Hermitage

This has been a dark day, with the historic moment of the planet Venus crossing in front of the sun today, causing more darkness in the sky than just the ordinary cloud cover would accomplish. Now it’s nighttime, and I’ve missed seeing anything of the great event in the sky directly, living like a hermit in my suite all day, except for taking my meals in the dining room, having some socialization and such things. I definitely prefer to live as much like a recluse as I can in my old age. Living for the silence and for the good, good empty pages of my word processing program in my laptop, to fill up with words of joy and hope, not to mention the confusion, as well as all and sundry thoughts I chronicle here.

There are those who will not give me the time of day in this world, and those I wouldn’t ask to, either. I’m not lacking in friends and interlocutors in assisted living, or in the outside program of sobriety I go to on occasion. There are plenty of people to interact with in my fertile environment, replete with the needy, in the last of the institutions I’ll probably ever need again in life.

Next week I see my doctor, and he does a lot to help me stay on an even keel where my brain chemistry is concerned. He prescribes medications for my chemical imbalance. The regular hours at assisted living, accurate dosages of medications, and frequent food, keep me going along in a healthy fashion. People are noticing my thriving health and expanding well-being.

The med tech will be along in just a moment. It’s about his usual time to appear. I can hear him working at the meds cart. Ah, here he is, and right on time, too. I like that guy. He’s a get the job done kind of fella. When he’s working, I always get the opportunity to take my nighttime meds by ten on the dot. If he’s ever late, he just got hung up in another room for a very few minutes. He does not have any kind of distemper or attitude to have to deal with. He’s just a task oriented individual. He delivers the pills and the water, and promptly goes about his business. I go about mine, too.

 

I had the unpleasant experience a couple of times, back when I first arrived down south at the Brighton Dam Apartments, of being provoked and frightened by some of the more ruthless residents who lived here at the time. I never see those people anymore. Some have died, some have been transferred to a different sort of place or have become disabled to the point where they never come to the dining room anymore. That was over a period of a year now, and I am still experiencing anxiety attacks whenever I go to eat in the dining room, which happens three times per day.

My original reaction at those times was to scream at the people who were treating me badly, like I used to do in the state hospital, whenever I thought my life was in danger. I felt so threatened by some of those people that I was overwhelmed by a feeling of anxiety and fear. This one old lady was after me like she wanted sex from me, and that concept was completely out of the question.

Initially, screaming was something that kept me from getting hurt in the state hospital by some of the more unstable patients who lived on the wards where I was. The other thing was that I was occasionally roughed up by some of the staff at the state hospitals where I spent my youth.

What I found out when I tried it here, was that my position here as a resident was brought into question, by the simple act of me raising my voice at meal times in the dining room. Now, I imagine there must be some sort of post traumatic stress thing going on with me to cause me to relive all sorts of fear producing feelings or something of that nature when I’m in a public place.

I don’t know what the connection is between being fed and feeling like I’m going to be hurt by someone. I was usually frightened by other patients at the state hospital, until I became accustomed to the other patients. I recall my father attacking my mother in the dining room of our house, where we lived when I was still very young, but I’m not really afraid of my late father anymore.

I’m starting with a new psychotherapist in a couple of weeks.

Maybe I can unearth something with him.

At any rate, I like to live with my laptop on my lap in my own room, with the door closed, almost constantly. My anxiety is not always very bad. Sometimes I really enjoy my public moments. But I do have some occasional issues with my impressions of the various people who ordinarily occupy the tables around mine in the dining room. I don’t think they’d physically assault me, but I become so afraid sometimes, that I’d start screaming at someone again, and be put out of here with no idea of where I could go for another place to stay.

I’m told by the medical and psychiatric communities that I suffer from a number of disorders and diseases. My anxiety might be caused by any number of things in my disabilities or my environment. I could chronicle a whole litany of ideas I get when I’m sitting in the dining room. Maybe doing some of that would unravel some of the anxiety I’m writing about.

For one thing, I’m very paranoid about a few of the old ladies around here, who used to treat me like I was some sort of sex object or boy toy, earlier on, as I was becoming familiar with this place. I still watch their behavior with some distaste, with some of the other men around here. I had to get more than a little bit of an attitude around them, to get them to leave me alone.

The whole dance of it looks like something that goes on in a junior high school cafeteria. The whole scene with some of these pseudo-couples reminds me of some of the relationships I’ve had in my younger days, where the various girls or women blatantly threw themselves at me to get what they wanted. I took my best advantage of people like that, who made themselves available to me at those times in my history. But I’m not proud of it.

Because of some recent experiences I’ve had, in the past couple of years at the very least, I’m not the least bit inclined to accept any more overtures by any women who throw themselves at me. That always derives from people who want something from me that I don’t want to give up, like my money, for one thing. I’ve got women who won’t even speak to me anymore, because I kept the cold shoulder whenever they came around. It took me awhile to drive them off, but they leave me alone now, thank goodness.

The other thing is that I’ve had to alienate women at the program, in the same way I’ve had to do here in the dining room, to maintain my independence and individuality from undesirable people. Some of these old ladies around here used to act like they want me to do things I don’t want to do. I get a red flag at any such behavior, and don’t want to permit anyone any sort of liberties with me whatsoever. I’m a loner, who thinks his own thoughts and has his own ideas. I’m not giving up my fortune, whether they’re a stroke victim or a victim of elephantiasis, or whatever. I don’t have my own hands on my own purse strings. My trust is sealed with a legal document, and nobody is going to rip me off anymore. I don’t care what they’re up against. That’s them, not me.

I’m tired of being manipulated.

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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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