Rob-world

Still late. A lot to do tomorrow:  get groceries and champers.  For New Year's Eve.  FUCK, I hope the little bottles of Veuve are still available.  Probably not.  FUCK.  AGAIN. I NEED water.  I've been REALLY thirsty, lately.

Almost bed time.  Tomorrow, I need to go food shopping.  While learning how best to use my Apple Watch and participation in the new Mac OS testing group push me cognitively in ways abstract yet concrete;  I still find myself running up against roadblocks, primarily of my own invention.

Trying to see if listening to modern classical, like that by Philip Glass, spurs me to write, more than my old stand-by, the Pet Shop Boys. So, I had to go to the Jefferson ER the other night, and a really nice male intern became the only one to ever get the joke behind my listing Butch’s place of employment as Vanderlay Industries, a Seinfeld reference.  It takes so little to charm me.  I didn’t press it though, and just rolled home, when released. Alone; to my cat. I’ve gone over It again and again, in my head, HOW I could’ve played it. differently.   I THINK  most of my doubt comes from a fear of mis-reading social clues or inferences,  as I DID OR must’ve done, most. notably, on 1/31/99. Bottom-line, I forgave Ian and Glen right away for assaulting me.   The fact that the Gardai caught them and they went to jail so quickly, allowed me the luxury of not wallowing on that too much. I can forgive their ignorant, societally inculcated fear and brutality so readily; my own failure ...

Yay..  I LOVE going to Meeting.  My left leg’s hurting; below the knee. Here’s hoping it’s nothing.  I pay people WAY too much, to be in this constant a state of disrepair. It’s so tiring, as well. Maybe cI SHOULD GO SEE dR. Mike about it. I’ll pray on it, tonight and tomorrow.

… or, as I annoyingly refer to it, an iWatch.  I’m already enthralled by the myriad of cognitive learning prospects  its use offers.  I only wish my Trustees would begin to trust  my rationale with $$ .  Scott's 8 years of hammering "want/need/different”, finally seems  to critically inform my financial resolve and rationale. Other recent achievements harken to my enrollment and activity in the MacOS testing program for new, system software, these past 18/24 months.  My Trustees , bless their hearts,  don’t seem to want to think about any truth to my cognitive development, if it interferes with the perpetuation of the status quo.

Butch took me to and from a relatively successful day at the eye Dr’s at Penn. I found Ciaran’s emergency medicine practice in Jersey. It’s nice to know he’s all right. I don’t begrudge him moving on, soitanly, and he’s always been this way:  obsessed with the new at the expense of the old. So, I’m not surprised at all by this. Disappointed, annoyed, and hurt now and then, sure; but surprised? No. I’m just glad he’s all right.

...just feel like my Trustee's and I are creating an increasing, ultimately violent end to my life and work. My Trustee's seem pre-occupied with saving me money , at the expense of my quality of life. FINALLY, I feel they've come around to learning my mac is, and has been, my primary recovery tool; and as such, it has and will need frequent and costly, repairs. Ugh. time for bed. I'll come back to this, tomorrow.

Went to Meeting. Got the dets on Carol Spawn’s memorial  service.  Started thinking about the track of my life.

& lonely.  SO FUCKING LONELY.  It’s been this way for years, so many, that I’m finally all right with moaning about it.  I’ve stopped worrying, and basing my commentary on what people who love me might find hard to hear.  Almost to a man, those who DO care about me say they’d rather hear me honestly.   So, here goes:  I have many Friends, but few friends here, in Philadelphia. More tomorrow; I’m so damn tired, from my constant depression over my heavily winnowed life.

