|North Toronto Memorial Community Centre|
I can't or won't post pictures on this blog, because I'm in a hospital dying of complications due to the onset of Lupus in 2004. My high blood pressure and nicotine addiction seems to have Dr. L. Wang in the psychiatry department baffled. She has extended my involuntary admission form and will forever because I don't want to cuddle with her and share stories about the pain I felt when sexual assaulted by police and doctors throughout the course of my life.
Can someone not teach this woman the concept of personal space and boundaries??
I'm far too tired to sue, so my hope is that she just hands me a bowl full of the drug I'm allergic to and a glass of ice water and I just laugh at the fun things I can't do from this bed, but can still do with my zero tolerance for discrimination against me.
This time I'm not going to try to survive it. But no one will bring me smokes. So I'm not taking visitors. I'm just going to eat the hospital spam and hope for the best. But I honestly just wish I could die this time.
I met a guy I really like and I can't even find him. I misplaced my phone and he's not listed in the phone book in space. So he obviously flew back to Africa and I'm here in track pants and two hospital gowns.
It's a strange story that kind of answers the question, "Why a painter, Simone? When you could build a house with the girls if you so desired? Or fly a plane? Or become a psychotherapist?"
"Why? Because I don't want to be a slave."
Show me a job and I show you how drained I'll be at the end of the day.
Then I show you the freedom I once had to be myself in the arts.
I was not born to heal the wounds of the world which is why you will have my previous blog to refer to for life when you feel like you need to dump, or be held, or be cared for by someone who actually believes the world can be saved.
I don't think it can. And I don't care to try. But it's an interesting treatise, n'est-ce que pas?
This time, it is simply too great a load to bear.
Tomorrow is the anniversary of my mother's death. So instead of visiting her grave, I have images of forensic science teams exhuming her body. I'll be here in the psych ward avoiding the patients who have grown so attached to me I can't even sit alone for five minutes without hearing all their worries.
So now, mysteriously, I'm being held at Toronto General Hospital so that my High Blood Pressure and Nicotine Addiction can be treated. Makes me hate the world all over again.
So I have no art to show you. I refuse to create it here. My art is still for sale but it can't be shipped because instead of building my brand, I will be taking zyprexa until I learn to say Massa properly to the nurses.
I quit representing Lawrence Wraith. Who could while sick? This is it folks.
I am ready to die immediately but they won't give me lethal injection for wearing a pullover and no coat in Forest Hill.
When people say "life is too short," they probably don't know that my life has been extended way too many times for me to even care about my pals.
Thanks for looking out. Thanks for trying. Thanks for laughing with me and crying on my shoulder, eating all my food and needing me to provide my services for free.
I'm just way too bloody tired to care.
Many moons ago, I had to walk up hill both ways to book an appointment with a dermatologist that I didn't want to see anyway. My rheumatologist booked the appointment on my behalf. I had few funds and no cash. I greeted the receptionist and told her why I was there.
She wouldn't book the appointment.
I told her that I had no phone and that the chances of her picking up the phone when I called from a pay phone were slim to none. She didn't care.
The receptionist wouldn't book the appointment because she said that I had to call. But I was there in the office. Her computer worked. It took two specialists and some yelling for her to schedule an appointment for me.
I exploded like the largest stick of dynamite ever and nothing good happened after that.
I should have sued but it takes so long. I've done it and won and it really does take so flipping long and it so exhausting and... so... well..
There are people who are beyond evil.
Were I a white man in a suit, she would have booked me an appointment without hesitation.
So, I die here, yelling whenever I want. At least that's my version of being true to myself and honest. "The man," is nuts.
Okay, so here's the plan. I'm breaking out tonight. Worse case scenario, they arrest me again, rape me some more and put me back here to be psychologically abused again.
Best case scenario, I get to smoke a few cigarettes and get to drink some espressos in my mansion.
Which means, I probably die here.
You thought the last blog was sad, right?
This is not an effort to crowd source, but if you think patients with PTSD and Depression should be able to fill their prescriptions for Cannabis in Hospitals in the GTA, call whoever you need to.
Canabanoid Clinic: http://www.cmclinic.ca/
I can be reached at the Psych Ward 416-340-5590 under Dr. Skorzewska's malpractice.
I cut off my phone and I'm too tired to sue the world.
Sexual harassment is on the table though, because something strange happens when you drugs a few women and have one male with a criminal record in a secluded part of the hospital.
Happy Wintry Spring.