Good day?

It’s almost noon as I begin writing this.  I woke up this morning and considered playing WoW.  It’s really the only thing I can do any more to keep sane.  I don’t have to talk to anybody but my brother and there’s plenty to do to keep me occupied.  I raid.  It’s one of the few social connections I have because it’s mostly anonymous.  The down side is that I have to try really hard for 3 hours a day, 3 days a week, not to scream at somebody.  I don’t often succeed.  Mostly this means that I just don’t talk in vent, but sometimes I can’t help myself.  I have to press the button and yell at somebody… which just makes the situation worse.

I discarded the idea for no particular reason and have been sitting here doing more or less nothing for most of 3 hours.  The lights are off, my gf is asleep, and I’m just sitting here bored, not interested in talking to anybody.  The one discussion I’ve had this morning ended with people making fun of me.

My abdomen is only in mild discomfort right now.  No real pain, though we’ll see how long that holds up.

I’m out of cigarettes and I don’t have much money left.  I’m so bored I could tear out my hair… but I haven’t started hating life yet today.


Posts I’ve found about social and emotional isolation

When I’m in a room surrounded by people I care about, and who care about me, I still feel completely alone.  I cannot connect to people the way I could when I was a small child.  I can’t empathize with them any more.

For a long time I worried that I would turn out like another man of the Bundy name.  I looked into what being a sociopath means.  At first it alarmed me quite severely to be able to answer all but 2 of them in the affirmative… but I genuinely love my girlfriend.  I don’t want to hurt people.  I just want to be left in peace.

I started looking for an explanation for why I feel the way I do.  Many of them seem quite rational… but none of the studies approaches anything remotely close to the period of time I’ve spent Isolated from the society of my peers.  I’ll be 29 in 3 months.  I still feel like a scared 14 year old.

In any event, these are some of the things I’ve found on emotional and social isolation.

normally I wouldn’t quote yahoo answers but this popped up and while hard to read it’s pretty accurate (in my experience)

This article actually mentions the effects of homelessness


I went to see the doctor today.  He put his finger in places where it doesn’t belong.  Not that it didn’t need done… but it was damn uncomfortable.  He gave me a huge discount because I’m self pay and unemployed (sigh), which was nice… and he told me that the last doctor that I spoke to was a moron because it sounds more like Celiac Disease than IBS.  Celiac is like a gluten allergy apparently.  He also said that it was unlikely that I have Crohn’s Disease but he’s testing me for that and Ulcerative Colitis.  All I know about these are that they are conditions that cause inflammation of the bowel.

They drew four vials of blood and told me that I needed to make an appointment with a gastro-neurologist or something for a colonoscopy.  Joy.

At least I have some ideas other than Irritable Bowel Syndrome (a syndrome, for the record, is a condition that has been documented but cannot be explained).  Some of them are easily treatable.  If it’s Celiac’s… while it’s easily treatable, my mother’s friend (who has dealt with it her whole life and only learned that she had it a while back), states that getting it under control can be an extremely long process.

I don’t know how I’m going to pay for this.

Oops there goes another…

job.  After several months of abdominal pain (most of which I worked through until the last couple of weeks), I went into work this morning and was let go.  I can’t say I’m surprised and I can’t say I blame my boss, but it still hurts.  I’ve worked fast food off and on for 15 years… I finally get out and into a job that I actually like and within months I’m so sick (again) that I get let go for inability to work scheduled hours.

It’s frustrating.

I’m scared and I’m angry, but most of all I’m sick.  I’m sick all the fucking time and I have no idea what to do about it.  I think I started this blog for theraputic reasons, really.  I certainly don’t know how to advertise something like this…

I’m just tired of feeling like there’s no way that I can communicate how alone and lost I feel.

I’m tired of putting forth everything I have to go nowhere.  I just don’t know if I can keep going any more.

Homelessness in America

I don’t think people understand what homelessness really is.  I mean, you can say you donate to the salvation army (but if you ever say it to me I’ll punch you in the face), but that doesn’t mean you fully comprehend what it is you’re donating to. There’s no wrong in it, you’re still essentially helping somebody, but you could stand to know more about what you’re donating towards.

