Virtue Signaling & Hard Luck Rivalry


neeThese are the aspects of the really horrible people that I found myself meeting in hospital. I suppose they are narcissists. Narcissists love working in and being in hospitals, because people don’t stay long enough to get to know and see the real them. Of course they have a steady source of victims, aka patients, to pretend to care for, so they look good, in most cases. They hate not looking good.

So on top of an illness you have the let down of being consequently conned, pretty much constantly.

The first words out of their mouths, typically are, ‘How are you’. It’s done automatically, a virtue signaling, so that all within earshot would know their supposed virtue. At first, because I was distracted with being ill and recovering, I answered the question at face value, I mean I was speaking to a medical or psychological professional (they are the worst). As I became less self absorbed by growing used to my situation, I could see that these folks were always self absorbed, always ill.

So, despising bullies the way I do, I would change it up, and so call on them to focus on their patient, which caused much anxiety and hostility. Answers such as, ‘Well, I had a stroke’, really fucked them up, especially because I was living on a neuro acute care ward for six months because I, you know, had a severe stroke. They simply were not equipped emotionally to deal with someone else’s trauma, and hated being called on to do so, and risk showing their true colours.

Eventually I stopped answering. Rarely did they notice as they were all about signaling their virtue and there was no way they were getting into the patients hard luck rivalry for care and attention. Definitely a second class second choice. So not answering them was a kindness of sorts, because they were not equipped for the answer.

There was one guy who took my no answer as a cause of concern. Not that he cared about the answer but he needed some kind of answer for his agenda. ‘Well, when I feel that way, I talk to my Lord Jesus Christ’. Oh Christ.

It turned out that most of these nurses and para what have yous, were big into the church, a source of irony in a bastion of science and evidence based medicine. By ‘big into’ I mean it in the original intent, having a large erect penis for all to see and admire. The female version of pushup bras, notwithstanding.

The most recent version was the psychologist on my team of professionals I was sent to see as an out patient. Mincing along in her girdle and pushup bra, running ahead to hold the door for me and my walker, so all could see how compassionate she was. This all stopped at the door to her office of course. Once inside she was the usual victim blaming insane psychologist who got angry and threw rocks, if I didn’t like her. She needed her patients to like her, which since there was not much to like, caused all kinds of craziness. Think of having Donald Trump, or your rapist, as your therapist.

She really disliked Albert Ellis, of course, the foremost psychotherapist of the last century, inventor of evidence based psychology. I mean here is the guy responsible for deprogramming me from several kinds of hurtful nonsense simply by asking me to ask, is there any evidence for this self defeating belief. She wanted me to believe several things about her for which there was no evidence: kindness, compassion and empathy for a start.  She was all about getting her needs to be liked met, which didn’t lend itself to my trusting her with my vulnerability around dealing with a devastating life event. When half your body is paralyzed you really can give a good goddamn about symbolic shiny erect penis’s, push up bras, and my Lord Jesus Christ for Christ sake. My new self helping behavior was getting out her door as quickly as possible, as she was pissed because I had interrupted her lunch, and when she made a point of telling me so, which was honest and refreshing; open hostility, rather than the usual passive aggressive kind of ‘how are you’.

So the narcissistic victim rivalry and virtue signaling, when extended to the care giving professions really makes them care taking professions, they are called care takers for good reason. Think Vampires sucking away at your energy, there is more than one kind of leech in the hospital, demanding that you acknowledge their care compassion and empathy when there is no evidence for those beliefs. Think of Dorothy peering behind the curtain, you are certainly not in Kansas anymore.

