Rudie Can't Fail

(This is a song by The Clash, originally.)

What an odd year it's been for me, I must say. It's not like a year ago, but it hasn't been pleasant. I've gone through four clutches, faced eviction and I'm still not sure how things will turn out.

I managed to get health insurance back at least. I can't say I understand the Medicaid system nor that I'm proud of needing it. It's only my fault if I remain poor. It's not my fault if my parents were, or at least that seems to be the case. I'm not a great philosopher, like Fox's Bill O'Reilly that I can say everything I state is the absolute truth. (I can be a bigger pompous ass, but I'm not sure that's anything to brag about.)

Which brings me to another worry. The therapist has agreed to see me again, which surprised me. Being out of contact for a year and not making enough to spend on $85 weekly visits meant I had to drop the insurance. When we last left she was talking about my sexuality, a topic, which as you know I've never felt comfortable with.

I actually intend to tell her this, though I doubt there's much she can do. Part of the reason I held it back is because the therapist works for a Lutheran center and I'm not sure what exactly there stance will be, even though the Lutherans are one of the more liberal denominations.

What if they do feel that the condition can be “cured”? Who do I turn to then? Well, I imagine someone reading this will probably supply links in the comments section so I needn't worry. Not only that, but if I go further, what exactly are people in this small industrial town going to think? Sure, the trial of school may be in the past, but my weirdness by those who remember has not been forgotten.

I came to a decision yesterday. I will not let fear guide my life in the past. I will find my center if necessary and proceed down the paths I feel are appropriate for me. If people disagree with this, too bad. It's my life to live, not theirs. I'll even start buying more female clothing. (Even male clothing, too. My wardrobe needs updating badly.)

Perhaps it's time to say “Go to Hell” to the people real and imagined who would criticize me for this and on the whole stop worrying about what other people think. Just remember, that you and me, unlike Art Garfunkel, are not a rock.