When I tell somebody that I was homeless for most of a decade, I’m not trying to get across the fact that I didn’t have anywhere to live.  I’m trying to tell them that I don’t understand society.  I can’t make small talk or understand the implications of inflection on words at specific points.  That’s something I guarantee you take for granted.  It’s your freakin language.

Why do YOU think hobo-speak evolved?  It’s a LANGUAGE… why?  Homeless people don’t have anybody to talk to.  Homeless people don’t talk to folks.  We beg for money to get by and people tell us to get a job.  Like we ever could without somewhere to shower on a daily basis… or fresh clothes.  I certainly didn’t own a razor.

When I tell somebody I was homeless for most of a decade, what I’m trying to get across is the fact that I slept outside.  That I was raped once (possibly twice), that I was beaten for food or the books I had on loan from the library.  What I’m trying to get across is the fact that even in the years since my homelessness I haven’t ever had the financial stability to be able to pay for medical bills, or the insurance to get somebody else to do so.

Help from the government, you say?!  Requires. An. Address.

I don’t know if I’m diseased, have cancer, have an extended case of the flu, or if I’m dying.


You have to actually know who to talk to for these things… and for somebody that’s afraid of social interaction (for obvious reasons) that can be kind of hard.  And even once you DO know who to talk to, she needs to ask you these 20 pages of questions in triplicate.  I want to kill her within the first three, because it’s obvious she’s done 100 others that day and she hates her job.

It’s not obvious because I’m rather good at expressing myself via writing, but I can barely talk to another person for a few minutes.  Within seconds I’m wondering why they’re looking over there, or if they’re secretly laughing at me, or if they’re looking down at me the same way everyone has my whole life.  Then I start getting angry and flipping out.

When I say I was homeless for most of a decade, what I’m trying to get across, is that I slept on a trash compactor behind a grocery store, or on a sidewalk behind another grocery store, or (my personal favorite) next to a little illegal fire pit I dug for myself behind a trailor park next to the library.  If it rained or snowed?  Tough shit.  When I was sick, nobody cared.  There was no medicine.  The only time I ever saw concern on somebody’s face was the time that I woke up to the EMTs because somebody had thought I was a corpse laying in their childrens’ park and called me in.

Homelessness is not being without a house.  Homelessness is a lack of basic humanity.  The homeless are made by their peers to be animals.  An animal I remain.

My Name is Bundy

My name is Bundy. It is January 18th at 10:05 pm as I begin to write this. I was born in 1983 and grew up in St Louis, Missouri. When I was in 4 years old, “Married with Children” began airing on ABC.  By the time I was 8 I had been cut off from almost all social ties and was pushed around and made fun of  nearly every day.

So, at a time in my life when my personality had yet to really form, people began laughing at me and ridiculing me each time I introduced myself. This has occured continuously over the course of my life, even unto today, when the doctor’s assistant I was making an appointment with could barely contain her laughter, and years of harassment have rendered me psychologically ill equipped to interact with other individuals. I have always found few friends, and been a quietly stubborn person with a quick fuse, and the public school system was not at all kind to me.

Near the end of my third grade year, my parents divorced and my mother, brother, and I uprooted and moved to a better neighborhood.  Unlike most children my age, I was quietly overjoyed to leave. I cried at the loss of the familiar faces and those few people who had not cut me off from their circles, but I was glad to be gone.

While my first several years of school had been at a Christian academy, the remainder of my days were spent in the public school system. I entered my new school near the end of my third grade year, already scarred and betrayed by those I’d come to lean on at the Christian school, and entered what continues to be a waking nightmare. I was nearly two years ahead in almost every subject. Those who stand out in public school are taught not to by their peers.

The snickers continued at my new school, already a point upon which I was ready to scream and argue. Though I’ve never sought out a fight with anyone but my younger brother, many times I have longed to. It is not the person I am. I stayed quiet, shyed away from contact, and as I sought to be more and more invisible, more and more people continued to harass me.