“To live outside the law, you must be honest.”–Bob Dylan


nobody fucks with the Jesus



Hassles not Horrors

Letter to a new friend:

Here is my narcissist resource:

Here is my rational resource:
I use this form alot but the entire site is helpful these are tools given to me at the hospital when going through loss of several loved ones simultaneously:

Thank You Jerald


The major sting of loss for me, were things I thought, which weren’t true, that caused unhealthy negative emotions (depression, anxiety. embarrassment, shame, hurt, guilt…). Lately this information has helped me with the loss of and recovery of bodily functions due to brain injury by turning those feelings, those consequences, into healthy negative emotions: sadness, annoyance, concern, regret, disappointment…

The concept of what good can I make of this (such as build art with a disability income to back me up), tools like that, (and make wonderful new friends like you), are the rocket fuel for recovery. Then my loss becomes a bittersweet thing, and my inconveniences are hassles, no longer horrors.

I was at the store shopping on a busy Sunday, and the looks on some peoples faces as they were inconvenienced by my pace and my walker. I found it necessary (well it was fun, I admit) to mention to a couple of narcissists, that their look of hate towards me revealed their thoughts. I don’t care, they are abusive monsters who hate us for our empathy because they we make them look bad anyway….

I Showed Up

When I went to the family therapist, after Edi kicked me out, he didn’t have a lot of time, so he described our relationship in words pretty similar to how you described yours: being controlled by someone else’s displeasure.

He taught me things, such as other peoples likes and dislikes only describe them, not me.
I had a date, after, a teacher, and we were going to her Christmas party, she said you are not wearing those jeans, are you? So I changed to dress pants, because I was programmed to not like myself if someone else was afraid (that’s the key word) that I would embarrass them in public, because I was afraid of being embarrassed in public too. So we had a little shame contract, you won’t embarrass me and I won’t embarrass you. A business deal. When we got to the party everyone was dressed any old way they pleased, of course.
We spent our anxious (and later she was very hostile) time together with me being shut down, never knowing where the next blindsiding attack would come from. I was in bed with her, naked and vulnerable and she said, I don’t know what I’m doing with you, all you have is a truck a computer and guitar. I put my clothes on, silently, and left. No lashing out, no blog posts, just leaving the abuse, without criticising it.
But speaking of me, if I have presented myself as anxious and hostile, something went very wrong. An abusive man would criticise your relationships, especially your relationship with the church, given the abandonment and other abuses I have suffered. So I have done the opposite, saying unconditional acceptance is what I have been taught as the antidote to abuse in relationship. If church is important to you, then it’s important that I respect that, if you want me to go, then I’m going because that’s important to you. If it were a gallery opening, and I wanted company, would I ask you to join me and have you say no all openings are shit? Or would you say of course I have had poor experiences at openings in the past, but what did happen doesn’t mean will happen, and because this is important to you Jerald, then this is important to me.
Of course I have never had a relationship where someone actually said that, all I’ve had are business deals, but I can always hope. In the meantime I make friends like you and that’s nice, sharing recovery from being shut down in abusive relationship stories, and trading strategies for healing. I put two books in my blog post because they helped with that. Ours is a common story. It boils down to they hate us for our empathy because it makes them look bad. We must never make them look bad.
It’s insane.
So I sit here, alone still, with my loss and my grief, and write about it, because friends refuse to go out in public with a walker, a cane, a wheelchair, it would make them look bad, being the centre of attention accompanying me. No visits to the hospital either, too busy, not a priority, too creepy, whatever.
