So I didn’t go to Meeting. Which is a shame really, because I need it. A part of my brain injury is this crippling depression. Meeting helps me feel less alone; which could only have helped, today. But, I guess God thought otherwise.
Hence the rain.
Butch doesn’t seem to care about my well-being anymore. His convenience is all that’s paramount to him. He won’t let me grocery shop anymore; which sounds like a little thing, I know, but is HUGE in my personal governing. He’s also continually frustrated by the slowness and permeable nature of my t.b.i. recovery. Yeah, & I’m NOT?????
I also see nothing being done to re-activate my sense of personal or professional value. Which isn’t up to Butch, but I’m just saying.
It’s probably not fair, but I thought, when Gil came on board as a Trustee, my attempts at re-capturing my life as a writer would be full tilt ahead. But I’m being ungrateful, & that’s flat-out wrong. I also have the impression that it’s primarily because of him, I’ve been able to keep my Mac in operating condition, despite my repeated efforts to “look under the hood".
If it weren’t for Grendel, I’d be SO out of here.
Arguing for my independence with my trust lords has gotten really old, really fast. See, I’m like a poor man’s Brittany Spears: all my money is in a special needs trust, dispensed as need be by my Trustees: Gil Roth and Peter Johnson. Gil, I’ve been friends with since St. John’s. Peter does this for a living, & cuts me a world of always legal and ethical slack. More tomorrow. Nighty-night.