Depressed or Dying?

I will have to write again "the night before," as I have a doctor's appointment early in the morning.  The annual.  It stresses me out beyond belief.  I know people who go to doctors all the time.  I can't stand it.  I don't trust them.  They are corrupt like college basketball, having sold out to the medical corp for the money.  When I was in dire straights after I got run over, my doctor wouldn't even see me because she didn't take accident cases.  Hard to get paid, you see.  You might wonder why I don't get another doctor.  I researched it.  Most doctors don't take accident patients.  That's the medical system.  That's America.  

I will go tomorrow and my doctor will tell me I'm dying.  Not in those words.  Just "probability."  

"Why are you so upset?  We all die."

Yea. . . .

So. . . I am fucked up tonight.  I skipped a cocktail party because.  Just because.  

I didn't get my early start today as I predicted.  I didn't even wake up until well after dawn.  I think I am depressed, dying alone and all.  I don't mention it except here.  Out there I'm "better than ever."  But, you know. . . I have to tell someone.  

I've gotten some critical comments of late about my supposed life here on the blog.  I'll keep my responses to myself.  

Maybe I need to listen to some gangsta rap music for awhile.  Everything I have been listening to makes me cry--lost love, loneliness, death. . . .  Perhaps I need more of this (link).  Know what I'm sayin'?  In your mother's booty, in your mother's booty.  You know you gonna get capped.

I found out I CAN rap as long as I don't use words.  Sort of like the Italian fellow who used to do American rock and roll with made up sounds (link).  I have the rhythm and the beat and the intonations down.  I've studied the gestures.  I need to be more thuggish.  Yo. . . yo. . . .  

But my ovaries get so swollen.  

Rather than getting "an early start," I drank coffee, dunked biscotti and worked on more old photographs.  I have so many.  They make me happy and sad.  Mostly happy.  But I'm low, so maybe not.  

Seriously, though. . . I think it is the doctor thing.  Or perhaps the music.  

Do you listen to the music I post?  I think most don't.  I know some, however, who have made playlists from those songs.  They are like me. . . emo and moody.  Probably.  

So I didn't leave the house until three-thirty.  I went to my mother's, but I took a walk on the trail by her house first.  Nobody was about, and I realized how little one is absolutely alone outside with their thoughts in an urban/suburban environment.  I walked and I thought for almost two hours.  I walked with a camera.  I took a few pictures, too.  And. . . I have HOPE.  I think my vision was working. 

Probably not. 

But the walk was good.  Then I sat with my mother and cousin.  My mother is not doing so well, but I can't really talk to her.  My cousin wants to do all the talking.  I think I am climbing into the grave with my mother.  It is difficult not to.  

After tomorrow, though, no matter what the doctor tells me, I want to be off.  Out and about.  Seeing the world.  

Or I will be a shut in like all the old Hollywood stars who became reclusive and lived out their lives alone (link).  Pretty good company, though.  

Toss a coin.  

"So what's the picture?"

"Oh.  I like it.  It is the stuff I like.  I can't post the other stuff.  Just this."

"O.K.  I know what you mean." 

"Do you?  Really?" 

"Yea. . . I think so."

"There's so much beauty. . . and so much misery."

I'll let you know what the doc says.  

Maybe.