I am an INFJ in the Myers Briggs personality type, the rarest of all kinds, full of empathy, so I am able to understand and feel the terror these people fear at being exposed. They refuse to read my writing because I (intentionally) expose myself, as a shame attacking exercise. It creeps them out, don’t mention me by name don’t take my picture, all the usuals. As if your right to privacy were a weapon I might use against you, which is your mind numbing fear, held over from being controlled by just such a fear by a scared and angry 4 year old of a partner, the same partner I had and all the friends too, a business deal of shame, anger, depression and disease.
So, I crave intimacy, that is defined by creating a safe environment for emotional honesty. Since folks are too busy running from that due to fear of exposure, I have made it my work, my writing and my visual art, a personal history of expressionism, emotional honesty. One of my readers said he reads my posts aloud to his wife, has for years. They sent me hundreds of dollars when I was ill and broke, complete strangers that I have never met. People who crave emotional honesty.
Alice Neel, one of my painter influences said ‘finding a businessman involved in art, is like finding chicken shit in your chicken salad’. The same is true of finding them in any relationship that requires intimacy, safety, honesty. Ironically, I have found  intimacy, safety, honesty by being ‘exposed’ and talking about myself in my work.
You described me, when you met me, as fresh, alert, awake, someone who showed up. The ashrams and buddhists call me enlightened. That’s what it looks like when someone is dealing with their fears as best they know how, then ignoring them, and focusing on ways to find satisfaction. I mean I was homeless, extremely ill, living in a hospital, just lost the use of 50% of my body, my income, my home, my lovely dear dear cat, extremely lonely, even family refused to visit, due to my refusal to make shame deals and not discuss stuff. So I wrote about that, with my left hand, as best I could, taught myself to wipe my own ass, put on my own clothes, got myself in a wheelchair, and with one hand, got myself to a coffee shop where I met you, and many others, a daily thing, so I could intentionally ignore my troubles by focusing on you and your cancerous husband or their stoke victim wife, still waiting for someone to respond in kind, but they never do, and ask me how I’m doing.
So I decided it’s not a reasonable expectation in the land of ‘hard luck rivalry’ (thanks again for that insight George Toles), from people who have been so abused by their partner and their disease, I mean I know it well, I was once in exactly the same isolated lonely shoes.
David Burns, the author of several cognitive therapy books described loneliness is the result of saying, no one loves me. Why that is a lie is because I love me, I always have my best interests at heart, so I’m not dependant on others to care for me. Adults, say Ellis, are self supporting, children need support, so adults support them. That’s basically the problem I have with religion, its being a child again, needing support. If it is to be it’s up to me. That includes satisfaction in the midst of mind numbing loss and grief which I am experiencing, and dealing with daily.
My good friend Will Ross, dying of liver cancer, REBT therapist and trainer, gave me an insight. “what good, can I make of this?” that is the important question. Well, I don’t have that abusive cow pushing me around with her shame and fear anymore. It’s true I miss the incredible sex but that was just a distraction from anxiety for her, I was like a drug, she was really zoned out, not interested in my pleasure, only in receiving her distraction, some relief from her mind numbing fear. Terror actually. And that describes the rest of our past relationship too. Conditional.
So I wish to build one that is unconditional. So it has to start with me. I am interested in how my day is going, whether I am 50% paralyzed or not. Victories like being able to cut my toenails are huge signs of independence. I am interested and care about others the same way, so I wish you well with your emotional independence and make myself available to listen, awake, present, I show up.
The same is true of the world, shitty things happen to nice people and nice things happen to shitty people, I use my extremely powerful free will and power of choice to accept this, this thing called life.

