I did call my brother this evening around nine to see if he would assist me with the AdSense authentication code for this Blogger account. Benjamin is *done* with me because he feels guilty about my circumstances. I ceased being the stoic elder among my siblings, surviving siblings, and took a pic axe to the birthday card facade, and the luv ya! from my unfortunate half brother, who is the sire of a dead alcoholic whose schizophrenia was blooming when he was my deceased mother's lover, turned into "you and your wicked tongue; no one wants to deal with you, probably bipolar, go get some help, you're not coming to my house and I am not responsible for your fucked up life..." but both he and the middle princess, Stephanie, were perfectly fine taking four thousand dollars from their disabled public housing sister who spent the early years of her twenties starving on egg noodles in the inner city. I have to be insane you see, because I violate good manners that Levi-Strauss worked so hard to prove was a universal concern through his research into the Borneo tribes in his now famous study The Raw and the Cooked, which I doubt anyone would contend isn't the structuralist masterpiece of its era, but I called him anyway, and can still pull rank even if diagnosing me is his way of compartmentalizing me aside, or downwind, from his familial stresses. I have a chip on my shoulder, as relates to his better half, in relation to his selfishness, but remain more wounded from my sister's indifference, which some of you may have read from my other account.
No mental health professional ever diagnosed me as bipolar like my mother, even when I drove myself in to one of the old intake centers during my post-supervisor depressive episode, and even when I suggested to a no name treating intern that I would try an anti-depressant to see if the drug would heal the wound. It did not. Brand name Wellbutrin (I nearly always misspell its proper name) knocked me out. I could not transfer from my wheelchair safely, but it was only after Daniel Schneider came trolling to put me, poor spastic, on his poor man's groupie mailing list, that I tried saturating myself with a heavy fish diet and salmon oil and I posted that on good days, it moderates. I could not expect miracles after losing Joey, however, and grew a little weary, last week, of our species ocean rape for our seafood palette. Varied my diet but upped the oil ingestion.
Does the medical model label matter? I suppose it depends, if it might have saved David Foster Wallace, or Virginia Woolf, which it did not. Wallace had the technical advantage, and Woolf has my admiration. I am reading Jacob's Room, comforted by her mild individuation of Topaz the cat, who "was now a very old and mangy cat and would soon have to be killed." The only Woolf novel I ever formally studied and finished was To The Lighthouse, remarkable, however we label her diagnosis, that she could complete such a masterpiece. Woolf is no Sylvia Plath, and has a real social intelligence that remains a quiet genius that even the studio system quietly translates. I have Orlando and Mrs. Dalloway. The latter is still uncut; the former I may have to start again. I am in the middle, before the master's sex change. Whether or not Woolf was bi, and her mental instability may have contributed to that, I do not read Orlando in the modern sense of transgender advocacy. Many readers would disagree with me on this, but I will tackle my argument with a finished, fresher reading in the future. I viewed a mediocre adaptation of the novel years ago, when Bravo was actually a relevant syndicator.
Heat, grief, a life long marginalized poverty. I have to compartmentalize AdSense away this humid morning, but I hope to make an effort to solve my illiteracy after the heatwave, as I have a great deal of content to transfer anyway, aside from pitches, my creative writing, whose production has slowed, because I must do less
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