It Isn't Simply Trudy Richardson's Dissembling Threats

As a practical matter, I have little idea how to avoid Inglis House and all the implications such regimentation entails. People lose more than freedom in a wheelchair community like it. They lose the right to say no, the right to decline medical torture, like forcible cathereterization, which I'd decline, regardless of chronic incontinence. It takes wealth to avoid such a fate, a huge degree of resources. Few have it, and if Presby starts legal proceedings against me for non-compliance with waiver services, I may be able to give notice and vacate myself, but I'm not going to get very far without sympathizers who have the willingness to buck the system and let me age on my own terms. In this day and age, that's pie in the sky.

No one likes nursing homes, but Inglis is a mad house reminiscent of Anne Sullivan's descriptions to Helen Keller's father, even if the rats are few and far between. The odor of diseased human waste overwhelms visitors, which is why few families stay involved with Inglis's wards, and rely on torturing peers like me to roll the front lines, when there is space enough between the gurneys in the hallways, the maddening number of power chairs outside patient rooms. Mechanics I knew from my own service needs could barely walk through the clutter, and as prejudiced as I claim to be, you certainly cannot care to contemplate what this does to the black paraprofessionals who have to maintain these bodies, day in, day out. They quit, try to deal with bitches like me, or more passive savants on the attendant care model, or use their salaries to go through nursing school to keep eating it, many of them not particularly good at their jobs, indifferent, much like my sister. My family would say I'm terrorized by the prospect. Yes, but this is due to Presby's methods, especially under Trudy's jurisdiction. She has been threatening me since she was a new hire, and her latest tactic was to stress fuck my dying aunt. I'm supposed to just let this roll off me and give it the finger? This is why I'm leaving. Going from point A to point B, with scant pennies.
What happens after that, I cannot say, but my literary tricks, allowing for satirical disruption, sans Bulgakov, are few. Far between. 

Nebuchadnezzar's Amulet

I stayed for ten minutes. What am I doing here reverberating in my browbeaten intelligence, relieved to be familiar with the director, laughing sardonically at their mail, treating a dying and angry entitlement strapped spastic woman like a philanthropist, though to be honest I feel an affinity with their librarian, who was gasping in the galleries, busy day. I left not due to alienation so much as lack of readiness to use my weapons at self-promotion. I am going to make labels, play the game of unsaid to make one last bid to get myself as equidistant from micro Protestant Africa as possible, treated myself to dinner since I indeed looked like a glass of La Lastra Sagovese, 60 dollars for calamari and doggy bags, living death as history. Am I a rabid monster destined for the gallows?

I had no idea Helen Keller was the source of so much salacious gossip in the fifties. Before her deification in the notorious play The Miracle Worker, there was the roman de clef, the story of Esther Costello. Heather Sears before Patty Duke. I am reading picture books of a blind deaf socialist when I was six years old and she was still alive, Keller, an ACLU founder, and possibly a mistress to Sullivan's husband. It just suggests to me things so difficult to convey between where I've been, and how much I hate now, how much I would hate her socialism the way I hate the disabled community I've experienced.

Be glad there is no magic pill people; you would not want to deal with me cured, maniacal with rage.