Shame, Aggression, False Pretenses

When I first joined Examiner over the winter, their advice to me, however removed in locale and my internal time sensing mechanism, was "not to hide." But any raise in profile carries risks, and I sometimes wonder why Blogger tolerates my sometimes rampaging content, not all of it an act, because posts are regulated for behavior, and not given full free speech latitude, but this points to how social networking stokes paranoia. I am afraid of Linked In's controls, and the hassle of having everything I write in a group like the Professional Women's Network "subject to review". It is a large group, and I don't want to presume too much, but subjecting to review is neither a guarantee of containment, nor definitive indicator of future acts. My grudges have poisoned my emotional well being, certainly, but when I broke my wedding engagement with Frank, my family should have helped me relocate. They did not, and I am stuck in exactly the same place I have been in against my will since 1994. The former supervisor who hurt me has probably paid off her mortgage. My apartment manager Trudy Richardson, who was a cheaper investment for Pennsylvania than I, gets paid to harass me for being non compliant, and Jimmi and Erik, Christ knows what they think they've actually achieved. Disability activism presumes that transitioning from an institutional environment to a housing environment where behavior is proscribed to the 10th power is the definition of success. For me this rings hollow without rewarding matriculation-- and I have been without that since 2005. Being in section 811/202 housing from the beginning of a career that keeps breaking me hasn't been the easiest thing to withstand, but we seem to insist on regulating ourselves down to the bland banality of oatmeal. I wanted a real independence in my life, not 50 memos about inspections and tenant meetings and who gets ostracized for not being a black baptist. I wanted to travel, not demonstrate with other wheelchair users for empowerment. It is a flawed and forced form of inclusion that has its own sterility. I wanted an income for vanity, my own furniture, decent clothes, not struggling with disability payments, alone, with no friends of my own choosing.

I have interacted with a woman named Mary Bryant on the network, and if I am guessing correctly she's a better Catholic than I ever was, even in the fervor of my religious years. I opened up, just enough, to tell her I don't recommend Linked In members read my blog-- if the post goes through-- but if she did she'd probably wonder why I'm not on my dead mother's lithium dosage, getting *help*. It would certainly be a way for the social cruelty I've experienced life long to be buried, in tandem with the fact that I've dished some of that back, particularly on suburban female author hopefuls with caustic ferocity born out of despair. I may have wised up, but social fear is not an unwise prerequisite when utilizing social sites. I've had a horrible life. It pisses me off, and the people who've wronged me got away with it. Every time.