“The new arrival looked over his shoulder, and saw a looming threat of ‘hard luck’ rivalry.” – George Toles

“The new arrival looked over his shoulder, and saw a looming threat of ‘hard luck’ rivalry.” – George Toles, Facebook post excerpt, March 3, 2018

I arrived in the hospital in an ambulance, entering into an awareness of a new world of hard luck rivalry. The hospital competition is fierce but not between the patients, as you would expect.

The first instance was an ambulance driver who wanted to complain about how his team fucked up in some massive way. I tried to walk away from his loud and intrusive voice, that’s when I discovered that my leg no longer functioned, and fell, I still have the scar. Where are you going he wanted to know, away from you was my response, I find you really intrusive. Well sit down before you hurt someone ya rude fuck…

In the almost 6 months I spent in hospital, the scenario was often repeated, usually by visitors claiming for their patients greater hard luck than mine. I’d ask my colleague to take their visitor to a family area, saying I’d like to take a shower or a nap. Fuck off, in other words, your patient had a stroke, yes, but I imagine he’s gonna walk out of here, and right now I don’t know if I will use my right side of my body ever again. I don’t want to hear how terrible his life is.

But mostly it was just the visitor claiming his life was really horrible. One guy who discovered his wife had taken a kind liking to me, in direct competition to his relative, a stroke victim, called me ‘that thing’ when my first attempt with the water flosser sprayed him inadvertently. I mean I was early recovery and half my body was flacid, on my dominant side, and my speech was almost unintelligible. The fact that I found it amusing while I apologised didn’t help I suppose. I mentioned it to the male nurse that night when he asked why I seemed so down. He said they had zero tolerance for patient abuse, and the visitor wasn’t allowed back. Cool.

Later when on the rehab ward, rapidly recovering, it was the nurses who had the hard luck stories. I was formerly an addictions counsellor, empathetic and I knew how to listen. Problem was, they didn’t want tools for their misery, they wanted to win the competition for hard luck. Later, if I asked if I could chat, as I was feeling lonely, or worse, the response often was: when I feel this way I talk to my Lord Jesus Christ. Fuck off, in other words, you ain’t winning no hard luck rivalry with me.

Several nurses gave me their phone numbers. I could get in real trouble for doing this….but when I was discharged I texted or left a message there was never a response, fear I suppose that I might not want to talk about their daughters death, or their bone crunching isolation, and instead they would find me looking for a friend who might be  more accepting of my situation, warding off my own isolation, in a healthy way by reaching out.

The elevator guys were the worse. They would stand holding the door heroically in some agonizing posture, completely blocking the door to me and my wheelchair, and later my walker.  Uh could you excuse me please? Well you don’t have to be so rude…well you are standing there with your arms splayed like Christ on the Cross and you really need to visit your shower dude, say hello to your toothbrush while you are at it….the subsequent silence in the elevator was a tad thick with only the occasional giggle from the back…

Sammi was my favourite colleague in the hospital. Just out of high school graduation she found herself paralyzed from the waist down. How do you find this new lifestyle? Well, I can do wheelies was her smiling honest answer. I fell in love with her immediately. We talked about finding what choices we have to find satisfaction in life. I told her I enjoyed being in a wheelchair in the mall. I mean you are at crotch level with the world and its amazing the number of people who are scratching their Brazilians absently while maintaining eye contact with the rest of the mall. I never knew so many people just had to be in contact with their stuff.  Sammi and I were laughing and enjoying the day as if the wheelchairs and the hospital with its keen rivalry for victimhood were all roundly ignored, while we focused on something more satisfying. Each other, and the joy of new  unconditional friends.










Happy Sunday

Hi. It’s Sunday and I imagine you are going to church. It’s true that I’m an ‘atheist’ whatever that means. For me, losing a parent at age 2, it means the notion of a God in the sky and a father in the sky are all mixed up in childhood loss. Neither one are available to bring me presents, based on evidence.

My mother wasn’t available either because she was a narcissist, and I was in love with who she pretended to be when I did something for her. He’s such a Good Boy. Essential grooming and training of a co-dependant and dogs. No wonder I prefer cats. That look, the narcissists stare, the unblinking eyes of the look of mothers love, gets me every time.

I’ve seen it in lovers and yoga cult recruiters. At the Ashram they could really turn it on, God’s love channeling, shining through the eyes of the Guru. They even called it Divine Mother, as they were shopping for and grooming the ‘karma yoga’ codependents, slaves essentially, who traded labour for that look.  At the church as well, whether it’s the minister shaking hands at the end of the service, that loving stare in return for the donation, or the bishop when I was 13 at some rite of passage ceremony, the same unblinking intense look of a mothers love that we are to redefine as a spiritual experience.

It’s all part of who they are pretending to be. My last minister in the United Church held a meeting in his home, for us planning some art show I was to curate. He drank 2 bottles of wine in the hour I was there, and still kept the pretense up, of a sober serious man. He had some serious narcissist chops.

