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 competent.

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, but have an RDSP.

Pastors usually try to appeal to the masses, and when coming to a conflicting part of their otherwise smooth and harmonious sermon, 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 you to engage in conversation, inevitably asking you “And what do you do for work?” You decide to be honest as any good religious person would, and say you don’t work (because nobody wants to hire a psychotic) because of a disability. They edge away a little bit and say you 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 makes you want to bury your head in the sands of the LoTR trilogy, or rather, if more intense than usual, the HGttG trilogy in four parts. Nothing beats a new digitial watch than a friendly and comedic social commentary.

Even the local crisis line people don’t want to deal with you. Though knowing full well your psychiatrist ditched you and you’re obviously suffering, you’re limited to one 14-minute call a day. Second calls are cut short in the first two minutes with the condescending reminder you have already used up your daily quota.

The more they marginalize you the more they isolate you. The more isolated you are, the weirder you get—only proving their point that you should be shunned in the first place. So, TV is your only faithful friend. It’s almost always friendly (or you change the channel); it can’t reject you; and in the event it is discriminatory, you write in to the omnibus-people. Canada has standards after all, eh?

Or so as we like to pose as for.

©️Vic Young 2019-2022 All Rights Reserved

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