Done with Work Adjustment Hopefully No Trials, Just Employment

Dear Diary,

Well, I”m done.  Work adjustment is so over, so yesterday.  I’m so done with having to go to BAyaud.  I”m so done having to deal with Access A Ride, and not getting paid.  Oh yeah, oh yeah.  It’s RJ’s birthday too, in Florida, midnight.  Holy crap, I’m happy.  Blake had a beer, a root beer from Taco Bell.  RJ doesn’t know what he wants for his birthday, and he needs a new computer.  Holy God, I’m so going to party all weekend and all through June.  Look out, Shelton I’m on my way.

My audition was welcomed by the ladies, Richele and Jessey, and they were like, “Oh my God.  That is so cool.”  They were happy.  Jessey knows I can make progress, but I’m so done with trying to have to demonstrate stuff, I just wanna be free of all the bonds that hold me in a box.  I need Blake, and marrying Blake is the only thing I really want to do that is significant.  I’ll try for a job, but I won’t be surprised if I’m turned down.  Blind people are not always hired.  Mentally ill people are never hired.  However, I need benefits with the job.  I don’t know quite what will happen.\

My real career goal is perhaps to record music, but if that’s not possible, I’ll try the teaching technology to others, or to teach Braille.  The Braille cert isn’t hard to get if you know your slate and stylus.  Plus I have to teach UEB or something.  I don’t know what else to do now.

Tribute to Maya Angelou

You had a difficult girlhood, something I don’t understand.

You could bring me to tears if you wanted, or sweep me across the land,

I could find wisdom from your pearls hidden in beach sand,

But Maya, your words are clearer to me than ever before

Before I shut the door.


You passed into the state of womanhood, fearing not what you’d find,

Looking carefully at your figure, you didn’t seem to mind,

Whatever the cause of your frustrations, you didn’t just give up

And sit on your behind.


Maya, I hope you rest now, knowing you brought peace

To all of us, across the nation, across the head full of grease.

You came of age at a time when things weren’t so bright,

So rest now, enjoy God’s Heavenly light.

Letter to You At 17

I wrote this shortly after Jessey, probably the more understanding of most people, and I had a heated discussion about the whole mess up with Blake.  Blake, of course, refuses to get involved with me and her, so she just can’t say I lied.


Dear Beth at 17,

                If I could only look at myself in the mirror, or at least you, you didn’t seem so beautiful.  What happened to you was uncalled for: everything from the whole dating scene to the guardianship to your unemployable situation at the Daytona Beach rehab place you went to.  Remember?  Do you even remember Jason, the trombonist in the marching band?  Hah.  At only 17, I wish the following:

  1. That I was able to do things in the music industry.
  2. That I was working at McDonald’s.  Yeah, it wasn’t the best job, but at seventeen, I wish I had an internship.  What was Danny doing at that age?  Need I remind you that Danny is your half brother, your brother by a mom who probably didn’t want you at that age and a dad who said, “Just put her away”, and guess where he was?  Internships, cross country track captain, etc.  No, I forgot who the captain was, but who cares.

                As a seventeen-year-old, the questions I had to ask were the following: who did I want to date, where were my desires, what was my true self?  But at fourteen, there were more complications.  My mother and dad literally tried to neuter me, worse than what you’d do to people in the forties.  What?  What does that mean, your seventeen-year-old self asks?  It is apparent that this letter isn’t directed at my current self, but at you.  When you were born, you were at first the cutest thing in the entire universe.  Sorry, but the princess act was deterred because your mother deemed it “Unreal.”  Now you think Rehab can bail you out now, but at seventeen, you are currently sick of the psychiatrist who treated you like dirt, sick of not being allowed to see Jason, and who was Jason?  Yes, Jason.  You forgot.  You asked about him, wanted to see him, could have dated him, and so on.  Because of you, I am here, sitting at a desk, not my desk, not a grand table in a grand dining room in a hallway that I purchase myself, but a grand, well, not so grand desk at a place where the lady calls you in to her office, says you lied to her about your boyfriend coming to see you.  What?  Did you realize that Blake Tucker, who would later be your future husband/boyfriend whatever you call him, could not come to see you after all because of money, family, and other things?  It is obvious no matter what I try to tell the people here that they believe that I am stuck.  Stuck in the state of stuck is more like it.  Beth, you haven’t got a clue.  At this age, you are about to venture out into a world that doesn’t like you, doesn’t care about you, won’t accept you.  At 27, I am poor, not able to pay debts, not able to pay things except for regular bills, and I still have to eat.  I still have to drink the water around me, eat food, brush my hair, wash myself, soap my body, shave my unfeminine legs, etc.  I still have to get the mud off my plate.  But absolutely not while getting a “relevant” job.  I cannot at the least do call center work that is fast paced and entails me to work nights.  Transportation would not be safe and reliable at night, and then there’s criminals who are willing to mug or rape or steal my phone, purse, or my sexual space.  What EVER!