The native charisma I suppose goes with it, the powerful personality of a world class charmer. Good actors either have it or are trained in it. I know when I was at art school we were trained, commercial fine art, in how to make an image ‘look good’. I suppose if you can do that, trigger emotional responses with a pencil and a piece of paper, you can do it with anything, especially a human being.

My teacher at the Ashram was a 6’6″ imposing figure of a man, former truck driver with a radio announcers voice, recruiter extraordinaire, the most charming man I ever met.  He hid very well the anxious and hostile makeup, I’ve found common in the type, behind the unblinking eyes of feigned mothers love. As age 60 approached him, he married one of the young devotees, early 20’s, and moved to Winnipeg. His former wife, he left at the Ashram, suffering from Parkinson’s disease, discarded and left behind, of little use to him.

Empathy, compassion, caring and love are the things they are pretending to have and of course they are having none of it. Anxiety and hostility are what lurk behind that look of love.

On an institutional scale, it explains the different branches and sects of religion. All that overvaluing (you know the words of God!) then undervaluing as the truth inevitably comes out (no one does), and the fear and bitterness leading to the holy wars and lack of empathy, in the child molestations, for example, then  consequent dumping, going on. The movie Spotlight, a true story, goes into more sordid detail about the institutional abuses of children on an epic scale.

Overvalue, *you are a true spiritual being* (there’s no such thing), Undervalue *uh oh he saw that anxious and hostile event* (you are getting to know who I really am), Dump *you are over indulging in the senses by going to art school* (find ways to make it all your fault as you are thrown out the door).  True story, life at the Ashram.

So being vulnerable, due to recent loss and abuse, I am picked up in the coffee shop by a beautiful woman who is searching for a codependent, as it turns out, to be a hired hand because it looks like she is going to have Huntington’s disease and will require quite a lot of care, in few years. I’m in the market for a ‘one true love’ so this is what she sells me. She reveals the gene for the upcoming disease after we ‘fall in love’ of course, when the hook is firmly set, with the condition of, maybe it won’t happen. Oh. Well fuck, the sex is abundant and varied (they bore easily) she is charming, has lots of money so I can go to art school, likes cats, so ya let’s roll the disease dice and play house. When she inevitably dumped me, the family therapist who deprogrammed me from narcissist relationships, at the hospital, described our union as a business deal. Huh? Ya, relationships are unconditional, if there are conditions all over it, then it’s a business deal, a contract.

You broke the contract buddy, you asked for what you wanted, codependents don’t have needs fulfilled. Geez, get with the program or get out.

So here we are, you are a church going believer in Christ, and I’m not, well I am waiting for evidence, yet we like each other for no particular reason, other than we just do.  Albert Ellis, my fav psychotherapist, puts it like this: Make your partners goals (for satisfaction which is the purpose of life) almost as important as your own (Ellis, Making Intimate Connections, 2000).

So, my new friend, if you are going to church, and you want me there for company, I’m going. It’s my responsibility to find something satisfying, the music, the art or the pretty women to look at, whatever. I’ll not act like a pouting 4 year old about it and make everyone miserable. I’ll not put conditions on it, my liking you, your very loveable traits, because its not in my best interests to do that, then try to get my needs (for communication, companionship and sex) met. It’s self defeating. It’s self helping to accept our differences without conditions. It’s self helping to accept myself, you, and the world without these conditions too. Otherwise I’m just being a 4 year old, holding my breath till I turn blue. You promised to have the secrets of the universe goddammit! The search for perfection is the search for loneliness (David Burns, Intimate Connections, 1985).

Or, I highly prefer to have the secrets of the universe, but I don’t have to. I can still find satisfaction in community, music, art and pretty women, by going to church with you.

Life is a satisfaction, not a business deal because life is a relationship that requires unconditional acceptance in order to be satisfying.