Staying up late to write; napping in the afternoon.  I’m remembering, consciously, what has  probably been my driving force, all along: I like, nay, LOVE being me.  I daresay, I LOVE being me. & I LOVE the way Ciaran and the Quakers, and, indeed, Scott; let me return on my schedule, and did not allow an artificial recovery to usurp the priority of the slower, more natural and hopefully permanent, recovery I’m presently enjoying.  I’m railing against my almost natural tendency, for me, to jump 8 steps ahead. For the first time, in well over a decade; I’m back, bitches. Fasten your seatbelt, it’s gonna be a bumpy night. Not really. I like to think, I am, at heart, a basically decent person.

Which is something of a vicious circle,  as then I’m depressed all week because I didn’t go to Meeting.  Primarily, I’m depressed over the way Butch treats me; un-doing all my hard won markers of progress in his rush toward his convenience, by doing my shopping, collecting my bank statements, etc.  Butch, treats me like crap by forgetting, in their actions that my recovery is an on-going process, that if I’m not making recovery progress, they’re NOT doing their job.  I think, taking a hands off approach to my recovery and assuming people took an interest for personal, political, and PAID reasons, somehow fostered the perception that I was less than interested in running my life, down to overseeing the minutae divorced me from sharing in the responsibilities for my recovery, or lack thereof.  NO. It pains me somewhat to think that people may be offended by the further assertion of my independence.  In a way, I see it as the kind of evolution; not “you’re not needed”; but instead ”loo...

Same reason as always:  too  tired.  Too depressed.  I don’t have any control over the direction of my life.  That, not the ability to walk, is my greatest loss from 1/31/99.

Is a song I just heard on tonight’s Tony Awards; fell in love with, and bought on iTunes.  I admit, I’m a weird. guy .  But I REALLY  MISS the man I was becoming in Ireland.   Confident, and eager to test and find the limits of my talent.  Wanting to test then the limits of my talent; surrounding myself with writers who stoked my aspiration, challenging me to raise the calibre of my work, by simply and all-friendly like, competing with me for an un-said chalice of capability. They probably never knew I was competing, silently, but I did. Hey, I’m an American.  It’s what we do.

As I’ve no doubt said before, Morris was about to put her down when I adopted her.  She came from a house with little kids and a couple dogs, she had developed nervous diarrhea and nervous tremors, and was skittish as hell. She’s much better now, and we’re both much happier, lately. She’s my primary reason for living, especially when my frustration with the Trust’s hindering my life and recovery is as prevalent, frustrating and inexplicable as it is now, and has been.

This one. Makes sexual activity impossible, virtually. 

I like this.  This is happy/ productive Robert: up late, napping during the day; the only thing I haven’t done yet is add actual writing into the mix.  If I don’t try; I’ll never know, I can’t do.  The Trust seems to be stuck in 2006, as regards me and my judgement/Intellectual capability.  It has actively denied me the chance to make my mistakes and learn from them.  It’ll be 1:30 before I get to bed now. See-rist on a cracker.

Beyond occasionally  dipping into this blog; I don’t write.  It’s not that I just don’t want to; lately I Have nothing  to say.  I feel so whittled down as a person, there’s nothing creative here. The Trust’s focus and management feeds my sense of being devalued as a person.  It’s only interest appears to be maintaining the status quo. I was all about advancement/recovery.  Apparently, the trust is only about maintenance.  I adopted Jaime because had issues. And they had already adopted her out once, but it Wasn’t a good fit, and she was returned.   It was either me or the needle for her.  So, in saving  her, I found a small purpose.

… that I doubt I’ll get any sleep AGAIN tonight.  FRANKLY IT JUST PISSES ME OFF.  I ASK SO fucking little from the Trust… and maybe that’s my whole problem: I only get what I ask for: so fucking little. & so that’s what I get. More tomorrow.  It’s late; I need to sleep.

Went to Meeting; had a peace and social concerns meeting after.  I had no qualms about participating, did so; and everything went fine.  It’s interesting to note how remarkable ordinary 1st days have become.

