I'm bored!

Who would have thunk it?  All I have to do is type over a virtual manuscript that I have for, all intents and purposes, been working on for over 25 plus years.  I thought that this would be easy.  I thought that this would be FUN!

It's not fun!  I am, without a doubt, the world's worst for procrastinating.  All I have to do is turn on a bit of music (which, by now, all sounds exactly the same and does little to motivate) and get to work.  I even have the time to do it.  I have no excuse.

I am just bored.

But when I stop and look around me, I see opportunity going to waste.  I even sense that my family is, in truth, just trying to help me stay motivated.  I have been working on this 'book' for many years, for one thing.  And now that it is 'finished,' I need only to type it and submit it.  I know, and everyone who knows me and has read my work knows, that it will be readily published.

So maybe it IS success that frightens me.  If so, I find it quite ironic to discover that my worst fear is not being brutally forced to the pavement, being lied to, being hated, being disliked, being taken advantage of, being mistreated, being poor, or going hungry, but is SUCCESS!

I am only impeding myself and, knowing this, I cannot tell you why.  I do not know why.  I only know how I feel and I feel trodden upon, misled, and

Mentally & Physically exhausted.

I don't know why.  I suppose I hope that if I can just muster up one last ounce of spiritual strength that I will...

My mother just phoned me.  She and I laughed together, as usual, and she stated that she was distracting me from my typing.  No, because I had phoned her earlier.  She was returning my telephone call and, apparently, my father had answered the call (though I only heard it ring and then, suddenly noting the time, hung up). 

I am not worried about my work isolating my family from me.  I have already remedied that potential problem with much analytical thinking.  I am concerned that my LIFESTYLE may allienate them.  I am enjoying myself for the most part and, in fact, I consider this to be my most avid motivator.

So, this is work?  Again, ironic that it should be doing what I have always loved doing the most.  When will it be fun again?  I do not know what portion of this, following this tedious typing and submission process, is exciting and fun without an overlay of CONFORMITY.  Yet, this is what I was trying to avoid the entire time.  The opposite choice suggests fame, wealth, and

isolation.

Why do I even care...

I think I am procrastinating again.

Still, THIS is fun! 

"I think I can.  I think I can" Said 'The Little Red Engine That Could.' 

...So the real question is:  Am I really a creative genius or just manipulative as hell, even unbeknownst to me (sometimes)?  I think the better question is:  Does it really matter?

Thanks, Mom & Dad, for helping to give me a life interesting enough to read about.

5 August 2008

I’ve elected to begin typing my journals directly onto my computer.  I hope this is not a mistake, as I have absolutely no doubt that I have inherited a hacker.  I never can tell if they are truly my friend or my enemy.  I don’t think I like them very much.  They interfere and meddle in things that are really none of their business.  They have been sabotaging the work I have been trying to do for over three years now.  I guess I really pissed somebody off.

They are a very skilled hacker, however.  They have the ability to access every file in my computer, though not nearly to the degree that they once did.  I was clever and, being clever still, will not say why this is.  I am certain that they are annoyed beyond measure.  Though they are still able to access a majority of my work, they are not able to access it completely.  There was a time that everything I typed would magically disappear after, oddly enough; my hacker friend (under one of their many pseudonym screen names) literally forewarned me via either a chat room or instant message.  Of course, when I tried to tell anybody this they simply thought, “Oh, yes.  She is definitely crazy.”  I’m not crazy.  I’m just real.

I believed I was though.  I really, many times in my life, thought I was insane.  Now I have decided that it is the rest of the world who is blind.  Whilst they continually label every impoverished American citizen, they are like sheep being led to slaughter.  Those of us who recognize this fact are, of course, the ones who are labeled insane.  I find it odd, however, that the conversation that lingers within the confined walls of the mental wards is always the same.  We call the police the Gestapo.  We all understand that conformity IS THE ONLY WAY.

I will not conform.