Navigating the Troubled Waters of Homelessness in Hospital, With a Brain Injury

Hi Rozanne,
I do my best writing when I am writing to someone, so I’ll address this to you. I am moving out of hospital this weekend. My friend Brian, who has been very loyal and dedicated, getting me out on weekends regularly, needed a roommate and agreed to move to an accessible apt and share expenses.
We applied to the Carrington where I have lived previously, so there is a 3 year record of my being a self employed artist, and paying on time.
We were approved and sign the lease tomorrow. It is a luxury 2 bedroom with 2 baths, mine has a huge walk in shower. There is an en suite washer and dryer, all the goodies. My cost is 800 per month inclusive. I have enough on my overdraft and credit card to finance rent and groceries till next Sept. And there is still hope of AISH and Alberta works. My gofundme campaign has raised 1200 so far from my world wide network of professional artists colleagues.
It was so simple.
Arranging housing and financing through the hospital, well, as you saw, was literally a shitshow. The appointment at Silvera, was almost cancelled, that creature Linda that replaced you, refused to get me taxi chits and refused to attend, as you and I arranged. I dont go out she said. Pay for it yourself. Being a typical personality disorder narcissistic and I suspect alcoholic, she attempted to manipulate with Fear Obligation and Guilt. Threats were made of the Drop In Center repeatedly until the team got Dr. Lamb to speak to her. Being vulnerable, this did me great harm, but apparantly she didn’t care or even notice, in fact she probably enjoyed screwing with my head, typical narcissist behavior. She was ‘nice’ after that but far from helpful. I found out about a Cups program for housing asked her about it and she said, find out yourself. She was to arrange an appt. with Alberta Works for funding but didn’t bother and failed to mention it to her replacement. I mean either she was grossly incompetent or intentionally intended vindictive harm. Same thing really.
The appointment at the Mustard Seed she forced me to take, was awful. They want 1100 a month for a 400 sq.ft. 1 bedroom, twice the market value, can’t bring your own belongings and a weekly urine test for drugs, no overnight guests. No AISH left for food, go to the food bank.Typical anxious and hostile ‘Christian’s’ for profit. I’m a lifelong member of my church and I never heard of the teachings of Christ so abused.
So with all the offers of ‘help’ more designed for a street drug addict than a professional, things haven’t worked out well.
I was fortunate that I have a history of professional practice that allowed me to secure a place, God help those who don’t and have to face such incompetence.
Incompetence such as being told Alberta Works would pay for my car and apt by the first social worker I saw, Emmanuel, to others telling me they would probably pay my first months rent and damage deposit (they don’t) have hurt me, personally and financially, and slowed my recovery, and release date. The trauma and post trauma stress of being threatened without basis in fact with being sent to shelter, I still wake up in cold sweats, and break out in tears at the drop of a hat.
I’m fortunate I have dealt with my living situation by myself, those poor bastards dependant on this social work dept. full of sycophants narcissists and alcoholics are in serious trouble.
Fortunately I met you, Rozanne, and you helped me navigate this experience while suffering a traumatic and devastating life event.
Ailian Lui has been wonderful. She didn’t know much about me from Linda, (nothing actually), so when I dropped in unexpectedly to see Linda and find out what happened to my promised meeting with Alberta Works, Ailian, her replacement, spent an hour and a half getting up to speed with me in order to be of assistance. Then she went off to speak to Alberta Works on my behalf. A real pro.
So goodbye Rozanne. As Albert Ellis says, if it is to be, it is up to me.

Tears for a Saturday Afternoon


This reading on narcissism has helped to clean house of my sketchy friends. I mean it’s OK  and desirable to put up with imperfections and idiosyncrasies in fact we love each other for our foibles not our perfections. Not only do I not have to be perfect, it’s better if I’m not.

The latest episode was an accountant I met over at Cafe Beano, Tom. Perpetually in shit with his clients for not getting their taxes done on time, that kind of thing. Seemingly nice guy, conservative but not too rabid, liked to chat about business, a fav subject of mine, so as long as we didn’t stray too far off topic we got along. Politics was a no no, he was too right wing. Art he was clueless as well. Religion? Nope.

