I'm BAAAAAAACK!

This has to be a record. But I have been busy ranting on FB, so I haven't come here to unload.

Now FB is basically a minefield of leftist censorship. I shut that down, much to the dismay of a family member. Oddly enough, nobody else cares, because my rants were getting brutal.

So, let's play catchup. I returned to my career as a nurse, and saw my mother through her dying process. She died September 9, 2019. On her death, her middle daughter tried to act as though she and I hadn't been at bloody war for years. I didn't accept the olive branch. She can die as she lives, by domestic violence or drugs and alcohol.

My daughter moved out and now lives with friends. I'm happy for her, and especially happy that she is working double-shifts by schedule because of short-staffing.

Politically, everything is shit. Congress prevented Trump from accomplishing anything by running impeachment trials every time he farted in the Oval Office. All of them failed. They also destroyed the economy by shutting down businesses over the entire nation and made people dependent on handouts. Essentially, nobody wants to work anymore, even though every single business is begging for help.

I'll go through each of these more in-depth in future posts.

And during the Congress-created hysteria, we nurses were called "heroes." I knew that was bullshit from the start. Pet the dog. Good Girl/Boy. 

Now we and all healthcare workers are dogshit on the sidewalk, to be stepped around and bitched about.

And finally, for this post, the Democrats worked out the bugs in their system to steal elections, and a lying, racist pedophile was elected. The dismantling of our rights and of this country are on schedule.

Everything is destroyed, and I'm sick of it.

To be continued...

Cricket, Cricket...

It's been a long time.  As is usual with me.

The root problem (at least what I'll lay the blame on) is that my computer finally went black-screen.  The computer functions, but the monitor doesn't, and it's one of those all-in-ones.  I will eventually get a monitor to hook up to the computer, but for now, I'm swiping my daughter's gaming computer.  One of her FOUR computers.

Sometimes she looks like a NASA control-room engineer.

Anyway, it took this old woman a while to navigate through and find I could pick up blogging on this computer.  Plus I've been editing for a friend and trying to become a full-time sweepstaker, or sweeper.  And doing my own writing, which, frankly, has trickled away to nothing.

Meanwhile, all the topics about which I wish to rant are swirling 'round in my head.  Again, as noted on the second post here, things happen so quickly that, by the time I can sit down, it's old news and something else is enraging me.

I'm going to have to sort, list, prioritize, and schedule all the rants.

Be afraid, be very afraid...

Pots and Kettles, Kettles and Pots

I was tempted to post something on my Facebook about people being unable to see that their worldview is flawed.




But I knew that. almost immediately, many of my friends would leap on it, agreeing with nods so vigorous they might dislocate their cervical vertebrae.  All while being unable to see that they are my targets.  Inadvertently, but the model all the same.

Because nobody -- nobody -- can see their own reflection in the mirror I hold up.  People live their beliefs, those things they were taught long before they were able to form logical thought.


Oh, and logic is flawed, also.  Because it is taught inside a narrow corridor.  It has to follow laws and rules as rigid as any religion.


I have no superiority complex, I assure you.  I know that the way I see the world is filtered through my experiences and mood.


But we, as a species, are not one bit more elevated or civilized than our ancestors, who burned people, who stole whatever they wanted because they were "right" and the people they ran over were "wrong," primitive, savage.  It doesn't matter what the religion or belief.  Anybody could be raised in some other belief, and would be certain that their belief, their structure, their people were in the right in everything.


So I could post something on Facebook, and within seconds, it would receive likes galore.  And not one person would understand that it was also meant for them.

Because inside of a month, those twenty would have developed divisions, clans, and territories.  It is the way of humans.


And the reason we will never have peace on this planet or any other.

You're Specialer

I'm an animal-lover.  Way more than I'm a human-lover.  Especially those animals designated, bred, and recognized as pets or companions.


It hurts my heart that pets are killed daily in shelters because people don't want them.  Well, that and the fees to adopt have gone up into the hundreds of dollars.  Most people can't afford that, even if they would be the best pet-parents in the world.


So when a "special" animal makes national news, through abandonment and/or abuse, I should be ecstatic that so many people come forward wanting to give the cat, kitten, dog, or puppy a loving home.


But when they fail to become the proud new parents, do they go down to their local shelters and adopt?


I doubt it.


The "special" animal is a totem, a beacon to humanity.  They also become trophies.  They have worth not because they are pets, but because they are famous.  The more damaged they are, the more famous.


No shelter throwaway would bring that kind of attention to the new owner.


And that is what hurts my heart just as much.  The animal is only a vase, a piece of jewelry,  a new high-end car.  "Specialer" than some mutt in a pen.  Like a Cadillac is more impressive than a Ford Escort.

