Remember when I said that the Lord would provide, and that I’d put my faith in him?
Bethany Barnard’s song “Godness of God” is just so.
Todays been a mess. I’ve been all alone and that part was okay. My lymph nodes are hurting like they are on a person who’s not used to pain, but truth is, my body hurts painfully every single day, even when I’m not writing it down, actually especially when I’m not writing it down, but today was aweful. AWEFUL.
Everytime I try to swollow spit, it hurts. My gums hurts. My teeths hurts. My mouth hurts. My tongue hurts. My cheeks hurts. My lumph nodes hurts. My throat hurts. I would recond that the only thing not hurting on me, is my brain. No headache. But every-single-kind-of-pain-above-the-neck-that-you-can-think-of. I’ve got it.
I went for a drive to my bulktrash things. They normally cheer me up like nothing ever seen to mankind, but I’ve been neglecting collecting bulck trash in 2020 so my sale is slow. I was there for like an houre just looking at stuff, not touching, just looking. And thinking. I tried to make myself collect the things that needs to get cleaned up, normally I’m bringing them home with my, to my tiny apartment that then gets overfloated with “stuff” because I have to wash, clean and dry it, then put it in right possitions to take pictures, then sort pictures, then upload the pictures in albums, then upload the albums to the different sitez where I’m selling them from. It’s a lot of work but I can litterally see the work paying off, unlike any other jobs I’m doing.
But I could’t get around to start on it. It’s like my spark has died. I’m not even thinking about the Pink Hospital (that much) anymore. I’m not thinking about my Norwegian psychologist, my psychiatrist-apprentice, the indian doctor or fat Dorit anymore. I’m litterally at the point where I’m numb inside.
During the 35 km drive (each way) to my bulk trash I had conversations (out loud. freak me) with my youngest little brother where I (unsuccessful) tried to make him understand how much pain he had poured into my already damaged soule by cutting Ellas fur and how much damage our family had added but agreeing with him, that a text (which I never recivede) was sufficiant enough for the damage to my soul and for the wrong he had done.
I had a conversation with the needle-pinching-women from the aweful meetings at the pink hospital. I told them, without crying a tear, how I was (now) numb to their words. How they had turned my open (and very naive) heart into nothing but icecold bricks last seen on a deserted red barnhouse on a january day in 2010.
I told them how I have googled the fuck out of every single one of them. Litterally googled their firstborns diaper size, their fucking husbands, the nanny, the secretary passing on a note, their mothers maiden name, their kindergarden school picture, their first fuck, their children, their exes – if it was ever recorden and put online, I’ve got it. And I didn’t stop there. I googlede their goddamn sisters, brothers, brothers wife, newborn nieces, in-laws, last job, online reviews, address, phone numbers, social activity, past jobs, future dreams. Youtube. Krak. Twitter. Amazon. Dba.dk. Trustpilot. Borger.dk. TikTok. MySpace. Facebook. Boligsiden. Bilbasen. Instagram. Pintrest. MeetUp. Linkedin. 118.dk. Snapchat. Wolt. JustEat. Hungry. Foursquare. Vero. Yo. If they ever signed up, if it was ever online, I’ve found it. When I start something, I’m so thorough that I often suprise myself.
I asked them if they had ever heard about “double jeopardy” – of course they hadn’t. Double Jeopardy is described like this: “Double jeopardy is a procedural defence that prevents an accused person from being tried again on the same (or similar) charges following a valid acquittal or conviction”
Meaning: They accused me of googeling my psychologist privatley. Trying to be close to her by applaying for a job. I did not do such thing. However they accused, convicted and executed THEIR own opinions upon me. No-one ever asked me if it was true. They just assumed that they were right. And that I (obviusly) were wrong. That I wanted to be close to them like a dyke stuck on a sticky twat.
Now I’m paying the price for their wrongdoing and by God I will not be silent and just do the time because a room full of women with 6 year+ university degree reading books with no pictures and using difficult words to describe easy words, says I’m guilty.
If I’m going to do the time for things I did not do, I’ll damn well make sure I got the knowledge on the things I’m under fire for doing. Fuck that if they think I’ll just click heals and accept their ways. Obviusly they should have paid more attention to the details in what I’ve been telling them. Fuck me over and I’ll fuck the next 4 generations on both sides of your miserable family. I might have a memory about the past which would fit perfectly into a leaky thimble, but the present is so clear to me as a newly painted car.
It was a great car-conversation. I’m so ready for whatever they throw at me. I’m already so fucked up numb that they can’t fuck me up. And unlike everybody else in that room or in that pink hospital in general, I’m not scared of dying. One could even say that I’ve got a deadwish. So, please do test me to the limit.
Matthew West “The God Who Stays” tells me that God will not be seperated from me, because of what I was accused of and later committed. Like I said, the Lord will provide in due time. It’s time.