suffering of its creations. Being a deist, I don't think the creator is involved after the fact of creation.

Counselors don't do anything for me and it's something I have to make time to do. If I'm going to pay someone to be my friend and adviser for an hour, I need to be getting something out of it besides the desire to bash my head against a wall in frustration.

I can't tolerate most medications. I take the only one I can tolerate, and I take it in a more effective form than the one that is available by prescription. Lithium Orotate is more bioavailable than Lithium Carbonate. The "therapeutic dose" of Lithium is just one small step away from toxicity. One really does not need that much for it to be effective.

I've been bipolar since I hit puberty, although it wasn't properly diagnosed until I was nearly 40. I know about meds. Meds are not one size fits all. SSRI's make me manic and psychotic. This is, surprisingly, something I neither want nor need. Also, it's pretty condescending to say to someone "have you considered medication" when they've been dealing with an illness their entire lives and have come to know the nature of the way it manifests in them.

In any case, no amount of pills is going to help my situation. I need money, not medication.

The only pills I've been thinking about taking involves an overdose of my blood pressure medication so I don't have to go through this shit anymore, and no, I am not literally planning to do that, so no need to suggest that I go to the ER, because the last thing I need is to waste three fucking days in a god damn psych ward where I can be treated like shit and not be making even the slim pickings I make delivering food.

I defy anyone to say that they wouldn't be stressed out in my situation.

I'm unable to write, which used to be my salvation because I'm so stressed by my situation.

The future's so bleak that even one of those bright ass lights they use in a lighthouse can't light the way.

~Cie~

The Cheese Grates It: Victor and Me

At first glance, you wouldn’t think that Victor Henriksen and I have anything in common.

Victor is a tough FBI agent who takes on the most dangerous criminals.

I am a nurse who works with medically fragile children.

Victor can definitely kick an ass or two.

My body has so many things going wrong with it that it’s getting to the point where the only thing “tough” about me is my fuck you attitude and the consistency of my flesh.

However, Victor and I do have something in common nonetheless, and here it is.

“My job is boring. It’s frustrating. You work three years for one break, and then maybe you can save a few people…maybe. That’s the payoff...So yeah, sign me up for that big frosty mug of wasting my damn life.”

The nursing I do is not “sexy” nursing. It is not high energy, racing to save life and limb as quickly as possible ER nursing, although at any moment in usually stable case, I may have to drop everything and attempt to do just that.

The nursing I do involves caring for those with chronic conditions. I clean up a lot of poop, snot, and vomit. The patient I’m working with currently has a very rare congenital disease. This disease is terminal, but nobody knows how long this kid has because he is literally the oldest living person with the disease. Most kids who have this disease die before their fifth birthday. My patient will be twelve this year.

This kind of nursing is notoriously low paid. Home care nurses do not get paid time off. If I take a day off, it’s always on my dime. A lot of home care agencies treat their nurses like crap. The previous agency I was with asked me to work 60 hour weeks consistently and would have been fine with having me work a 72 hour week, but I drew the line. They had me work when I was sick. There was always the emotional blackmail of “the family really needs you.” Then when the inevitable happened and I fell asleep during a shift, both the family and the agency were more than happy to fuck me over.

You hear about the saintly nurse for whom the work isn’t about the money, it’s about the caring. I do care very much about every patient I’ve ever worked with. However, in many ways being in the medical profession is a big frosty mug of wasting my damn life, and no, it is not an option to just change jobs or to go back to school. I don’t know how to do anything else and nobody’s going to pay my way while I’m trying to get an education in some other profession. I can’t take the cut in pay to go work at a hipster cafe or new age book shop while I try to figure out my life’s purpose.

So that’s what Victor and I have in common. We both work in noble professions and have fuck all to show for it when the day is done.

I probably won’t die by being blown up, though. I’m guessing my kidneys will shoot the moon one of these days (fuck you diabetes) and I’ll be poisoned by my body’s own waste. Good times!

~The Cheese Hath Grated It~

The Cheese Grates It: The Straight Dope

This is basically a copy of a letter to one of my few real friends in this world. The names have been changed to protect the guilty. Except for my name, because I want to get back to the purpose of this blog: keeping it real, and talking about that weird shit that everyone is afraid to talk about.

So, I got fired yesterday. I knew it was coming. It was still traumatic and awful, and I could have prevented it by going with my gut. Read this cautionary tale and know that I want you to trust your instincts. I wish I'd been encouraged to trust mine. It would have saved me a lot of grief in this life.