                As a 30-year-old, what will I be?  I expect to be married by then, in my element, in a job that I enjoy.  What will I do?  Will Blake do what he says he’s gonna do?  I wanted to make some room for him to come, but alas, the one thing that is between us is between us: his mother.  She is so ill and unable to think about what she truly needs that now she can’t drink alcohol.  Thank God her own husband threw the liquor into the sink, into the trash.  What will you be at fifty?  Just like Cathy?  Beth, think.  You at 17 is not a pleasant person, and it doesn’t help that your parents don’t like you, abused you emotionally and psychologically, and now they come to love the woman that is 27 and in CO?  What the …?  This doesn’t make sense.  I can only think of a few things that could make that possible: that your parents are evil, that they are sucking you into a whirlpool of stuff you can’t get out of, that they are unworthy of you as a daughter, all of the above.  I guess all of the above.  At 17, this is how they were.  At 27, ten years later, this is what they decide: they will not bail you out.  I am seriously considering the last option.  I must become something that I want to be, and I’m sick of being compared to Christina and Britney.  I’m Beth for God’s sake.  I am a beautiful personality, but in body, I must be the worst thing ever.  But then why does Blake love me?  It’s obvious, there’s something wrong with anyone who does, according to your parents.  Your parents, as it turns out, are liars.  They lied about their intentions, lied about you because of their concerns.  Let them try, but they cannot violate your rights.  Help me.

Help me, you are my only hope.


Beth at 27

Finally, an updated page

Dear diary,

I finally updated my page so that even Tumblr is visible and you can share my stuff on Tumblr.  I’d love to be called the world’s coolest blogger all over.  Yeah, I wrote two otehr posts already, but I’m a bit insomniac or something, can’t sleep much.  Now going to read a book.  To those I might have wronged in the last two posts, know that I had to be pretty stern with you guys.  I can’t have my dreams washed away with debts, call centers, stress the heck out of me stuff, etc etc.


Ok, let me explain myself …

Dear diary,

Let me explain myself.  One, I can’t sleep.  Two, the coworkers and friends at Bayaud are wonderful folks, but they don’t have the qualifications or registry certs to work with blind individuals.  So what if my teachers in school didn’t have the license to work with special populations?  I should’ve been a special ed teacher, perhaps.  Jessey, I must say this much to you and you only, I DID NOT LIE!  Blake had issues come up, and you, according to an ex of mine I confided this to, should not have gotten into me and Blake’s business.  You shoud have been a more flexible employer.  Regardless, I don’t want to hear about the lies I might have told.  What’s this life?  The Giver?  “Precision of language,” the announcer might say.  What’s this?  China?  Do I have to tell the truth all the time?  Come on!

It still haunts me to hear my mother’s yelling at me while I was fourteen years old, a little girl with desires, hopes, ambitions, and she was saying, all the while I was crying, “You won’t make it.  Only Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera had the luck to do it.”  Uh, oh Mother of Mine, you don’t know what you’ve gotten into.

