As Long As No One Is Reading This...

I might was well embrace the madness and go completely off the rails.

You want to know the greatest problem with my diabetes? Me. ME! As vague as the warnings were, I didn't listen. "You could go blind." "You could lose both of your feet." Those were the two I heard the most. They would have had more impact if they'd included HOW those two things would happen, but they should have had SOME kind of impact.

Yeah, my home-life was crap. (Yeah, I'm abandoning my PG-13 stance for the moment.) A lot of people's home-lives were crap. That the incubator was especially psychologically abusive was probably the worst of it. And you wanna know what makes that worse? It was recognized very early on that I was having emotional difficulties, and school officials urged my parents to seek psychological help.

They did. And the incubator screwed that up BIG TIME! You see, the first psychologist ran a bunch of tests, and then sat my parents down to discuss the diagnosis. Said diagnosis was that I, at the tender age of eight years old, saw the incubator as a constant threat to my well-being, always looming over me, waiting to strike. Well, the incubator became highly offended by this. She was the perfect parent, and if you didn't believe that, you could just ask her and she'd tell you.

Off we went to a second psychologist. That one also ran a bunch of tests, and then sat my parents down to discuss the diagnosis. Said diagnosis was that I, at the tender age of eight years old, saw the incubator as a constant threat to my well-being, always looming over me, waiting to strike. Did she take the hint? Hell no! Did my father take the hint? If he did, he didn't want to deal with the fact that his wife was the problem, and so...

Off we went to a THIRD psychologist. This time things went differently. The incubator complained in advance about the two identical diagnoses that she thoroughly disagreed with, So Dr. Greedy came back with a diagnosis that said she was perfect, and that the problem was all in my head. "Come back weekly and we'll get him all sorted out."

Yeah, the bitch shopped for a diagnosis she preferred and ran with that instead of making any kind of effort to fix was was actually broken.

I was off to a miserable start, what with me only being a year into my life as a diabetic. And it seemed like her mission in life was to make EVERYONE miserable.

The best example of how bad things were at that place where we lived, (which was far from a "home"), was when we went to family therapy during my mid-teens. Shockingly, it was with Dr. Greedy, who by this point I knew to be a dumbass with a PhD. I complained about the incubator. My middle brother complained about the incubator. My youngest brother complained about the incubator. My father complained about the incubator. So what did the incubator do? She became angrier, more contentious, more bitter, more combative. She did no self-reflection whatsoever. We were "ganging up on her," and that made US the villains of the story.

Other kids during their rebellious years... They started doing drugs. Others would start drinking. My grand attempt at teen rebellion was to down a pound of Twizzlers while reading a Stephen King novel. And because an insulin dose at each meal was still decades away, I'd get sick. Every two or three weeks, I'd wind up in the emergency room. I lost count after 50 hospitalizations.

Remember me saying how depression comes with chronic illness? Life with the incubator only made that worse. The way I describe it is thus: "The valve that releases the negative neurochemicals that cause depression were jammed open by that abusive cow, to the point where only medication will help control it now." I also mentioned in a roundabout way that I'd recently fallen off my antidepressants. I've started the process of getting back on them, but...

Understanding my disabilities isn't easy. It wasn't understood for quite some time. Because at the time I was declared disabled, I didn't LOOK like I had health issues. You can't see severe recurrent depression. You can't see PTSD. You can't see the complications of diabetes until a foot comes off or the afflicted individual is using blind mobility cane or has a seeing-eye dog. I'd say 95% of the family members I was talking to at the time all started telling me that I wasn't sick. That I was lazy. That I just had to snap out of it. And when I did unacceptable things at the height of my mental illnesses' effects on me, they vilified me and cut me off.

My youngest brother grew up to be a fill-blown racist and misogynist. Oh, the stories I could tell about him! He's a selfish prick who only views people through the lens of, "What can they do for me." So when my father got remarried at age 69, my brother's response was, "Now there's ANOTHER person to divide the inheritance!" Translation: He was waiting for my father to die so he could get the life insurance money. Well, Dad fixed that right away, removing my brother from his will and disowning him.

My middle brother grew up to be a clone of the incubator. When his one and only child was diagnosed as clearly being on the Autism Spectrum... Okay, when my brother was telling me this, his son was in the room. When he got to his thoughts on the matter, he looked at his son and raised his voice to say, "He's just being lazy!" My brother has vanished completely. I have no idea if he's dead or alive. We have a few mutual friends, and just like me, they haven't heard from him in over five years.

I went on quite the tangent there, didn't I? I was saying that I fell of my meds and am in the process of getting back on them, but it wouldn't make much of a difference. I always get depressed around the holidays. Part of that is the fact that Dad used to send me a gift twice a year. Once on my birthday and once during the holidays. It was always $25. In his final years, he couldn't really afford it, and I wasn't in desperate need, so I'd thank him, and then would quietly tear up the check. Thing is, now I AM in need, and Dad's been dead for many years.

So I debased myself. I actually went on Facebook as asked my friends for gifts. Specifically ONE gift. I asked each of my friends to spend $10 on a PlayStation gift card. Not a lot of money. I keep thinking of $10 as being the most anyone would ask for during the office's Secret Santa. If just 20 friends did this, I'd have more than enough to buy those games I keep putting on my Wishlist. What's more, they just have to send me the code through a private message or email. No postage necessary. And knowing they did this little thing for me would help boost my battered and bruised ego.

The problem is that I have to ask. No one gets me gifts because they thought of me while shopping. I have to remind them that I exist and that a small gift would make me feel better about myself. Will I return the favor? If I could, I would. I mean, if I... Hang on...

If I won a stupid amount of money in the lottery, every single one of my friends would receive that maximum amount of money permitted without requiring them to report it to the IRS. For 2023, that amount is $17,000. Annually. Just a little leg up to do with as they pleased. What's more, they wouldn't have to ask. I'd ask for addresses, and then checks would be mailed out ASAP. Their kids would always get gifts from "Crazy Uncle Rob" during birthdays and the holidays.

I have to ask for presents. Small presents. And when I last did this, during my birthday over the summer, three people gave me gifts. Three.

Y'know, it's almost like I'm just too much to handle. Why? Because I'm so broken, physically and mentally. For the latter, I'm going to fall of my meds every now and again because it's the nature of the beast. But the former...? I did catastrophic damage to myself and I KNEW it... I just didn't care. Not until it wrecked my life.

Okay, I think I'm done ranting now. Here's another picture of the beautiful, scantily clad young woman to make up for my rambling.

She's 21.

That means I'm old enough to be her disapproving father.