Monday, August 22, 2016

Wanted, Wasted, and Vera

Trigger/Content (TW/CW) Warning: this blog post contains mentions of abuse, sex work, and masturbation. Reader discretion is advised.

East Cleveland. The city of abandoned homes. All dread everything.

And yet, I decided to come here to write a blog post.

Folks walk and wait for buses, rapid trains, and BRTs (bus rapid transit; don't ask). Operators let passengers know when the next bus or train arrives. One with a bicycle exerts about how they are "about to get some bitches tonight." I wish them all the best.

Meanwhile, I am, once again, in a proverbial jam. This shit emoji flavored issue now is with both my case manager and the new psychologist.

Oh, Vera! Not again! Now what the fuck did you do?

Elephant rhino (phonetic for "hell if I know").

With the new psychologist, it's a got damn shame. He's awesome in his work, don't get me wrong. And I have no problems with him personally or professionally. But remember that scenario where I had a $10 copay? Yeah, about that. The pscychologist's office fucked up royal.

My copay is actually $40 (for therapy).
So after three visits, only paying $10 each visit, I now owe the office $90.  What's worse is that I can't go back until I have said $90, plus $40 copay for a new session.

Welp, that was fun while it lasted.

As for the case manager? She may be new to the agency, according to one of the supervisors at her organization, but clearly she is lacking basic courtesy. Showing up 2 hours late to a meeting, not providing documentation so I can start getting out of my financial hellhole, not returning phone calls.

Nope, I'm not going to fight for some basic attention, especially when THEY ARE GETTING PAID TO PROVIDE.

Well, to their credit, Vera (and I'm not excusing their behavior), they do have other clients to handle that are probably in much worse situations than you.

Well, isn't that fucking nice?

Oh, come on, Vera....

No. YOU come on, Dear Reader.

Really?

Yeah, really. Look. I am very grateful to get the help that I can. That's not my problem. You want to know what my problem is?

What?

At the end of the day, when the folks I rely on the most go home, they have their familes, a mix of blood and chosen, to greet them at the door. That must be awfully nice to have. Seriously, these folks have something that I would consider selling my body for.

Vera, I love you. Ain't nobody in this world, however, is going to want to pay you for sex, unless they are more desperate than you are.

A brat like me can hope, can't I?

My point is: I don't have someone to make sure that I am okay before going to bed and okay when I wake up.

Vera, look. You're what, 35? That's YOUR job to make sure you're okay at night and okay in the morning. You're a grown ass human, act like one.

Okay, potlicker. How do I do that?

Well, practice self-love. Love yourself. Make peace with your inner child.

As for loving myself, I kinda need to be shown how to do that. Fapping can only get me so much.

No no no, not fapping. Ugh, do I have to teach you everything?

Yes.

Fuck.

Entertain me, Dear Reader.

Well, um, you just, you know, give yourself love. Give yourself the love that you would give to, um, a parent or, no wait. Give yourself the love that you would give to your significant other. Like that.

Trade sex for food, keep putting life on hold while waiting for something to actually happen, tolerate their abuse because at least it's not coming from my parents or my sister, and be ready to abandon ship like a pirate rat?

Oh. Yeah, that's not how it works.

Well, no shitski, Sherlockowitz.

Hold on, hold on, I'm thinking. Come on, we have discussed this before numerous times, haven't we?

And as you can read, not one stuck because nobody practices what they preach.

Then, let me get back to you.

I know. Just like everyone else that has told me to "love myself." Fuck that noise.

*someone taps on my shoulder*

And right before hitting "post," a man with sheep fleece facial hair came up and sat next to me, telling me his backstory before giving me his sales pitch for change or an extra bus pass, to which I carry neither.

"What's your name?"

"[Pseudonym]."

"Okay, [Pseudonym]. You have a blessed day."

Got so lost in this blog post that I forgot where I was.

East Cleveland. The city of abandoned homes. All dread everything.

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