Put it this way: Nobody likes the crazies. People hate what they see as weakness and fear what they cannot understand. THAT is the human condition. Every book that is written, every sermon given, every enterprising idea or gainful employment excludes the psychos whom they berate for being lazy and, at the same time, will not hire, embrace, or address because psychotics are too dysfunctional to be __________ (you fill in the blank).
So began my wretched descent, unprepared for the depths to which I would plummet, and for the rejection from which I would suffer with the constancy of Paul Simon’s deepest lamentations. In essence, we crazies are invariably lonely.
The criminals figured that out long before the merchants and politicians had. Once in a halfway house, they seek mentally ill females who serve both as moneybags with their dependable disability cheques, and as comfort women who will be sex slaves without even being self-aware enough to realize they’re being taken for a ride.
Merchants like to penetrate and push the envelope of this market. Banks are included in this, being the quintessential merchant class. Commercial merchants are testing the market knowing full well we live below the poverty line. Banks simply shamelessly and aggressively push credit cards with $10,000 limits–knowing even better than full well that we live below the poverty line. Way below the poverty line.
Pastors usually try to appeal to the masses, but when coming upon a conflicting part of their otherwise smooth and harmonious appeal, they make the disclaimer that “of course, this doesn’t apply to those who have a physiological or brain chemistry problem”. And they just carry on addressing their sermon, more distinctly then, to the “well” members of the congregation.
This would be all fine and good, except during refreshments these good religious people come up to us to engage in a meet-and-greet conversation, inevitably asking us “And what do you do for work?” We decide to be honest as any good religious person would, and say we don’t work (we all know nobody wants to hire a psychotic) because of a disability. They edge away a little bit and say we don’t look disabled. No, it’s a mental disability. Oh. And then, they make an excuse to wash their hands from the sticky bun they had just gorged on, naught to return.
It’s enough to make us to want to bury our heads in the sands of the LoTR trilogy, or rather, if more intense than usual, the HGttG trilogy in four parts. Nothing beats a new digital gadget than a friendly and comedic social commentary, or so I would like to think.
Even the local crisis line people have been slower to deal with us. Though knowing full well the last psychiatrist quit left us adrift, and we’re obviously suffering, we’re limited to one 14-minute call a day. Second calls are cut short in the first two minutes with the condescending reminder we have already used up our daily quota.
The more they marginalize us the more they isolate us. The more isolated we are, the weirder we get—only proving their point that we should be shunned in the first place. So, TV is our only faithful friend. It’s almost always friendly (or we change the channel); it can’t reject us; and in the event it is discriminatory, we write in to the omnibus-people or, rather, tweet and hashtag. Canada has standards after all, eh?
Or so some like to pose as for.
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