Generally, Americans WILL NOT CONFORM.  They will not give up their constitutional rights readily.  Those who wish to rule the world are, quite aptly, convincing us that CONFORMITY IS THE ONLY WAY.

The TANF assistance that I rely so heavily upon to assist me in providing electricity, water, and food for my children has still not been applied to my Lone Star Card. 

            The problem began in May.  It was time to renew both my TANF and Food Stamp assistance.  I received two separate application packets on two very separate days from two very different social workers.  I immediately completed both packets and mailed them.  Nonetheless, in May I received a form letter from Ms. Dawn Lumpkins, which stated that my TANF appointment was scheduled for June 4 early in the morning.  My daughter was due to graduate from the eighth grade that morning.  I quickly proceeded to phone Ms. Lumpkins, requesting a different appointment time.  I left several messages, none of which she bothered to respond to.  Furthermore, the appointment was scheduled as an in-office appointment.  I had requested a telephone interview, as I have no transportation.  These phone messages were left two-three weeks prior to the 4^th.  Still, she never returned my call.  This is not unusual for Ms. Lumpkins.  She is a horrid social worker.

The 4^th arrived and my mother, my sister, my niece, and I all attended my daughter’s graduation.  It was a lovely ceremony.  I was amazed, however, that half of her class did not graduate with her, as they had failed the TACTS test issued by the state of Texas.  This is not a positive reflection on America’s educational system.

Following her graduation, I immediately proceeded to try to phone Ms. Lumpkins again.  Before the day was over, I had to phone her direct supervisor, Ms. Sharon Frasier.  A year ago, Ms. Frasier would not return my phone calls.  I called the Ombudsman, however, and – since then – she seems to make much more of an effort.  I have, at this junction, blatantly informed all of my caseworkers that I DO NOT WANT TO BE ON THE PUBLIC DOLE.  I am miserable and TRAPPED.  It honestly seems as if our government encourages this socialist behavior.  Though I file complaints and phone supervisor after supervisor, no one actually does anything.  I am, eventually, ‘listened’ to and – with much ado – the problem is semi-resolved.  By then, however, I am further in debt, having counted on the public assistance.  At the moment, for example, my bank account is currently overdrawn by $500 plus. 

I am frustrated that I phoned countless times and specifically relayed to these individuals that I could not afford to not receive my assistance ON THE DATE DUE.

Will our government assist me in the fines I am charged because I did not receive said assistance due to a worker’s mistake?  No.  The end result is that I am continually shoved further under the abyss that is POVERTY.

I am even told that it is my fault.

I phoned yesterday and spoke with my TANF caseworker, Towanna Smith, asking her when my benefits would be applied to my card.  She told me, after telling me that she was new and did not know what she was doing (oh great), that they would be applied no later then midnight on the 4^th.  I could not sleep, as I was concerned (rightly so).  At midnight, and several times prior to, I checked my account balance and discovered that it was still at 0.  I phoned her again this morning.  She told me that she was waiting for her paperwork to be reviewed and that my benefits would be applied sometime today.  My account is still empty. 

I have to pay toward the bounced check and lack of insurance fine on the 7^th or I will be arrested. 

I can hear my daughter’s voice, “It’s as if you’re being punished for being poor.”

I phoned Ms. Sharon Frasier again, her supervisor, and her supervisor’s supervisor.  This is not the first time that I have had to do so.

In the process I discovered that the paperwork submitted to the main office stated that I had missed a scheduled telephone interview on the 4^th.  I, of course, still have in my possession the form letter Ms. Lumpkins originally sent.  I proceeded to tell them so and was told that I could appeal a decision that is not yet final.

Patricia Clay, my CHOICES caseworker, told me that her paperwork stated that I had been denied benefits on August 1, 2008.  I was told by the Ombudsman that their paperwork stated that my application was still pending.

It would appear that Ms. Lumpkins fibbed on her paperwork in an effort to cover her ass, regardless of what might happen to my own (or those of my children).