It's odd how I miss Wendy. so much,  so vitally. Maybe because we were each other’s backup-plans.  We’d get old,  and maybe go live out our final days, in a place we called 1 Walton’s Mountain.  Now where am I supposed to go now; what am I supposed to do? Who am I supposed to grow old with and die? The Trust is not set up to allow me to seek out, and live, my best life possible. So I haven’t; and don’t.  Perhaps oddly,  my life is only given purpose by Jaime.  I saved her; they were gonna put her down because she’d already been adopted 2x, but returned  each time, probably because when she’s nervous, she gets incredibly fluid shits. I’d like the Trust, or somebody who could & would do something about it, to notice how unproductive and sad my life has, frankly, become. And allow me to concretely invest my money in making myself, my life more resolute and productive.

He’s gone from assisting in my recovery , to being its hindrance. He does, & has been doing things for me, instead of with me. That’s just no good.  I have to be allowed to fail, repeatedly if need be, to learn from my mistakes.  Butch, bless his heart, sees it as his job, to keep me from failing.  Only, it’s not; in fact, it’s the opposite.  He has to give me enough rope, to hang myself, then, when I inevitably do, cut me down in time to keep me from dying.   Then, repeat.  I’m still making my way  back from 1/31/99.  I still have cognitive difficulties I’m trying to overcome. Probably will for the rest of my G-d life. Ian & Glen did a real # on me.  Often, I worry I’m just NOT strong enough to keep recovering, and having to fight to fulfill what I deem as basic, cognitive recovery skills, is demoralizing at best.   Peter, Butch, & Gil don’t really KNOW me well enough, now, to know what they are; often, even I don’t, until...

Butch has been giving me a lot of grief lately over my desires to be more involved in handling my own tasks of daily living.  All of it has me thinking, seriously, do I need Butch anymore? He’s a HUGE drain on my finances, I think, the biggest drain I have; and while my recovery has made my need for him only decrease, his cost, through legitimate raises and such, has only increased.   I’ll mull this over this weekend, and pray on it this 1st day.  I raised it in therapy this past week, more just to hear it out loud than anything else. 

Í just don’t know what to do with myself.  Apologies to Tom Jones,  everyone, as much planning as I put into  my recovery, I thought f-ck all what I would do when recovery ceased being nay primary goal in life.v Being in a wheelchair doesn’t define me; nor do a host of obvious descriptors:  writer, Quaker, b on vivant, idealist, gay, drunk raconteur.

Tomorrow’s a day of grocery shopping, then, 1st day, Meeting.  My life is SO EFFING BORING.

I should be WAY more tired than I am; but I’ve noticed myself reverting, lately. to a few pre-injury habits, like staying up late, and then napping during the afternoon, say, from 2-4. Then, it’s after midnight now, and I wanna write.  Yeah it’s just my blog; but anything is better than nothing; which has been my status quo of late. This is VERY  much the behavior of pre-assault Robert Drake.  And I must confess,it feels good to wrap myself in these old but productive habits again.Familiar even; and oh, so missed.

I once had so much potential.  Now, well, I produce next to nothing; It’s my own Goddamn fault.  No one external is to blame;I find focusing on one thing, and typing is interminable now, for me, post t.b.i.  And ideas: new ideas are strangers to me.

I’d been saving them, but not publishing them.  Oy. Now, they’re posted.   YAY.   I just straightened out many of my password problems.  YAY; again. Maybe I may finally make this a conscious, daily, habit. YAY.

I really don’t see the point to having money if you’re not going to use it.    I  don’t travel, my hang-out friends all live elsewhere , my tv is a tube set from the  last millennium; the weather here sucks in winter, trapping me inside for, oh, we’re going on 6 weeks now, pretty much.   It’s been this way, or worse, for the past 5 years.  I don’t kill myself, honestly, because of my cat. And I’m not even a lesbian. I’m also gutless, which fills me with so much self-disgust….  I am too depressed to go to Meeting, and haven’t been for the past several weeks; I think 1x this year, so far. All I do is therapy, which I don’t see the point of, anymore.  I’ve given up  on ever walking again, so why bother?  I’m miserable 24x7 and gutless.  Butch repeatedly tells me I’m getting worse, and, finally, I’m ready  to agree with him.  I have to include him in all my travel plans, or else the $-people won’t approve my travel plans, & he gets pissy when I ask him to help me get ready for a trip...

