To Be Irish

Hello again, folks. Today has been St. Patrick’s Day all day long, and I’ve been sporting a green shirt and green hat, just for fun all day. I’m in the mood to be Irish this year, just like I was last year. Actually, my grandmother’s mother was full blood Irish, come over on the boat from Ireland with a contract to get married to a man when she got to the New World, landing in Canada, at the tender young age of thirteen, whenever that was in the annals of history. I think that makes me somewhat Irish, although I do have a German last name.

In my great grandmother’s day, it was customary for girls to be contracted to get married to a man, whether they had a previous relationship or not. I think she never met my great grandfather before she arrived in Canada on some boat something like the Mayflower, crossing the north Atlantic back in whatever day and time that was.

Tomorrow is my birthday, and my brother has invited me out to lunch, with a strict admonition to get myself all spruced up so I don’t look like I come from a state hospital. And then the fight started. This is the same brother who has been manipulating the system frequently over the past forty years of my life, to make certain that I’ve been hospitalized frequently throughout my adulthood. Last year I was in a psych ward when I first arrived on his turf, because he railroaded me into one, but I think I needed to be in one, anyway. I don’t know. I think I’d been overwhelmed by all the losses I’d just experienced at the time.

I mean, I lost all my possessions that I’d left in my apartment months before he and his wife came to get me and bring me south. Plus, my mother and my aunt had just recently died. To make matters worse, I lost contact with almost all of my friends without bidding them goodbye, because I’d broken my right hip and could no longer drive. It’s been better than a year now, and I just don’t trust the guy much.

The thing about it all was that my speech kind of scrambled at the time, and big brother took me to the ER. He would scarcely allow me a word in edgewise with psych triage, even though I was the patient. He took triage aside to another room altogether, to make arrangements for my incarceration, without letting me have a word to say in my own defense. Now, he says wants me to be certain I don’t look like I’ve been to a state hospital or homeless, so he doesn’t have to get embarrassed to be with me, I guess. Don’t wear my wool hat or other cold weather gear, and be heedless of the weather in general, since the last few days have been unseasonably warm. He can just go take that whole lot of his crap, and stuff it. I wonder if he’s going to do that to me tomorrow, when I show up looking like I’m from a state hospital, because I am from a whole lifetime of them?

I’m definitely going to wear my acrylic hat that I made, come Hell and high water, just because he’s not going to like it. He’s always trying to manipulate and control other people, be the boss and give orders to other people. Well, he’s not my boss, and I don’t take orders from him. I don’t care if he is my brother and four years older than I am. He can kiss my bippie. I’ll go to a restaurant with him if he’ll take me, but I’ve spent most of my life in psych wards and hospitals of various kinds, at his direction as much as because of any other reason. If his conscience won’t let him associate with me while I look like myself, I’d rather stay home.

Last year he had a police officer shuttle me from the ER to a state hospital in this strange “tidewater area,” after I’d first arrived down here. When he found out that my insurance wouldn’t pay the bill, there was a hearing, where I was just plain baffled and couldn’t find any ideas to defend myself with. Two armed Sheriffs from somewhere escorted me to some general hospital psych ward, riding in the back of a maximum security paddy wagon, where I thought for certain I would suffocate. Goof ole Jim denied it all later, as usual. The law doesn’t even have the kind of paddy wagon I rode in, according to him, but he never saw the vehicle. I did.

I intend to publish this on my blog, so that my writing buddy’s know where I am if I’m MIA for too long after my birthday luncheon tomorrow. I’ll keep you all posted when I can.

I mean, it gets my ire up to be treated like a common criminal by both of my brothers my whole life. Lee has always been lording his superior virtues over my head, for as long as I’ve been alive. He don’t smoke. He don’t chew. He don’t go with girls that do. Norfolk. Norfolk. Norfolk. Jim has been locking me up ever since I came down with schizophrenia in 1972, as soon as he found out I’d been smoking pot at the university by the time I was twenty. After all, it’s his patriotic duty to fight drug abuse, thirty years after I’ve stopped taking drugs.

I think I’m going to stop writing this now, just because it all kind of pisses me off.

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About geostan51

I'm a wordsmith and a craftsman. I've been known to hand crochet just about anything escept granny squares. I've got about twenty titles in my name on the Kindle Store at Amazon.com.
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