I can’t get this out of my mind, and so I began to hide the music, hide the performance, hate the study of opera and high music.  So what if I didn’t study high music?  This is weird.  What will I do?  I was not a diva, no way will I be.  Britney and Christina are both unworthy of God’s places in Heaven unless, well, Christina may try and donate to children’s charities.  The only true way that anyone will ever get to Heaven is to get through a maze of things, including a way to get the blind folks who can’t sing or play an instrument or manipulate a computer some sort of job.  No, not data entry, a real job.  Something real that allows them to go to a place during the day when buses can roam the streets.  No, Jessey, you’re wrong about me getting jobs at night.  Women and night times don’t match.  Women have a much greater chance of being murdered or hit by drunk drivers at night, raped, or otherwise, they have a greater chance of not being hired.  A blind woman should ride a bus with people she trusts.  I was taught very strict safety measures.  One of which was to ride up front with the driver.  The drivers in Denver are so good, they let me right up there when I get on.  They know my place is with them because, well, you know the sort of people who ride the bus, Babbs.  You know, if you ride early in the morn, you see drunkards, homeless bums–not the ones who come here to Denver and go to things like the BAyaud program–but I’m talking BUMS who sit there and don’t do anything about it.  My good friend, Eldon, is one such wonderful guy who has been a great friend.  I have nothing but good to say about this guy.  He’s wonderful, though he has no place to live at the moment.  He’s sweet, wise, and effective in the ways of office work.  He’s getting there, searching for jobs, he’ll get paid for sure.  I can’t wait to see my best friend at work get paid millions.  Hey, I’d love to see him work an accounting firm and be a financier for some rich dude.  That would be cool.  But there are those guys who don’t make it to the Rescue Missions and other shelters.  There are those guys who are in trouble.  Trouble in paradise!

Oh, my God.  Trouble in paradise … Santa Monica, California, that is.  But here in Denver, there is a major homeless problem.  The homeless problem is so bad here that even I was among the “homeless.”  I forged and found a place to live but as a woman, I would’ve had to do a shelter outfit.  Sorry but even my best friend Jataya Taylor and I had our down moments at that time, and because of that, I was homeless.  The only time she’d even live with me is if I was in school.  Shoot, I want something better than a four-year-long degree that wastes taxpayer dollars and cents.  Rehab should lift me out of this debt because my dad can’t pay it, I can’t pay it, and they were the ones who said, “Drop out.”  My computer broke, and I wasn’t able to find the damn drop classes button in time.  I tried, tried, and tried to get started in my classes, but to no avail.  I dropped them slowly, but at the time, my computer was broken.  I need to do something about the debt, but the only way to get me out of it is if Rehab takes full responsibility for telling me to drop out and disrupting my life like that and putting me on a waiting list and telling me to go see some bum of a psychologist.  Yeah, I know, I should not have written Benson’s name in here, but ra ra ra, I’m going to do some head banging right now.

The first thing that Benson did that was wrong and was wrong through and through was make comments about the veil I was wearing.  The second thing that Benson did that was wrong was make further comments about oppression and make me look like a total sicko.  Sorry, man, but you don’t deserve a psych license or degree.  A guy like that shouldn’t be testing Muslims.  Let’s see, Elizabeth, one of my most faithful Muslim friends, says clearly that the psych doc thought I was nuts.  Elizabeth, as far as I know, should have a band of Muslim women gather in Dr. Benson’s office, canes, veils, and all.  Mary Sayegh, thank God, won’t be seeing that dude because she herself is Arab by descent, but if he made comments about her Arab skin color, I would jump and strangle something, whether it be him or his weird God.  Psychologists must work with diverse populations and respect all faiths as do the ones at Mental Health Center of Denver.  My therapist there is great, and I can’t wait to show her what to do.  Well, I’ll show her what this weird thing at Bayaud is all about.  I want to go to college, I want to go to school or trade school or something to learn a trade.  Broadcasting would put me in touch with indie artists at first, but then someone could pull me from the station I swork at and put me in a more prestigious position where … ah, Blake Shelton would sit in my studio and I’d interview the guy.  Oh Lord, Blake Shelton would say, “And I know I rejected her because she was blind.  Now look, she’s interviewing me about my stuff.”  I could use the four letter s word, but I won’t because somebody is wondering about this blog being too weird and angry.