By the end of my fifth grade year I still had no friends, an absentee mother who worked long into the night and could barely afford to feed my brother and I. I could not, and still cannot, relate to those around me. I entered middle school the next year, already bored with every subject they taught. The one thing I took pleasure in was band, which my mother pulled me from when my grades in everything else began to slip.

During my 6th grade year I had taken the SAT and scored quite high, so in 7th grade I was invited to participate in the “Duke University Talent Search” which consisted of attending two extra days of school one week, during which I took the ACT college entrance exam. I scored high on this as well.

I was invited to join the “Program for Intellectually Talented Students” at my middle school. I took this as a chance to learn something new instead of droning on with the same boring crap that had been taught repeatedly for the previous six years. My mother declined because my grades weren’t good enough.

I stopped applying myself. The next two years were the only years of summer school I ever attended.  During these years I developed a drug problem.  I still disagree that Marijuana is a ‘gateway drug’.  I believe cigarettes do that, and that’s where I started.  Before long I was smoking pot (which I wish they would legalize because it has beneficial properties and the vast majority of those opposed to the idea can only quote WRH’s bullshit propaganda), and close on the heels of that I was drinking.

Mushrooms, LSD, and cocaine soon followed, and by the end of  my time there, I found myself addicted completely to methamphetamine… but I’m getting ahead of msyelf.

I muddled through the rest of a year and a half in middle school, barely scraping the grades needed for high school (it was the second year of summer school that actually got me over the hump), and entered high school with little respect for the teachers or students who had and would continue to laugh at me and treat me like crap for the entire time that I would be there.

At some point during my 9th grade year, my parents, always the thoughtful ones, instructed me that if people continued to harass me about Al Bundy, that I should reply that I’m not related to him, though I am related to Ted… which is true (if only because he was adopted).

This turned out to be terrible advice. Within two years I had been harassed, threatened, attacked, and put down enough times that I simply could not deal with high school any more.  Bomb threats had been called into my school after Columbine and someone in the student body decided to scapegoat me.  I dropped out and joined the work force.  The tactic was ineffective.  When I was walking from home to work or home to the library I often found full cups of soda sailing at me from cars moving near 40 miles an hour.

Though working has always given me a sense of accomplishment, I find that I cannot hold a job for long due to the fact that I fucking hate human beings. Perhaps you don’t understand the reasoning behind my fucking hating people, but I do. If you are one of the people who doesn’t understand, I invite you to consider your first reaction to my first statement in this writing.


When I dropped out of high school, my mother told me that I had to get a job or get out of her house. You may have guessed from my previous statement that I got the job. You may not have guessed that I lost that job not long after. It was my first job.  I got another but quickly lost it because I had to work with those same people who had harassed me for years already.  I became homeless. For a very long time.

It should be noted that because my mother had to work to support two children by herself she rarely actually had time to interact with us.  I had been having trouble relating to people for such a long time now that even when she had the few minutes to spare I was unable to articulate my problems for her.  I still am unable to talk about my problems verbally the great majority of the time.

It’s not that I can’t communicate myself, it’s just that I don’t understand vocal inflection, and years of emotional and psychological abuse has made it difficult for me to interact with people for more than a few seconds without wanting to kill them.

The first thing I did was join a magazine crew. A poor decision, but then, I’ve made many. These people travel around the country selling magazines door to door. It’s always a contest with fun and exciting prizes like a vacation to hawaii that nobody ever wins… because it’s a scam. They get kids with nothing left to live for, press them into service hundreds of miles from where they might find a familiar face, and then tell them that if they can’t sell magazines they’ll be left behind.

They took my N64, most of my music, my books, and my alarm clock, leaving me beaten half out of my wits in an apartment complex in Golden Colorado with no money, no food, and no clothing but what I was wearing.

I found a gas station and asked for a ride to the nearest truck stop. I’ve always been inventive.

When I got to the truck stop, I went straight into the restaraunt and began asking for somewhere that I could sleep for 3 hours. I met a truck driver who wound up taking me all the way across the country and back. I even wound up moving to california at his urging, though not for several years.

