I feel so utterly powerless today at the age of 62 years….and our upcoming election has me terrified, for all of us.
If I was a billionaire right now, I know I would not hesitate to help to make other people’s lives better. As well as mine.
I can’t stand to see others suffer and do without.
If I was a billionaire and I knew that my lifelong disabled niece who was never able to work their entire adult lives was suffering undue hardship because of that, I could not go to bed and have a restful sleep until I actively set them up with the help they need so that they would not have to continue to suffer undue hardship.
Enough with bootstraps. People do not come with them.
I don’t. I never did.
Yes, I am vaguebook taking to you, Aunt “Bee”. And to my family who hate me simply because I am loud, outspoken and hate racism, injustice and hate itself.
I was groomed to fail by a family my entire life who never accepted me or wanted me to even exist. Because they refused to understand my autism and get it—and me.
So they hated on me and kept telling me all of the things I would never ever do or accomplish or be in life.
This kind of talk sets kids up for failure and poverty, even jail and prison.
No. I never have been in jail or prison. But my life has been an entire life of a looooong list of lost dreams and opportunities because of my family holding me back and hating who I was.
I was never lazy, folks. I did happen to do a lot of hard work growing up…housecleaning, dishes, cleaning kitchen counters and sinks, cleaning bathrooms, I even raked leaves and watered plants. I even picked up the tree branches of the apple trees my dad had pruned one year to make extra money when I was kicked off of my SSI for four long winter months.
But my family always were on me when I would do my chores telling me always, I wasn’t doing my work good enough for their perfect standards.
So I learned early on to give up and withdraw into my bedroom. To not even try…..
Just so I could avoid the harsh criticism I got.
Never good enough.
Too loud.
Too weird.
Too….too….”different’.
In my family, “different” was bad and wrong.
And if they wanted me to write nice thigs about them, they should have, and could have done better.
Image ID: A desk with an old classic typewriter on it. Text reads:
“You own everything that happened to you.
Tell your stories.
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