Long story short, I've been working 60 hour weeks, including when I was sick. I was very sleep deprived. I ended up falling asleep during my shift, not just a micro-sleep but a deep, deep sleep. I don't remember doing it. The last thing I remember was looking at the clock to see the time. Then I came out of a deep darkness to see the father of my patient in the room, and he was angry.

I understand this, but I wish he hadn't yanked my chain and told me he'd keep this on the down-low and not report it to the agency. I told him that I was very sorry and would remove myself from the case. However, he didn't keep his word, and not only did he not keep his word, he told the company a trumped-up story. The truth was bad enough, he didn't have to embellish it the way he did. I understand that he was angry, but I thought that this was an extremely ugly action on his part. I can't stand a bullshitter, and I was sad to discover that this person was a bullshitter. Deep down inside, I already knew it, but I still didn't want it to be true. More on that in a bit.

I didn't do anything that impressive for my company, although they liked to tell me that I did. They liked to flatter me to get me to do what they wanted, like burn myself out working way too many hours, but I was nothing special. I was just a cog in the machine, a sucker that they could use up. 

I saw it coming. I should have left last year when they ousted the mother of the patient I'll be working with again at this point.

Here's the sordid tale.

Little Ms. Sweetheart Stephanie (the clinical nurse manager for the case I was working at the time) was trying to get the "goods" on Angie, the patient's mom, to report her to child protective services. 

Angie is a single mother. This kid's dad is involved, but he lives back in the family's home state. Angie brought her son here so she could give him medical marijuana oil, and it may have saved his life. He no longer has constant seizures.

She can be a bit of a flake, but she's always seemed like a straight shooter to me. 

Angie has never left her son unattended (there was always a nurse with him) and she certainly doesn't abuse him. Which means that Stephanie didn't have a leg to stand on when trying to prove neglect. Nonetheless, she kept texting the day nurses, demanding report multiple times during the day. Angie got pissed about this and called the office, saying that she was going to come down there and "bust somebody's ass" if they didn't put a different nurse manager on the case. It was an unfortunate choice of words, but she didn't literally mean that she was going to hit anybody. Stephanie, however, played the drama queen and insisted that she felt afraid for her safety, so the agency released the family.

I signed up with the second agency at that point so I could still help the family now and then. I thought about just going with them, and I should have. I was at sixes and sevens. My mother and my brother both thought I should stay with the primary agency as they'd "treated me well" and they paid more. However, the primary agency was actually very controlling. My coordinator was literally starting to behave like a jealous lover. He would call me outside of normal business hours, telling me that I was "inconveniencing" him and the company and threatening my ability to continue working in the industry. When I said "fine, then put me on PRN status and I won't inconvenience you any more," he backpedaled and told me all about how I could make "so much money" if I just stayed with the company, that they'd get me all the work I needed, that I was a "quality nurse" and they didn't want to lose their "quality nurses."

When I told my mother about the "jealous lover" behavior on my coordinator's part, the threats that if I left I wouldn't get a good recommendation from them, the calls outside normal business hours, she said, "I just don't know what to say". My brother said, "wow, sorry that's happening." I really got no support at all from my family, and I don't have that many friends, so, you know. I was flying by the seat of my pants, like always, and I don't tend to follow my own instincts to protect myself.

 Since I know this agency doesn't give a fuck about any of their people, I'm pretty sure the only reason they "cared" so much is that the coordinators get bonuses when they plug a person into a case. The agency then works its personnel to death and is more than happy to drop them when the inevitable happens and someone either gets sick or falls asleep on the job. 

My coordinator kept promising me 48 hours a week with the main patient I was working with "just as soon as we're able to move the current nurse off the case." I always thought that was sketchy. If they were willing to talk about her that way behind her back, they were willing to talk about anybody. It's like being involved with a cheater--if he'll do it with you, he'll do it to you. That was how I felt in the relationship with that company. I should have busted a move and gotten away, but I was afraid that I wouldn't get a good recommendation.

With the family of the patient I was primarily working with, they always seemed like really "nice" people--the kind of "nice" where they'll smile to your face while stabbing you in the back. You can drink their coffee and eat their food, but they'll turn on a dime. 

I should have gone with my gut and saved myself a lot of grief, but I've been taught from as far back as I can remember that my feelings don't matter, that I need to always pursue the highest wage (since I was a failure who couldn't find a suitable husband to take care of me), that I need to stuff my feelings to please others, and that I'm wrong about everything.