He dropped me back off at my mother’s house, after nearly a year of my absence, and my mother let me stay a single night before telling me I had to find somewhere else to go. Keep in mind that most of my problems with my mother stem from how I treated her as I child… but there again, I never had a shot in hell of being a nice person did I?

I don’t blame my mother for kicking me out and keeping me as far from my brother as she could… I was a bad influence… but it’s not exactly as if I was shown how people should really live for most of my childhood.

Ultimately I spent about 8 years couch hopping, sometimes with people who wanted a little more than just to give me a place to sleep. Not that I ever gave anybody anything… and I’ve actually met some interesting people with whom I’m still good friends.

The last couple of years of my homelessness, however, were actually spent living outside. Where before I had friends who would at least let me crash at their homes, if not give me clothes and food, now I didn’t even have that.

My family had long since abandoned me, I had no more friends, and all of the people I knew were homeless, ready to beat me half to death for a crust of bread. I could not get a job because I had nowhere to shower, I could not buy clothes or food or go to college because I had no money.

There was nobody to turn to, nothing that I could do but fight to survive like an animal. An animal is what I became. When something threatens or irritates me I hiss and snarl. I have no internal censor, as most people do, I haven’t the training to go “Oh hey, I shouldn’t say this because it’s assholish.” I just say what’s on my mind. I can’t do anything else. I don’t even think before I speak, I just react, because that’s what I’ve spent my life doing.

Even the Salvation Army has kicked me out of 4 of its homes simply for not being Christian.

I don’t remember a great deal about my life between these major points.  Most of it has been scoured away.  I have flashbacks all the time, to high school.  To people laughing at me or harassing me loudly in the commons.  When i can remember my dreams they are nightmares about that place.

Eventually I met Ralph.  He’s been one of my best friends for a very long time.  He took me over to his house after work one day to play some video games.  I counted 22 systems, turned to him, and told him that I was never leaving.  He didn’t manage to get rid of me for a very long time.  At times we fought like demons.. mostly because I can’t talk to people without pissing them off.  A time or two shit got out of hand.

Ralph gave me clothes and food and a place to stay.  He helped me get a job and begin turning my life around.

At this point I’ve spent my entire life working toward just being able to survive. I am finally in college, working, and trying to better myself, and I find myself getting sick nearly every day, sometimes to the point where I spend HOURS every day wrapped around a toilet.

I have not worked enough to be eligible for Disability or Social Security, I have not been at my current job long enough to receive benefits, and I am now sick so frequently that I am in danger of losing my job, even though I have been to see two doctors (and a third in two more days). I have felt sick nearly every day for 10 years now, for varying lengths of time.

I am at my wit’s end. I cannot survive in any situation that requires me to interact with people, because I have spent the entire period of my life that should have been devoted to learning that skill, to survival instead. I am a feral person.

I have come to doubt, after YEARS of attempting to find a way to cope with my own malformed psychology, that I will ever be able to navigate a social situation successfully. I have begun to doubt that I will ever be able to sustain a job for more than a few years, and indeed, if my chronic illness continues, I will likely find myself unable to FIND work, much less PERFORM it.

I have a plan. It’s a plan that would provide for myself and my future wife, it would provide for my future children. It would allow us a place to live and a sustainable source of income, whilst I seek help with my psychological problems.

It’s a plan that will cost 7000 dollars to begin.

I need help, and there is none to be had.

I am at my wit’s end.

I have, MANY TIMES, considered attempting to sue ABC, Sunset-Gower, and SONY for emotional distress due to this show and its ridiculously long run time (a run time that, to me, seemed hundreds of times what it actually was). I have lived my life in the shadow of a retarded shoe salesman.

I wish to buy a house and get married, I even have the girl picked out… but I can’t work and interact on a daily basis when everybody is laughing at me. Even if I could, I’ve been sick nearly every day for the last three months. The doctors say that I have IBS but my place of employment is unimpressed. I remain unimpressed as well, as I’ve changed my diet and my abdominal distress continues.

[edit] medical update in post “Doctors”

Please help me.