Give Us Your Poor, Your Weak, Your Feeble-Minded -- We Have Just The Place For Them

Like many people, I'm fascinated by abandoned insane asylums.  Unlike many, I want to know the deepest histories of them.  I want to know why.


When you look at the beginnings of what would eventually become a horror-show of abuse and murder, you find the finest of intentions.  You see what humans can do for each other, before you see what they do to each other.


Each asylum that I've researched started out with noble design.  Those huge "scary" buildings were constructed to house, protect, heal, and teach.  Most of them included features found now in luxury resorts:  pools, saunas, gardens, tennis courts, libraries... The amenities were calculated to engage body and mind, and the medical models drove care that should have brought comfort, even if the patient could never be truly healed and recovered.


So what went wrong?


Committees. 


Men rendered faceless by their presence around a table, sharing responsibility so that none shouldered any blame.


They cut budgets, proclaimed treatment options too expensive, and congratulated each other for the savings.  They allowed increasing populations while decreasing funding.  They turned what could have been a cocoon of protection into a straitjacket.


And when the horrors were revealed, they denied knowledge.  That is believed because they had not one bit of actual awareness of the conditions, since they never visited or even communicated with the facilities they purportedly oversaw.  Why would they?  All they were concerned with was the budget.


Committees are man's way of controlling without responsibility.


Because the idealistic dreams of mental health experts were ground beneath the heels of anonymous bureaucrats, asylums are closed.


That leaves us with people who have no home, no protection, no hope.  They also are overseen by ... nobody.  They are nobody's problem, and everybody's problem.


Could we, at this time and with our current "advanced understanding," bring back to life the idealistic centers of care?


No.


Because we are no more advanced than we were 100, 75, 50 years ago.  I know that.  Shining buildings of glass and steel, rather than stone, could be built, clean lines and soothing colors, ambitious compassionate teams assembled, mission statements developed and binder after binder of policies and procedures printed, patient-based care plans implemented, and still, within five years, the slide would begin.  It's unavoidable.  Because every Tuesday, people would sit around a table to discuss the budget.  Or every fourth Tuesday, or quarterly.  A representative of that table would sit at another table for each interdisciplinary meeting, analyzing the plan of care, the interventions, the cost.


Bonuses would start for cutting costs, for increasing census, for "right-sizing" staffing.


No, we have learned nothing from the past, because we are not forced to learn.  The blame has always been placed on the direct caregivers, the providers, and never on the reasons behind the short staffing and decrease in care provided.


And the committee members moved on to other committees.

PTSD Now Covers Deep Disappointment

I do try to avoid the news, but sometimes I get bits of it while waiting for weather.


Yesterday, a very, very young man (although I'm probably being insensitive for assuming its gender) was bemoaning the SCOTUS rejection of hearing the case for open bathrooms.  "My heart hurts for all the trans students who are living in fear!" it wept.


Why? 


I know, they'll all be crowding the counseling offices to weep and shake and curl up into balls over this disappointment.  More than one will drop out of college and go back to their childhood bedrooms, pull the blankets up, and go on PTSD disability.


I'm laughing.


I have PTSD.  From being raped.  Constantly, age 3 to age 17.  And I function.  I do not expect people to tiptoe around me, I do not expect all men to apologize, and I do not expect everything in life to go my way.


And I have no sympathy for these fake-disorder crybabies.


That's all for now.  Just... grow up.  Life isn't elementary school, where your feelings are spared and you get awards for breathing.  And, increasingly, get special treatment for deciding your preferences before you even develop secondary sexual characteristics.

Take THAT, You Dirty Trump-Lover!

I was watching the channel Viceland, for a show about abandoned places.  Love those things.


And they ran a short.... commercial? ... tagging one older man as "Vincent  Father In Law" and another younger man as "[can't remember] Son In Law."  Vincent apparently committed the heinous crime of supporting Trump during the campaigns, and he talked about how his SIL would shout at him, so he would leave his own house during times his daughter, granddaughter, and son in law visited, just to avoid arguments.


When Trump won the election, the son in law laid down the law.  His wife and daughter would never see Vincent for as long as Trump held office, or anyone SIL disapproved of, for that matter.  SIL moaned about "Thanksgiving being lonely" because he would not go to Vincent's home for the holiday -- this also meant, of course, that he would not allow his wife to see her own father.


So much for women's rights, there, SIL.


Vincent, on his camera, was in tears.  "I don't care about the elections.  I just want to see my daughter and granddaughter!"  I guess old Vincent learned his lesson, right?  Vote correctly, or pay the price.