Finally, I spoke with Ms. Frasier two hours ago and was told that the paperwork would be completed tomorrow and that I should receive my benefits by midnight tomorrow.

Meanwhile, Medicaid paid for Hunter’s knee surgery but refused to pay for his medication.  I was told at the pharmacy that, according to THEIR paperwork, our Medicaid benefits had been terminated.  He is in a lot of pain and relying heavily on Ibuprofen.

I have not received any child support whatsoever since the state took Ron’s income tax check (and kept half of it for themselves).  It would appear that they do not plan on doing anything or, if they do, Ron may very well already be dead and buried in his grave.

Desperate to do whatever I had to do to insure that Hunter and Harley were provided for, I agreed to let his girlfriend’s mother take us to his surgery.  I attempted to schedule a pick-up via the HOP Bus but was told that they could not schedule an August pick-up in the month of July.  I began phoning them again on August 1^st and no one answered the phone.  Lesson learned:  Do not schedule appointments during the first week of the month or we will not have transportation.

She, according to my son, thinks I am ‘crazy.’  When I rattle and try to explain what I am going through, no one understands.

How hard could it really be to comprehend?  Because I am poor, I am the one blamed.  Fortunately, I am intelligent and somewhat educated.  I fear for those caught in the system that are not. 

I am NOT CRAZY!  I am just real.  I expect individuals to do their jobs properly and this is an unrealistic expectation in America.

The system, without a doubt, is flawed.

I strongly suspect that, at this junction, my caseworkers are doing their upmost best to sabotage me.  I have filed countless complaints via the telephone and know, with certainty, that they are receiving calls from their supervisors and being investigated.  I am not very popular amongst the elite.

If not for my journals, there is no doubt that I would be forever labeled with the stigma of a mental disorder.  If not for my journals, I would have absolutely no proof.  If not for the fact that I have made a conscious effort to save ALL DOCUMENTATION, I would not be able to verify anything that I am writing.

I fear for those who, like me, are being labeled, studied, and dissected.

The police, for walking barefoot in my neighborhood, have stopped me, though I carried my shoes in my hand.  I have been stopped by the police whilst walking home from the convenience store, simply because I am carrying a six-pack of beer.  I was, in fact, carrying a six-pack of beer and drinking a DIET COKE.  No, I had not been drinking. 

            The Bible belt is prevalent here and, due to the hypocrisy, I almost began to doubt that a higher power existed (almost, but not quite).

I prayed again last night.  It was the first time in a very long time that I have done so.  I prayed and I read portions of the Bible.  I contemplated various world religions and OUR HISTORY.

Atom equates Adam.

When an atom splits apart, there are two.

The same, but different.

Eve was formed from Adam’s rib.

When an Adam splits apart, there are two.

The same, but different.

I cannot renew my NC cosmetology license due to finance.  I cannot, in turn, establish a license to work in the state of TX.  The longer I wait, in an effort to earn the revenue needed, the more expensive it becomes.

Thus, I have decided that – since they cannot revoke a license that does not exist – to work from home. 

If not for Perry continually, almost on a monthly basis, assisting me financially, I would have no home for the children.  They would have no food, no water, and no electricity.  I regret that I ever trusted my government.

7 August 2008

Experience has taught me that our healthcare system is in dire need of revamping.  Many Americans, who would not otherwise be, are being labeled with various mental health disorders simply because they live at, or below, the poverty level (Situational conflicts that typically occur due to financial difficulties contribute to ADD, ADHD, Schizoid-Affective, and Manic-Depression disorder misdiagnosis).

Our educational system, as a result, is also suffering, in that America’s less fortunate children (specifically those whom live at, or below, the poverty line) are being misdiagnosed and separated from their peers within the confines of our public school system.  Said diagnosis’ are readily noted via public record and citizens who disagree are informed that they are not educated enough to do so.  Parents are often falsely accused of both physical and emotional abuse, whilst their children are brainwashed accordingly.  Said parent’s are also threatened by various educators, social workers, law enforcement officers, and the medical establishment, in that they are readily informed that non-compliance will result in the removal of the children from their homes.

