it’s all so funny

Page Forty-eight

sehnen posted on Jun 12, 2008 | views: 85 | Tags: at the summer watersidex

thurs 12 june 2008   Greenfield

Well, I don’t think I’ve mentioned yet that since my life was destroyed (not to mention my mental health) by the DMH and CSS three months ago, I have been, with a great many people, a joke. Here’s a partial list: a bank manager, several librarians, a woman running for city             council, a deli-maid, a guy I used to live next door to, and many more. These people, when I first told them what the DMH had done, leaving us for the sheriff and disappearing animals and lies about where the animals were and the illegal behavior of the landlady and me being homeless, et cetera, giggled or smiled and said things like: “good luck,” “hope it turns out,” “hope you have a good resolution,”, and all kinds of other bull, when it was too late. No good luck had been in evidence, the animals were gone, I was homeless, and I couldn’t imagine why they would think it was anything to smile and giggle about. Even one of my doctors, as late as April 8 (we were destroyed on March 12), was patting my shoulder as if I were some kind of poodle and saying, “we have to get your animals back,” and she was beamingHow get the animals back, I’m thinking, and where from? And if I got them back, where would I take them to, me being homeless and all, and the DMH doing not one bloody thing to rectify that homelessness? But I am a joke. The situation calls for smiles and giggles and clichés. All the inappropriate and insensitive smiles and giggles I have received in the last three months have only deepened by far my conviction that neurotypical people are so shallow and lazy in their cogitation that they border on the mongoloid.

None of it has been a joke to me. I lost home and belongings and identity and purpose and privacy and autonomy and, most precious of all, the family that held me to my otherwise failed and strenuous and insubstantial life. It is not a joke to me. It is the end of my life, such as it has been. And they are still grinning at me when they see me, many of them. Idiotic clown grins that show no sympathy, or empathy. A complete inability to imagine themselves in my situtation and think, “Would I want someone grinning and chuckling and saying vapid things to me if I had lost my whole life, and my identity, and all my love? Would I want that?”

So, cretins at DMH and CSS, cretins in the public at large, I am not a joke. What was done to me and to 14 innocent, ageing animals was not a joke. Illegal evictions and the poverty not to afford an attorney are not a joke. Sixteen months of relentless harassment by a psychotic, drug-dealing, mob-connected drunk are not a joke. The hours and hours of excruciating physical pain that psycho caused me, pain that puts me into shock and makes me pass out, were not jokes. Living with no home at 55 (when all your life you’ve had one) and no dignity and no autonomy and no meaning and no purpose and no love is not a joke. It is so much not a joke that if I were the homicidal type, a great many of you would have had your funerals by now. But though I have rage enough for the crime of passion, I am not a killer. I don’t have whatever else it takes besides rage to be able to kill.

Laugh and smile away, all brain-dead ones. I don’t owe a single human being a goddamned thing. I will verbally insult you, I will give you the finger, I will do whatever I can to protest your notion that I and my animals, and what was done to us, are some kind of joke.

Update 25 June 2009: I can feel again the anger and insult I felt when I first wrote this, though in somewhat duller fashion because of the antidepressant and the depression itself. Depression flattens you out a lot, robs you of spirit. Another person who constantly smirked an idiotic smirk at me was case manager Dolittle from the DMH, who had been my case manager for four months and done not one thing to try to help me find a place where I could have some of my animals. To have this incompetent, lazy excuse for a man and a social worker give me that idiotic smirk every time he saw me, as if the destruction of my life that he helped bring about were funny, was almost more than I could bear many times. How often I wanted to smack that smirk right off his brainless face.

I do believe I have Asperger’s. Matthew told me I do, but even if it turns out that M was for some reason hoaxing me, I still believe I have it. And one of the things that always ties me in knots about neurotypical people is this inappropriate smiling. We don’t smile much, we aspies. But I much prefer that to the inappropriate smiling that goes on like phony waterfalls. Smiling at someone you’ve hurt, smiling when you know someone’s in a very bad time, smiling while you lie through your teeth. Most neurotypicals look like blithering idiots to me with all the superfluous, unwarranted smiling that goes on.


                        (part of the book Spite and Malice)

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