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Sunday, 9 September 2012

Scary Story -
I Need to Post A Letter

As Scary as it Looks
It's a letter to my doctor, telling her that my Totschreiben has arrived, and asking can she help me? I first mentioned it to her about 7 months ago. I said how the stress was driving me crazy and was going to kill me.

charcoal, whiskey and sleeping tablets

Well, the letter came, within a few days, I'd managed to get the charcoal, whisky and sleeping tablets together, but drank the whisky, mainly to cope with going out to get the other bits and pieces, and rationed the tablets so I could get enough rest to complete the other preparations... which by this point once again included getting whisky and tablets.

round in circles, in a sea of distress

It's taken me about a week to notice the flaw in this plan. I was autistically over-focus on the mechanics of dying while swimming round and round in circles, in a sea of distress...

seething strait-jacket of pain

Anyway the other day, (another) stress fracture in my left heel jolted me out of my misery into a seething strait-jacket of pain that had me faffin' for hours about whether to call the doctor the ambulance. I decided to self-medicate with whisky instead. The thought of all that social interaction necessary to get a bone set, just wasn't worth the effort.

 leaves you effectively functionally crippled

This kind of pain that even when it's leaves you effectively functionally crippled, is as nothing compared to the fear of using the telephone, or answering the front door... And, going to the shops, tops the lot, with a shiny black malicious Morello cherry.
Image by P D Evans
It's too dangerous

I'm not going to go out now. It's too dangerous. I'm almost certainly going to bump into one of the neighbours, the woman that conned me out of hundreds of pounds, the nonce I caught videoing me, the guy that left the dog shit on my door-step, the woman that put the poison pen letter through my door, or the man that left broken glass. Then there was when they tried to rip the car-port down. Burgle the house. Threaten me in the street...

the reality for an isolated slow boy

This is the reality for an isolated slow boy, with no family or friends, stuck in a village council-house in the middle of Anglo-Saxon Toryville...

Other news: Our Lives, Our Voices

Voice of the disabled and advocate and mother extraordinaire @MrsNickyClarke blocked me on Twitter, and when I politely asked her why, via a short comment on her blog, she ignored me.

I think it may have something to do with the saintly @BendyGirl getting a less than glowing review from The New Republic for her presentation at the Brandon Trust's 2nd 100 Voices conference, yesterday.

Clearly discussion, reportage, satire and demanding that our voices should take precidence over the voices of those that barge to the front, loaded with the neurological privilege, gets you demonized, branded a Troll and then systematically blocked and banned from the Debate.

You see why death appeals?

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