America, once recognized for its democracy, is now experiencing what I term ‘The Great Divide.’  There is now a definite line drawn between the rich and the poor.  The middle class is rapidly declining into nonexistence.  From a sociological perspective, I attribute this decline to the fact that most of America’s lawmakers are wealthy.  Therefore, albeit inadvertently, America’s newest laws and regulations (all accompanied with astronomical fines and fees) are further hindering our impoverished citizens.  Those who live at, or below, the poverty line are virtually voiceless, primarily due to the fact that they are not able to vote (Successful corporations, America’s bread and butter, make it very difficult for their employees to vote and many of said citizens are forced to work for as many as three at a time) or choose not to because they feel it is pointless, as their votes are categorically diminished by America’s electoral elite.

In summary:  Economically, the rich are very rich and the poor are very poor.  The wealthy class is aware of this fact and continually tries to remedy this issue, with little success. 

I am crying.  I hardly ever cry.

My ex husband called me.  Feelings never really die.  I wish - oh god - I wish that they would.

Our son is sixteen now.  Our daughter is fourteen.  He now has four additional children.  How dare he phone me!

I wish that he would die ... literally ... not just ...

I wish that he would go away.  He does not need to phone me.  He can phone the children directly ... I set it up that way PURPOSELY ...

no reason to contact me.

none.

I would have managed.

It's just that ... I had not heard from my friend Doris in a long while and she and I were talking ... when ... suddenly ... unrecognized number ...

it was him.

I am crying.

I am the epitome of paranoia.  

I am the VOICE OF THE VOICELESS.   

I am always losing and forgetting the most inessential and tiniest of details. 

I continually misplace objects and, worse, I clearly REMEMBER doing so.  I simply cannot, for a bit of time, recollect when or where exactly. 

I never know if I am coming or if I am going.  I generally follow the crowd, suddenly realize that I am doing so and gravely regret it (decidedly going against the grain).  Therefore, I am never really here or there.  I am never really good or bad.  I am never really dead or alive. 

My mind races with her image:  Photogenic vampire rocking endlessly across the pavilion, lurking somewhere between online and off (reassuringly unaware of her childlike innocence).  

If I were to say that the pavilion was made of midnight and stardust, would you believe me?

It was, in the end, not the mask of death that I feared.  It was, instead, the charade parade of loneliness that cascades in oblong, gray shadows along Death's thin edge. 

I find myself reaching out daily to the masses, a world that seemingly only exists within my mind.  I can no longer differentiate between those of us that are human and those of us that are now part of the much larger picture:  The machine that includes everyone, loves everyone, loses everyone, recognizes everyone, hates everyone, fears everyone, understands everyone, and understands nothing.

Once bitten, I discovered that my journey greatly depended on the journeys of those whom surrounded me.  If I, therefore, did not comply with mass decision (regardless of the idiocy clouding such) then I would be banished forever to life underground. 

Dear Mom,

Wow, upside down, is 'Mom.'

Wow.

Hi, Mom.

Silence is golden and it speaks VOLUMES. 

This is, above all, what you taught me.

Yet, you will take no credit. 

You insist that I take it all.

That is why you are, above all, my mother.

Wow.

August 21, 88

I’m 18 now.  I’m out of high school.  I’m over Paul Young.  I’m over my fanatical religion.  I’m strong.  And I can face reality.  Reality isn’t always bright.  I’m Scarlett Krislyn Ator.  And I’m me and mine.  Best of luck to all the teenagers of this futuristic world of ours.  Sigh  I’m practically grown up.  But there are always new discoveries to be made.

            Thus, there are always journals.  Not just my journals – but also others journals.

            I’m still growing.  I’ll be immortal through my diaries.  And may my immortality comfort those who might feel everything I’ve felt and opening up about in my diaries.