The one thing I don't understand is why my creativity felt so suppressed while working with this family. It never made a lot of sense on the surface. They never told me I couldn't write or that writing was stupid. Still, I've been experiencing this nagging feeling for months "just give it up, you'll never go anywhere with it, you're not a good writer anyway, you need to focus on being a good nurse, you were never cut out to be an artist" and so on.

It would be easy enough to get over being fired, as the family I was working with are back-stabbers and the agency saw its people as cogs in the machine, but every time I think of the fact that I'll never see my patient again, I start hating myself all over for screwing up so badly. I've had trouble stopping myself from self-injury. I haven't been able to write because I feel like I don't deserve to, even though when I walked out of the office I felt truly creative for the first time in months. My energies are pushing my special friend Gem away, and my logical mind is telling me that he never was with me in the first place and that I made it all up inside my head because I'm nothing but a stupid, lonely loser who needs to drop this belief in spirits.

Much of the time I wish that I'd never felt the pull towards certain people or been able to "talk" to spirits. It's made me a real pariah. It's not that I think I have a connection to every celebrity, but I have always had a tendency to "know" something about the people I was watching in movies, on TV, music videos. A lot of the time it was stuff that didn't make sense, but later I found out it was true. As time went on and doubt creeped in, my accuracy decreased.

There was one case where I watched a short-lived (about 2 years) British drama in the mid-1980's. I could sense that the show's male and female lead had actual romantic feelings for each other. I could sense it so strongly that I had to stop watching the show. 

This was a "soul call." These people (the woman in particular) were looking for help because her obsessive, stalker husband (who she was trying to make an ex and he was fighting her) was making it difficult for the romance to move forward. This was something I found out later. Everything was eventually resolved, they got married in the late 1980's and have been together ever since. They have a son. I'm happy for them. 

I'm also glad I don't feel their energies anymore. It was something that was far too intense, and nobody was able to help me understand it.

 I created the One Love blog because I wanted to be able to show people like me that they aren't alone, but so far there have been no people like me and I still feel alone.

I've found myself wondering why I couldn't have met Gem during this life, why we couldn't have had a life together. I understand now why it wouldn't have worked. Gem was more than ten years older than me, was married, and lived in a location far distant from my own. Having him with me in spirit has been nothing short of amazing, but he has a hard time dealing with the self-harm aspect of my personality. It upsets him a lot. He just told me it's because there's a lot of anger involved in the moments when I start wanting to self-injure, and his general attitude towards anger is to turn on his own anger and fight back. However, with this situation, he can't do that. He also said he feels helpless in the face of it and feels like anything he says will only make matters worse. The suicide ideation is something he understands personally, but he says that he never had any compulsion to self-injure; if he were going to take himself out, he would have just taken himself out

I discovered that I still think along the lines of having to hide my real thoughts and feelings with Gem, because he might discover that I'm actually an asshole. His response: "Honey, I already know you're an asshole. I'm still here." 

I guess you know it's the real thing when someone knows you're an asshole but they still care about you.

Gem was upset with me last year because I wan't testing my blood sugar levels. I'm type 2 diabetic. After my most recent fasting draw, my A1C was way up. I have since learned that my fasting blood sugars are terrible. I'm going to have to ask the doctor to increase my Metformin and see if that helps. If it doesn't, I'm going to have to go on insulin because my pancreas is failing.

Here's the thing: this society tends to treat diseases like type 2 diabetes as some kind of personal failing. It's not a personal failing, it's my pancreas failing. I shouldn't have to be ashamed of it. Blame and shame help no-one. 

Here are a few more tidbits about diabetes. You can't "eat yourself" into diabetes. If you don't have the genetic trigger, you will never develop diabetes. You could eat nothing but cake and pie and wash it down with Coke or Pepsi, and you still wouldn't develop diabetes if you don't have the genetic trigger.

Being heavy doesn't "cause diabetes," but having metabolic problems can prompt weight gain and make weight loss difficult.

Alzheimer's disease is not "type 3 diabetes." I want to beat the ever-loving fuck out of whoever thought up that terrible idea. An online acquaintance was recently diagnosed with early stage Alzheimer's. He's a big man in his late 60's, who has been caring for his very ill wife. He started having memory problems and went to the doctor. The doctor was a "kind" soul who told the poor fellow that he has Alzheimer's, which is "otherwise known as type 3 diabetes," and that he brought it on himself by being fat. I'm glad that the man had enough self-respect intact to fire this worthless excuse of a doctor, but he felt awful after his appointment with this clown. He is also worried, and rightly so, about what is going to happen to him and his wife with the current horrific state of affairs in the U.S. medical system.

