The pain of isolation
This is a blog about taking back your power from those not worthy of your energy. It is a stumbling block and an energy drain to engage people who just don’t listen to you. It takes more energy to be unheard than it does to simply speak and be understood. It’s an appalling lack of courtesy to not listen to others. I know, because to speak I have to type one letter at a time and use my facilitator to support me. It takes a lot more energy than just talking. That’s why I don’t mince my words.
What I would like to know is why people never talk to me. It’s just my immediate family that ever says anything more than, “Hello, Darcy.” I do have some new friends who know better but that’s not a thing like having them here. They are virtual in that they are internet friends, but they listen to me. I don’t see if they interrupt or turn away because they’re virtual. What I fail to understand is why members of my own extended family don’t even read my blogs, don’t even like them. I’m invisible to them, a mar on their elite genetic code or something. I feel lucky if they even remember my name, to tell you the truth.
The insult goes so deep I can’t stand it. It’s a wound that will not heal until these relatives step up and show their compassionate, intelligent hearts that I know exist for other people, but not for me. They must not think I really type all this, so then it becomes an insult to my parents and brother who know I’m really in here as a typing genius. It’s totally sad. That’s one reason I have to do blogs -- to reach people who are fine, upstanding, god-fearing, religious people who can’t even lift a finger to say, "Hi, what have you been up to?”
I’m so glad that so many people are able to speak to me on Facebook even though Facebook wants to censor me for talking about peaceful revolution. They do at least provide a platform for some folks who can’t talk. I need to keep blogging and I will, despite the censorship, despite the loved ones ignoring me, and despite the collective fears people have about autism, about psychic phenomena, about peace and environmentalism. It’s just what I do. Maybe someday I can actually converse with loved ones here in my world. I hope so. Until then I’m just some imaginary inconvenience, some enigma not worth common civility.
Okay, then . . .It’s really kind of almost too late to correct this now. The wound is so deep, I think people are now humoring me because I called them out. It’s not a win-win situation. This is my 62nd blog and maybe that’s not enough reaching out on my part. I’m over thirty years old. How can people think I’m not writing and typing? I cried writing this blog, cried for the relationships in my own family I could have had. In the final analysis, I may just have to accept things the way they are and never even get a chance to tell my family how much I love them.
Photo by Carolyn Reed