The further along I get in my recovery,  the less hope  I have of ever being autonomous again.   It’s like, “Oh, we left you in charge 1x, and look how you fucked THAT up.  So, it’s best NOT  to try that again.  Don’t you agree?” Um, no. People,  you’re discrediting my ability to learn from the vast wealth of life experience I’m  gathering,   AND, denying  me the chance to act upon lessons learned.

I'm writing to you, directly, because this has been on my mind for a long time. I'm fucking miserable. and have been for a long time. I wanna move to the St. James because it was designed by an architect in a wheelchair, so EVERYTHING takes that into consideration. It also has a pool with a wheelchair lift in it. The only residential one in the area, outside of a rehab setting. I need to do some cardio; despite 2 trainers, I get and have gotten no or minimal cardio for over a decade, & the St. James was designed by an architect in a wheelchair so EVERYTHING takes that into consideration. The interior of the units too. I have made my peace, quite happily, with living in Philadelphia, even to the point of buying a funeral plot from my Quaker Meeting. I need to get over my reticence of talking to Peter. It is all of my own fabrication. I hope to buy Giovanni's Room, too; because I could get for a song and because, it is a recognized national landmark who should not be allo...

& have been, for years, actually. 

My acupuncturist quit,  after over a decade of service.  My physical therapist quit months ago and  has yet to be replaced.  My new Quaker friend was murdered. My employee isn’t being treated well, and says he  hasn’t gotten a holiday bonus in 2 years.   I’m sure there  are  acceptable reasons to y'all for 4 of these, but you know what:  I don’t careHappy effing new year.FIX IT.NOW. TIRED,SAD, AND FRUSTRATED,Robert Drake

I’m listening to  the Pet Shop Boys through my new, Beats headphones, all my tv shows tonight are set to record on  my tv, but  creatively, I’m dry as a bone. Why?

This increasing lack of control over the direction of my own life, leads me, with increasing resolve, to the decision to take my own life, after Grendel and my father die.  It’s just, increasingly I become aware of my increasing inability to self-direct my own  life.  That’s all gone,  now.    And  I just can’t take it anymore.

Crudely put, I have way more money than any non-bestselling author should.  But  it’s all in a trust that, ideally should operate in such a manner  as to allow  me to get back to the level of creative proficiency I would be making the  most of, had I not been bashed.  Sadly for me, it  all operates with goal of saving my money  for a life I may  never live to see.  Right now, I’ve  given up  all hope of leading even a semi-self directed life.   If my life continues on it’s empty path, I’m killing myself after Grendel and my father die.  I take full responsibility  for  the events  leading up  to  my assault, but  none for after,  except for staying alive & working so hard at my recovery for so long.  Most of that,  the 4th & Arch Quaker Meeting lovingly gets the credit for.  When I got my  award from  Ireland’s Injury Tribunal is is when the neutering of my free will  happened.

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.

My autonomy was my most highly prized and effective personal feature. Whatever happened in my life, even the bashing,  I could be held culpable for. And should be. Now?   Not so much.

Up late, trying to put everything in order. Order lets me FOCUS. FOCUS. ;-)

…with Republican extremists in their hatred of Queers.

