A series of angry essays. Why? Primarily because my parents were molesting my finances. Things were tough with election season. Overstimulation from the neighborhood, various events. Whether its the cops looking for a criminal. Fights in nearby households. Whatever, I’m tapping into events. Furthermore, I’m tapping into personal conflicts before they happen. Fights with my parents, typically. I use cannabis— never been able to find a suitable living spot to calm the intensity. The cannabis keeps me motivated, productive and allows me to fight through the vibration which leaves me sick, lethargic. It’s no surprise to my parents I require money for the cannabis. Its what I’ve always used and doesn’t carry the pharmaceutical side effects. No creativity, no sex drive (related), no will power. Complacency, ill.
Sometimes I go over the budget, but sometimes I get hit with additional costs in life. Mainly periods of time when I don’t sleep. Overstimulation, incoming events, whether national headlines, personal conflicts, or something in the neighborhood. Trembling, shaking. Things become physical, more involved. I eat more frequently, gut brain. There aren’t many remedies besides concentrated cannabis, munchies on munchies. I know when I’m tapped into something because I wake up at five in the morning, starving.
When I ask for help and i’m refused, there’s not much I can do. Not much I can do when the vibrations are blanketing the air. Not much I can do when i’m hunched over ninety degrees. “Make more art” my therapist and I thought. Wrong. Despite drawing after drawing. Despite track after track. Essays too. There’s no relief. I’m tapped into something, and it has the ability to shutdown my days.
There’s no security in the weekly allowance, because my parents have full control. Typically my mother has full control, which means there’s no wiggle room, despite being moved to a troublesome location. It was a rentable VRBO. Was I allowed to rent the VRBO for a night or two before a literal purchase? No. That’s too much. Now i’m overstimulated everyday. Who cares, I guess. A fight on social media has the ability to cause shaking attacks, trembling. What does a traumatic event in the neighborhood accomplish? Who knows. Assassination attempts on presidential candidate who working class people are reliant? In the Poconos?
Parents threatened to remove my allowance entirely after posting the “Coming Clean” essay. I fought back and argued its my story and my life and there’s an important message underneath, but they didn’t want to hear anything and are obsessed with the “family’s preservation”. So after thinking about the consequences, I removed the blog from my website. Fast forward, here I am again, not able to grocery shop, buy my cannabis, pay my subscriptions because they’ve refused my allowance despite granting their wishes. What’s the point in taking down the blog and staying quiet? What’s the point in repeating this cycle over and over again?
There’s no reason to keep the blog removed if they aren’t going to keep their end of the bargain.
THE BADBOOB, that’s how they like me. Causing problems, dysfunction. Giving their boring, loveless lives some entertainment because the house is quiet. Is that their motive, the goal with fucking with my finances? To cause an uproar at the cost of everybody around them? Who knows, but I certainly never rule out the option. How can I?
So here I am, they haven’t sent the allowance. Won’t answer my call. Won’t answer my text message. I removed the blog and for what? So they can exert power and control over my situation?
No I can’t work a job — extremely intuitive, psychic. If my mom loved me as a child, she would’ve communicated my gift to my father and opted to live in the countryside, away from the cities, away from the busy roads, away from the noise. Helped me develop and understand the gift. What’s the role of parents after all? Anything to do with helping develop your children, their personalities, their gifts. Their skills, their boundaries. Helping the child to understand their place in the world? What a load of shit!
“She probably didn’t notice”.
Children are dependent. Children need caretakers. Observers. I find it difficult to believe a mother doesn’t observe her child’s personality, especially when I’m saying things like “why do I feel this warm feeling in my chest” or “why do I feel sick and upset right now”? Imagine being told to lie to yourself every time you feel an intuitive hunch. For year after year after year. Since the days of your birth. Programming your mind to never trust itself, ever. So here I am. Basically recovering from mental illness. Bad programming. A virus.
The other perspective? The one I find on reddit.com/r/empaths? I have the intuition because I come from a family of liars. Intuition reads through the lines, the bullshit, and into the truth. God’s own lie detector. Intuitive empaths often originate in broken homes, a response to dealing with an uncertain environment. A theory. Certainly.
YOU WENT TO SCHOOL! And I returned home everyday, overwhelmed with energy, told I was “being too much” or “bipolar” because of my shifting moods, shifting vibrations. Broken windows, punching walls, throwing objects, temper tantrums. Behinds the scenes activity.
YOU WENT TO COLLEGE! And I was medicated to fucking shit and spent the majority of my freshman year going to the emergency room with medication side effects getting IV’s stuck in my arm, catheters stuffed down my penis, mediations lunged into my throat. Anti psychotics, anti depressants, Benzodiazepines which were stripped cold turkey. Narcissistic doctor.
If you removed the posters in my college bedrooms, you’d find the knuckles marking plaster.
I did work in high paced restaurants seating twelve hundred reservations on holidays, and I actually enjoyed the chaos and intensity. But its detrimental to my health longterm, mounting sleepless nights on sleepless nights. Remember, my schedule is insane. A terrible vibration forfeits all sleep and working on zero hours takes its toll. It’s a snowball effect — becoming impossible to pull yourself into any operable health. Even my therapist, the son of a tradesman, mother was a secretary for Jimmy Hoffa, went to prison, who worked from the streets of South Philadelphia and onto the Mainline, Olde City — opened a private practice, said I should focus on art.
So I’m focusing on art but the process leaves me dependent and vulnerable.
A mimicking of childhood. An unescapable past.
Oh, and the missing artwork from months at Sheppard Pratt Hospital doesn’t help either. Most likely thrown away. An act of revenge. A cover up. A neatly wrapped package including my art from a mental hospital.
My parents should think about installing my weekly allowance, because word is bond and if they aren’t going to then why should I stop posting blogs, why should I stop telling my story?
It would seem counter productive and extra boot-lickish.
If the blog is re-uploaded, my sister has nobody to blame but my parents, who insist on holding me financially hostage. When all I needed was an extra $70 or so.
THE BADBOOB 