The paranoia about my mother, her deadly, awful, mental illness characteristics she inflicted on me with just her voice, just her being things and people and voices in my life, and what the tone of those voices actually are. I’ve thought about her toxicicity for so long. Her expired food, her blackmail, her tactics she learned from various self help groups that don’t assist autistic people, they assist assholes which are not me. I don’t want to know what makes her tick, I don’t want to know what the voice was that came from her, who it was, what it said. All I know, I want her gone. Not threatening her in any way, just childish childhood anger, adult resentments, triggers to drink to alleviate a supernatural anger which will not die. I’ve avoided her, yet, still I’m told about her, thinking about her doing the things for people that I could have done for them – her constantly requiring me to carry endless blame for this thing my monster father and I are. This also apparently is anyone who impersonated him. Depriving me of warmth and compassion from anywhere with her self help tactics. Her proclaimed inability to help, yet claiming this is what she thinks she indeed has done – for whom. She’s made everyone a copy, with a broken hateful, annoying tone, and curses everywhere. The dirty perverts who chased me, also indeed a curse of the mother of prostitutes. Why would she choose to be that, I will never see. Mother of reversekundalini schizophrenic prostitutes for emotional warmth.
This sixth sense of mine, the bilocating fucking doing voices remote controlled bitch sensor I have makes me really wish I had meds for autism. I don’t.
But I’m brooding, at this cool bar where the normal people go. It’s not upscale. But the Coronas are cold and the place serves tacos.