Is fighting keeping me alive?

  If I stop fighting this battle then what? 

What do I have left to work with? 

So many holes and voids from lost relationships, lost opportunities and lost potential. 

But many of those opportunities, relationships and potential were not lost rather taken from me through defamation from accreditation. 

If I quit fighting, then what? What is left of me after all of this? 

Disability? and Disdain for it? 

fatigue and failure?

Failure to prove my value as a human?

Or 

All the failures of the "systems" and "institutions" 

Of checks and balances

That are supposed to protect 

equally

and the vulnerable especially, but not actually. 

Anger.

I am left with Anger and Pain. 

I am left with degradation and knowledge of incompetence being practiced at the highest levels to the detriment of the most vulnerable and most easily exploited. The Least of These.

Left knowing that he is still practicing with patients he can so easily exploit and they are allowing it and covering for him.

Or they told him and have directed him to lie and he is a victim himself- doubtful though, too much the victim played and preyed on by him. 

He can and will lie to your face, but you cannot be mad because he did warn you in his cryptic and not so cryptic ways, he warned you that he would not admit to anything that might expose who he really is and what he is really up to. 

Even if you catch him in the lies, the title and prestige they will not compromise

for the likes of you.

And Cortney watches with her henchman Sean, because she is pathetic and so is he. and because they thrive on the knowing they are causing pain. They thrive on knowing that they can keep the pain caused by others going indefinitely. Mercilessly. 

Enjoy the publishing of anything about you -you narcissistic sadists. Then pretend like you have never read this in your pathetic attempt to deny me the satisfaction of knowing that you are paying attention to the likes of me; A satisfaction that is your own fabrication, not mine. 

Keep on working to fill your life and lips with injections of products that are as fake and toxic as you are. 
Keep working to crush the already crushed so you can fool people into believing the radiance reflected off of their crushed pieces are somehow reflective of your own brilliance. But you and I both know you are a mere Fabrication of Illumination. At least that is an Impressive feat for the Obsolete, I'll give you that. 

Pretend. Or threaten and use it to show and say "see she's.." whatever you say to twist things your way in the moment of that day, -BYU sticker proud of your clearly defined deceit and conceit. 

Keep on reading you leach 

POS. 

Not where I wanted to go with this today, but frankly, you were never invited -so leave. Don't you know the cool kids don't hang out here. Be gone you fascist fool, go stomp and clomp in your trying too hard heals with your Scabie Stooge Sean right at them. 

Or stay and keep coming back to flatter me. But since I am being honest, I will admit, you are not a flattering audience.

The Gym

 It's not my thing 

and it's not my scene.

But my body has changed and I am getting older. 

Running does not work the same anymore, yet I still need the exercise. I also need to strengthen my core to accommodate for

the lower back injury that now objects to many things I used to enjoy, like running and sleeping on the ground in a tent. 

So Gym seems like a good idea. 

We have a week free, to try it out. I went once with spouse and son and it was surprisingly fun not that bad. I liked the versatility of the activities I could do, my core seems to approve, and my energy and focus felt better upon returning home from the outing. 

Today son is working and spouse is snowmobiling. I have way too much to do on the legal end, but am feeling overwhelmed. So I think Gym would be a good new friend to start my day with. ...

... But somehow, all dressed up with somewhere to go, movement starts to become rather slow. I give myself the pep talk and encouragement I seem to need,.. But instead of my feet moving towards the door, tears start to flow and I find myself frozen as I stare at my exit trying muster the strength and courage to leave.  I don't understand why this is hard for me and why tears are streaming down my face in response to my desire to go to the gym.

It's almost as if all my recent efforts to improve myself and society have been fraught with frustration and degradation. 

Maybe that is all it is. 

And I am afraid

To leave my house 

and leave it alone

to try and improve the quality of me alone

in an environment that is new

but supposed to be something and somewhere built for the masses for the purpose of improving ones health...

ahh 

now there it is. 

blogging it out proving productive -or is it seductive- again as a few last stray tears find there way out of the mayhem inside that will forever be pressing for resolution and solution

Now...

Do I stay or do I go?

Go. 

and hope for the best. as always I guess. 

Except that now I am exhausted again

and tilting; 

my eyes pressuring me to close    

...

...

Originally published on 2/3/24 at 9:52 am

Now it 12:13 and I am back from the Gym.

It is very strange how the universe works at times for a person who rarely runs into people she knows. 

As I walked the track to cool down I noticed a grey haired man shooting hoops who seemed familiar. He looked a lot my previous physical therapist. The one who had pointed out that I reminded him of his  friend Jan Broberg, partly because I was behaving like someone whom had been groomed to protect their groomer. He was the physical therapist I saw after the ankle surgery that occurred amidst the ongoing malpractice, when I was mess after being "terminated" by Dr. P but still being treated by Dr. R at the same Neurosciences Institute that was denying the mania and then failing to refer so I could get appropriate care and diagnosis. 

I had talked with this therapist and cried to him quite a bit about the situation I was trying to understand when I was both his patient and theirs.  He was the therapist who had asked, "what's the worst possible outcome," in regards to the scenario I could not then fully comprehend or accept. 

"That he's a grooming psychologist and I have to stop him," was the automatic instinctive answer I provided to him then. 

As it turns out, the grey haired man shooting hoops was precisely that physical therapist. He still remembers who I am and he was curious to know if anything was ever resolved. 

What an odd coincidence. 

Or does God still work in mysterious ways?