I didn’t know that it had to be his topics of interest, otherwise he got bored and irritated, a red flag I just learned about today, I mean I’m recovering from being groomed from birth to be codependent, meaning making my needs and desires secondary to an abuser. Hardwired.

So I had just left Edi, thrown out for speaking up about getting my needs met essentially, and was looking for friends, the coffee shop was a place to start.

Turns out that the coffee shop was a place for those with mental health issues to gather, all the halfway houses being defunded by conservatives in love with reaganomics and thatcherism.

So Tom was the best of a bad lot, charming, educated with a degree in accounting he said, (he lied, never finished), and someone to spend time with. It never occured to me that he should call, or look me up, or ask me how my day is going. That ol codependent thing yanno.

Fast forward 9 years of aquaintenship and he still hasn’t done my taxes which has been ok as I couldn’t afford to pay them, or him, so we just let it slide, year by year. Then this stroke thing happened, I’m suddenly homeless, my old apt. was up 4 flights of stairs, and I need my taxes for last year to prove entitlement for government assistance to get a house set up. In fact if my taxes were done I could have financed my vehicle through the credit union, where they have disability insurance.  Oh well, didn’t need that credit rating anyway. Month after month dragged by, I’m still in the hospital and the social worker is saying, what’s wrong, without the taxes done, I cant apply for anything, and Tom keeps saying, soon, soon.

Finally we strike a deal where he can fax the documents, to the social worker, but not file them, with the government (no accountability),  but at least she has them, which is useless to me. Tom wants me to mail them, to the feds. I call the tax people and they say that will take weeks, a reputable guy would netfile, have your assessment in days. Hey, here are 4 companies we recognize who will do it for free, just plug in the  raw numbers.  Tom why don’t you do that for me? Naw I don’t netfile.

So I do that one Sat morning, on my tablet, in the hospital, half paralyzed and sure enough, it’s easy, could have done this months ago. I had been listening to Tom saying how complicated and scary it is and how scary the tax guys are. (Fear Obligation Guilt FOG). Why doesn’t Tom do this, I’m starting to wonder, he’s kept me in hospital so long they are threatening to dump me in the shelter, with 4000 other homeless men.

It was so easy that I did the other missing years on a Sat. morning, getting returns for each year, Tom said I would owe instead. More fear and obligation.

What the fuck? I’m too busy with therapy and finding a place to live to stop and consider but when finally he demands payment, for work that is done late and is incorrect (when I finally did the taxes myself, I got a 600 dollar refund, his work said I owed).  Now he won’t take an interac transfer, insists I write a cheque. Uh Tom, I cant write anymore. Well get someone to do it for you. Huh? I’ll send it over the net… No that’s not safe…Huh?

Again, it’s all about him. Tom I pay my bills on the net…So he mails me a stamped self addressed envelope, again I tell him I cant write, its humiliating to ask someone to do it for me, so out he comes with the obligation and guilt yadda yadda.

Best guess is he wont netfile or interac bank because he’s afraid of the net. He covers it by saying how important he is and has important information on his computer. Well so does every other accountant…

So finally I stop and put it together.

Entitlement. Lying about his qualifications. Manipulating with shame obligation guilt. Lying about the bank not accepting out of province interac transfers, lies lies and more lies. No consideration of others, even a guy in a hospital that needs the services he promised, the only consideration is his entitlement to a life free of inconvenience. I’ll get to it when it’s convenient. The guy that almost landed me in a homeless shelter, I got a place by using credit cards overdraft and a decision to have a room mate which I swore never to do.  Finally the assistance money came after I had been out a month. If I had still been in hospital, no longer acute, but at 5 grand a day, they would have been forced to dump me in the shelter.

So this relationship goes out to the trash today. Do I feel better? Numb mostly. I realize how close I came to being homeless. Depending on a narcissist. Convinced he was a friend, but I was just a reason to make him look good, (as long as it doesn’t cost him, he never donated to my gofundme, not even buying me a coffee) helping the helpless.

The good thing about dumping them is you tend to thrive afterward.