I just Couldn’t bring myself to go food shopping today. Butch finally went, and gave me ‘tude about having to go. I was hoping to make a point to the trust about how my life needed the flexible use of a credit card; not being able to fully run my life under their fucked up, limited/limiting debit card scenario was kinda my whole point. But, as usual, Butch cock-blocked my efforts, and yelled at me about having to do so. Piss off. Thanks for continuing to let Gil, Peter , and now Bill get away with arranging my use of the trust so I can’t function independently, failing to let my recovery continue because they’re afraid of me fucking up my finances. Men, you last tried this independence effort when I was 8 or 12 months out of rehab. It’s been about 17 years since. To say I haven’t grown or learned since then is offensive, short sighted, and just plain wrong. In the short run, I’m wildly grateful to Butch for not letting me starve. In the long run, not so much.
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.
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