 |
| 1982 Debbie in Dance Costume |
June 23, 2015
The following writing is done by Deborah K. Moss. I am still perturbed that my original
writing, which should come under fine art law, has been thieved for over decade
of my life.
I am self publishing as a means for everyone to be inspired, not just
the select few who have discovered a way to profit off of well written, edited,
and honest writing. They have also profited
off other people's biographical misery.
I shouldn't need to get into the fact that people have recorded my
voice and exploited me in that way, as well.
I would like them prosecuted, and I don't mind owning up to a little performance
art. I accept reality tv for its value. I am waiting for someone to attempt to
blackmail me with images from surviving a stay at a psychiatric hospital, when
I live beneath the poverty line.
Yep, I had
shriveled up boobs. Yep, I'm actually a
female. Yep, that is indeed facial
hair. There is such a thing as medical neglect. Yep, that's me crying in anguish and
surrendering to God. I can't recite the Lord's Prayer
correctly. Yep, I said a lot of strange
stuff. I actually remember how my mind was working -
over-time. No one comes. You just wait for the health insurance to time out. I did improve my pirouette during my stay.
Perhaps soon, I'll make enough money to need to pay taxes. I researched it earlier in the year. I need to make about $13,000. I have never made that much in a year
before. It's hard to be motivated when
others have made much more off of my autobiographical writing.
Old e-mail addresses: iconodule,
d2k, sugarkick.
Servers: Yahoo, Hotmail,
Geocities.
Tuesday, May 12, 2015
Yesterday, I dug a grave for Ado.
This feels like the longest, most difficult transition period in my
life. Physical pain lasting months makes
it hard to forget the events of the past few years. I depend upon my memory to survive.
I have finally remembered some of the strange, delightful, or even
mundane moments in time that had been buried for years. These are seen in retrospect with a mature
perspective. I am not the same young, frazzled,
nervous girl.
Watching Dr. Forever (and a day) on tv has been therapeutic. My mind remembers more than it registered at
the time that I was working at Bewley's.
Monday, June 15, 2015
So, today a Lutheran told me that I look 12 years old.
No response.
So, my sad life moves forward (after that exchange). I am looking healthier today, but I am having
more stinging urination. Healing is a
lengthy process. This is the kind of
crime against me I could have never imagined suffering. You don't forget what another human has done
to you with this sort of slow, painful recovery.
So, I believe she said that there are 7,000 Lutherans in
Mississippi? I was born into this
minority, especially when you pair it with Amish ancestry. I would suggest a medical exchange between my
relatives and I, but I am not sure if it would be used against all of us or
not. It seems pointless with all that
non-relatives have already probably put together. I am not sure any of us have a chance at a
modern, humane, endocrinological perspective.
Research seems to have existed for over a century, but it is most likely
being used by mad-scientists, not healers.
Besides, medical conglomerates seem to have begun their new version of
tracking pre-existing conditions. I
studied a bit of database programming, so I understand how easy it is to tag
people as related.
Sunday, June 21, 2015
I am trying to figure out the best way to drop some names instead of
hints.
So, the scenario I am playing with now is the Female-Female Doctor(or
any random family doctor of Mississippi, perhaps the Indian American I needed
to inform which side of my chest my heart was on in front of a Sherriff's
Deputy) giving a demonstrative teach to 13 year-old girls on what a proper
breast exam is as opposed to molestation.
The doctor seems the expert at both.
This guilty consciousness stuff has got to end for all of the young
women out there. I don't know what to do
about the women older than me. Our
society has to evolve. Can we just make
things transparent? Systemized abuse,
who does it serve?
Guilt belongs with the guilty party, grrlz.
Tuesday, June 23, 2015
Have you ever looked out the back window and seen the beautiful tree
leaves sway slowly in the heat of a new summer?
Yesterday, I marveled at the hint of golden light kissing the surface of a window sill. Beyond the pane, I could see the sky glowing
in golden sepia. I took a breath in, and
I smiled the smallest smile. Despite all
of the harm being done by people in this world, in this land, to each other, to
society, decaying our culture, isolating the thoughtful and naive, this place
is still one of the most beautiful and romantic moments in time. My mind might process and store the memories
of trauma and abuse in triplicate, but there is still room for a childlike
wonderment. I can delight in a flower or
the smell of the world after a warm rain.
Going back in time, around 2011, before I was kidnapped by a Sheriff's
Deputy (still questioning his identity due to lack of professionalism . . .
weird thing to do to a U.S. Citizen) and held hostage at a psychiatric
hospital, before I had ever been to a psychiatrist, I was given a
"wishbone pelvic break" at a women's center that depends on grant
money. "Tag; you're it!" comes
to mind. This is barbaric treatment, and
at my size I am always an easy target for physical harm.
When I was underweight, living at the psychiatric hospital, I could
feel the separation in what should still be a fused pelvis in a woman who has
never delivered a baby. With no flesh
and just skin, my fingers could go between the broken, over-lapping bones. The asymmetry was obvious. One side no longer fused, but normal. The other side with the tip on the part that
should be fused double over. Well, at least,
"the wish" still belongs to me as I carry all of the pieces on my
pelvis within me.
I had pain following that pelvic exam for about 5 days. I had always had pain following pelvic exams
for approximately 3 days. The doctor palpitated
my ovaries, which is something done to women with a history of overgrown
ovarian cysts or to check ovulation. I
only needed a pap-smear in the first place because of one sexual assault that
occurred when I was 24. (I was supposed
to be unconscious. The man rather not be
known as a rapist or a murderer. We
cryptically communicated the truth to each other. I prefer to say I lost my virginity to a
cardboard applicator for a tampon than a rapist.) I believed in preventative care.
We all have to enter that trusting frame of mind in order to receive
medical care. We were trained as
children to trust the doctor and the nurse so that we may be made better. We are not to be defensive. I trusted and was abused. So, they fed their sadism and got paid for
it.
I might live in Mississippi, the land of eloquent writers, yet known
for ridiculous ignorance, but my thoughts have lead me to the conclusion that
this abuse at medical centers is systemic and operates with cult-like rules with
an organized crime hierarchy across this nation. I honestly thought I was to receive second
opinions with each new female doctors I went to see.
The monopoly radiological group might be a good source for a collection
of images of small frame women's wishbone pelvic breaks, as well as other
visual evidence of abuse.
If I was not well written, this would be insignificant, as I am one of
many who are undervalued and not heard.
I am not looking for sympathy. I
don't like to be coddled.
hush now don't say a word
mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird
©D. Moss
 |
| April 26, 2011 |
 |
| December 25, 2011 |
 |
| January 21, 2012 |
 |
| Cheerleader, Age 11 |