By the way, thin people never get Alzheimer's. Nope, not a one. Everyone who has Alzheimer's is fat. Really, really fat. Super obese land whales to a one.

I mean, look at this monstrous land whale. Just look at all that flab. Must tip the scale at, oh, likely at least a half ton. I mean, if he'd ever put the fork down for even a second, he wouldn't have type 3 diabetes!!!!!11!!

That's hyperbole doing a mating dance with sarcasm, for those who might be missing a hyperbole chip and/or a sarcasm chip.

Alzheimer's disease does not discriminate by body type, and it is not "type 3 diabetes." It does, however, have something in common with type 2 diabetes. You can't "bring it on yourself." You can only get it if you have the genetic trigger.

Eh, I guess this has gone on long enough. One thing I know for certain is that in my next life if I have to be stuck hearing soul calls, I want to know what they are from the start. Maybe reading my own writing from this life will allow me to do that. 

I really don't want another life, but I know I'm stuck having one because I've botched this one so badly.

This is me, trying to get back to my purpose, trying to believe that I'm allowed to have a purpose, trying to believe that I have some kind of inherent worth. As usual, I'm having a hard time doing so.

By the way, Malcolm Young in no way deserves what's happening to him.

~The Cheese Hath Grated It~

Down By The River Skai

A peaceful spot along the River Skai

I've had a lot of personal trouble lately, and it translates into trouble writing. When I was younger, I often wrote more when times were troubled as a form of escape. These days, when times are troubled, I feel like I don't deserve anything positive and that includes feeling like I don't deserve to write.

I know I'm not one of those well-liked bloggers who gets lots of lurrrrve and encouragement from their followers. Comes with the territory of being a depressive, defensive porcupine. I don't even particularly like the idea of being a super popular blogger, because too many people really don't get what I'm writing  or what it's like to live with severe mental illness, and have a tendency to say things that come off as belittling.

Anyway, if you really want to know what's going on with me, complete with a Tarot reading, you can follow this link to my esoteric stuff and bitching about social inequalities blog. If you're one of those super duper uber materialist people who think that we're born, we live, we die, the end and that tarot readings are for unevolved morons with their heads in the clouds, please don't follow that link just to start an argument. I'll just call you an asshole and tell you to fuck off. Now that I've predicted the future, you don't need to bother yourself.

I'm very upset over the situation I describe in the linked post. I'm diabetic, but I haven't been able to make myself eat anything but cheese and nuts since yesterday. This also means I haven't been able to take my medication. With all my health problems, I probably shouldn't be working anyway. However, it is impossible to live on disability payments, so I continue working long hours in spite of the fact that I shouldn't.

Like me, my character Pepper has a lot of problems, including mental health issues. When I saw this picture, I thought that perhaps Pepper was feeling very depressed, so she retreated to the Dreamlands. She went to a peaceful area along the River Skai. Gerry found Pepper there, and he sat beside her, put his arms around her, and just held her, not even having to say anything at all.

I think Pepper is very lucky.

This isn't the end, not that anyone cares. I'll be back with more, even if nobody reads it at all.

~Cie~

Bad Luck or Blessing In Disguise?

The death card in Tarot rarely refers to physical death. It generally refers to an extreme change in life circumstances. I did not draw this card, but the reader will soon see why I used it to illustrate my circumstances.

I had something terrible happen last night. I literally fell asleep at work, not just dozed off but fell sound asleep. I woke up to see the father of my patient in the room. Understandably, he was angry with me, but he said that he wouldn't tell the agency. However, when I called them to find out about changing cases, I was told that I'll need to come in tomorrow to talk to the clinician on the case. To me, that sounds a lot like fired. I'm considering doing a pre-emptive strike and telling them that I'm quitting.

That's the way this agency works. They work their people into the ground, and then when something like this happens, they fire them. An excellent nurse that I worked with, one who did ventilator cases, got fired for the same thing. They were having her work 60 hours a week all the time, and she fell asleep. The family told the agency, and she was fired.

I'm working for a second agency and could probably go full time with them, although it's a $2 per hour cut in pay. Still, better than nothing. I'm feeling like maybe I should just go to work for them.