In fact, it seems to be my  secondary default state. I haven’t feared death, since the assault.

and haven’t been, for such a long time.  But everything I  name as a cause, is often symptomatic, rather  than causal. SO…

My Friend Amanda,who I know from 4th & Arch, died last week. Heat stroke. I found out on Sat., when I went shopping.  A clerk at the grocery store goes to my Meeting and told me.  We’d just agreed to start hanging out after Meeting sometimes, or through the week, as part of my effort to try and develop new friendships. It’s same as my friend-to-be, whose name,  other than “Joe”, escapes me now.  But we were all set to begin hanging out, then he was shot and killed the weekend before.  I’m the only common denominator between them both.  Well, me and the Meeting. And Wendy Hewland-Drake died a few weeks ago. Again: me;  I’m the common denominator. I know it makes no  logical sense, but there it is:  a clear, simple, fact-based observation.

The Pet Shop Boys are doing this thing where they re-release new versions of older lps with some new material; of course, I’m lapping it all up like pablum. I can’t stop thinking of Wendy’s wake, from a personal point of view.  Of course.  IT’S ALL ABOUT ME. fOR FUCK’S SAKE.  I’m going to bed.

For some reason, this always terrifys me.  I feel the need to justify my requests beyond a reasonable doubt. I try and delay my requests until they’re all tied up in one, big, needy package.

Is the name of this “new” band I found today.  They sound, to me, a BIT like a younger, happier Smiths, wth a touch of the ethereal in there.  Good writing music; sounds like rain, and dreary days. PERFECT

I’m so depressed over my lack of self-governance that I’ve quit trying. I haven’t written in years; my depression just keeps sinking me lower and lower. I managed to go to Meeting yesterday. I forced myself to, because to do otherwise would make me feel even more worthless. I’ve been so lonely, for so long; and all my efforts to combat it, seem to fall miserably. I have more assets than ever before, but my life is less my own than ever before, too. My therapy cat, Jamie, was a really good investment because, she NEEDS me. They were about to put her down because she kept getting returned to shelter. Neil helped me sort out her bathroom issues, and she’s grand, now. Knowing that I’m probably her last chance, let’s us need each other, sharply.

The trust approved the purchase of a handicapped-accessible van, today. The thing is, I want to see if, when I configure it, I can configure it so I can operate it, independently. If not, then I’m not as enthused as I would be, otherwise. If I can’t, I really don’t see how I will justify the expenditure.

…episode on gay marriage.  It made me think again; not just how much I’VE LOST, but how much I keep losing, every day.

Is what I’m listening to right now; the movie soundtrack. It’s 1:58 a.m. I exercised with Will today, so I’m plenty tired. Lately, I seem to be returning to my pre-injury/assault sleep patterns: up late, writing; napping,if need be, in the afternoons. I don’t know if it means anything, but I like it.

I’’m using it to get caught up on various artists I’ve lost touch with, like Chris Thile, and Andy White.

I was gay-bashed in Sligo, Ireland, by Ian and Glen.  I’ve assissiduously NEVER  committed their surnames to memory.

After Jaime Lee Curtis, who is in HALLOWEEN, which is when I adopted her. I’m so determined to love her, although I feel the shelter played dirty pool with me by letting me know they may have to euthanize her if I didn’t take her. She was already adopted 1x before, then returned to the shelter. It’s been a few days, and, for the life of me, I can’t see why. Jaime is not puppy-like in her affection, but I see she’s a girl; and, in my experience, girl cats just aren’t like that. She uses the litter box; I see no other red flags. Yes, I would desperately LOVE more affection-therapy from my therapy cat, but, eh, right now, it is what it is. At least, she’s fine with being picked up and held, albeit briefly.

And so unlike Grendel, who was so much like a dog, in his behavior. I cry every night now, and in great part think longingly about death because I’m just so tired of it all. Butch keeps trimming down my o.t. achievements by doing things for me. I’d hoped he’d realize the error of his ways and even asked Judy Siderer to talk to Butch about it, but if she did, it didn't make any impact whatsoever. I miss Grendel’s friendship every minute of every hour of every day now. I’m trying like hell to love this new cat and I will, Godammit. But,, with G. It was so easy; maybe because we’d both been shit on by life so much. It’s been diarrhea non-stop for me , since G.passed.