They say it’s a slow, horrible way to die.
This morning my father suggested I seriously consider finding a group home to live in, as he will shortly be discontinuing his aid.
A group home.
The entire point of bothering to have the fucking foot sawed off rather than let it fucking kill me was to eventually regain my autonomy, my privacy, my dignity. To suggest I now give these things up indefinately….
I cannot express the depths of my horror, my revulsion. My despair.
Why fucking bother? It would be better to be shot like a lame horse. I cannot see the point in an exitance deprived of the things I value most.
My expenses are about 2K monthly. Things are great as far as Heavy Metal goes, but I have no idea yet how much they pay, and this has not turned into a career, just an opportunity. Teaching and lecturing makes me a couple of hundred a month, but it’s not steady or even dependable. I have no idea how I can make that nut on a monthly basis.
I’m reacting hard right now, gutshot. I feel like a wounded animal, I’ve already gnawed off a leg to survuive, but now it does not seem like I should have gone to the trouble. A group home. No autonomy, no privacy, no dignity, no point. I’m sure I’ll be more rational about this later, but I’m not there yet.
Fuck. I don’t know what to do.