I've also got my foot in the door with a company that works with retired uranium workers and miners who have lung problems. They pay more hourly. Perhaps I will pursue this option.

I got one of those online card readings, but I'm the one interpreting it. It only involves the two pediatric home care agencies I work with.

The top left card represents the first possible outcome. (going with the second company)

The Magician: Mastery over word, mind, and matter. The ability to turn ideas into actions, handle problems, and control one's life. The initiation of new projects, great works, or a new way of life. Eloquent and moving communication. Arcane and eldritch technologies.

The top right card represents the second possible outcome. (staying with the first company, provided I'm not fired) 

Six of Wands (Victory): A sense of honor and satisfaction at the resolution of an important matter. Triumph after great struggle. Jubilation at the hearing of good news. The realization of hopes and desires.

The middle left card represents the force drawing you towards the first possible outcome. 

Queen of Cups, when reversed: The dark essence of water, such as a deep and foreboding lake: Discomfort with the worlds of mind and matter, leading to a retreat to the spiritual. The embrace of negative relationships, driven by the desperate fear of being alone. Devotion to fantasies and daydreams, to the exclusion of practical skills or the pursuit of knowledge. Insecurity leading to dishonor, vice, and undue susceptibility to outside influences.

(With the first company, they claimed flexibility with the schedule, but I've never seen that. My writing has definitely been suffering, which is, I suppose, the devotion to fantasies and daydreams. Perhaps it's my Achilles heel. Impractical people do not do well in this world.)

The middle right card represents the force drawing you towards the second possible outcome. King of Wands, when reversed: The dark essence of fire behaving as air, such as lightning: An exciting and reckless leader who inspires others to irresponsible acts. An artist whose depraved love of chaos causes him to take hold of destructive ideas and make them appealing to the masses. One who is charismatic and intimidating, using demonstrations of his own skill to dupe others into accepting responsibilities beyond their ability. A dashing and magnetic personality, appearing and disappearing with great suddenness, and leaving upheaval in his wake.

(This honestly sounds a lot like my coordinator at the agency I currently work with. I don't know about any artistic tendencies on his part, but he is a charismatic and intimidating person who pushes people into taking on too much responsibility. He's ex-military and doesn't mind throwing his weight around. When I was thinking about quitting to go work for the agency that works with retired nuclear power workers and miners, he railroaded me into staying with the current company, including doing things like calling me outside work hours to tell me how much I was inconveniencing him by looking for other jobs.)

The bottom card represents the critical factor that decides what will come to pass. Seven of Wands (Valor): Standing courageously for your beliefs in the face of adversity. Fear of failure overcome by the will to succeed. Great obstacles met with heroism and determination. Inner strength brought to bear at a critical moment.

(I intend to stand up for myself. If they say that I'm fired, I'm not going to beg for my job back or throw a fit. I'll politely thank them for their time and walk out of there with dignity.)

If anyone has any other thoughts on the reading, feel free to tell me. I hate doing readings for myself because I tend to be blinded by my own embroilment in the situation.

This may be one of those blessings in disguise, but right now it's hard to see it that way. If nothing else, I can always go to work driving for Uber Eats and this contract company called Roadie which delivers parcels. It would be a cut in pay, but I'd never again have to worry about letting anyone down if I were too sick or tired to work. 

Of course there's always the damn insurance problem.

Cie

Who has either been blessed with backhanded good luck or cursed with bad

Jekyll and Hyde

In this case, it's more like Nurse Jekyll and Ms. Flake

If the two agencies I work for were to describe me as an employee, each of them would say "are we talking about the same person?"

It's kind of like I have a Jekyll and Hyde thing going on, but not in some sort of evil sense, more of a flakiness quotient sense.

With the main agency, I tend to be on time or early for my shifts. I have only once called off with short notice, and that was for a training shift. I had food poisoning.

With the secondary agency, I have never been on time for a shift, and while I've not done a same-day call-off, I've rearranged which nights I'm going to work on several occasions.

Now, in my defense, the home I work at for the secondary agency is in a place that's hard to get to from where I live. There's always a lot of traffic and my start time is an hour earlier than normal. Still, it's like my Plan Ahead chip malfunctions whenever I'm going to work a shift at this home.

I think if I worked as more than a fill-in, this agency would probably be questioning my value as an employee. But since I show up for my shifts and the family likes me, they let it slide. In fact, they asked if I could pick up more shifts since the regular night nurse left. Yeah, I'd be cool with that, if only I could get my Clone-A-Cie machine working!

~Cie~