\My seventeen-year-old self could never, ever, ever be as great as my 27-year-old self has been over the year.  Blake has been expecting me to call the damn clerk tomorrow.  I have to see if they can fax paperwork to Jessey in the back of the room, probably to Bayaud.  I hope there’s a Fax number, and Blake found it.  What a brilliant and helpful and faithful sidekicker.  Love that guy so much, and there’s nothing that concerns me more than just loving him.  YEs, he worships one God, a humane God that loves and cares about people.  I’m not saying Deq Ahmed’s weirdness and his God are any worse.  Deq is so weird that he doesn’t know God from the Dogs in Denver.  Well, if Deq knew what dogs were, exactly, he’d get one.  Come on, Deq, get a guide dog, you weirdo.

Ok, I better write some more because I have to get my hands at work with stuff.  Shoot, I wonder as I wander around my keys.  What will I see when I press the spacebar on my built in keyboard?  Nothing.  It’s broken!  Thus I use the actual laptop as a hard drive hooked up to a multimedia desktop keyboard.  Man, it sucks.  Look, I am totally sorry if anyone’s name should not be in this blog, but I say nothing negative about anyone whose name I put here.  IF I can’t say it to the person’s face, I’m gonna write it right here.  Blake will see me again, and this is not how it will end.  Blake, I love you.

I will see you again, this is not how it ends.

I will carry you with me till I see you again.

My Crappy Day At Work

Dear Parents, Jessey, and all others who’ve decided to accuse me of lying about the coming of Blake,

First off, I did NOT lie to Jessey, that’s right.  I didn’t lie.  Something came up in December right in the middle, and I held out hope that Blake would come, but the family came and took that away from me.  Second, I will not have you crushing my dreams, telling me I have to take an “entry level” job.  That will not pay off my debt.  I”m sorry, but that debt has to go away, and it will be paid by the entity who stole my dreams away: Rehab.  Rehab tld me I was no good at social work, could not go to college, etc.  They wanted “appropriate work behaviors.”  Give me a break!  I’m done here, done.  IF you want a performance review that says, “exceeds good standard behavior,” all entities written to in this note, you had better stop crushing my dreams.  I’m done trying to hide myself frrom you, Jess.  I know you want me to do this entry level work, but I’m sorry.  You can’t make me, and I won’t.  Why?  It’s too much, and transit will not be reliable at night if they ask for a night clerk.  I cannot work as a night clerk, period.  I can decide what employment I want, but a guardian is a predatory thing.

To Rehab, you guys just pony up and pay the debt yourselves.  This is not a valid debt, and I want to go to college so I can get a good job provided this Voice thing doesn’t work out.  It won’t.  The producers won’t let a blind person on the show because they won’t think I can take care of myself, and they want visuals: makeup, hair, poppish breasts, etc.  You don’t understand that this is what they want for television personalities too.  At least there was a lady on Wesh who was pregnant, the meteorology lady Amy Sweezy.  She got pregnant, and Mom I remember looked once at her and said, “Oh God, she’s gonna pop any moment.”  Jessey and Richele, do not accuse me of lying at work or at home.  Do not haunt me in my dreams before I explode!  I won’t, I repeat, won’t be going anywhere near college until Rehab pays the debt.

AS for the parents, it’s your guardianship that made things too complicated for my educational future.  I will not pay the college debt.  IF you do not pay it, parents, you’ll be in bigger trouble than you now, and it’s all because you got what you wanted.  You can’t have everything you want just because you’re so “concerned” about your poor baby’s welfare.  Well, guess what?  You’re being severely punished because all the times I’ve lived with you all, you’ve tried to stop me from writing things against you.  What do you want me to say?  Oh, I love you guys.  Oh, you are the best parents a girl could ask for.  Bull.  I’m sorry, but you people have tried to crush my dreams, and you have tried to do it, but you will not.  I will make the producers on the Voice accept the audition and let me on the show.  I will fly to Los Angeles, into the arms of my Blake, and when Blake in Arizona finds out what you’ve done, you will, I repeat will, I promise, have lots of money to pay.  You won’t do this to me again.  I can’t have your way with me.  I want it my way or the highway.  I’m sorry you feel that this is “inappropriate”, but you will not try and erase the writing.  You’ve tried to do it to me before.  Remember?  I was seventeen or nineteen at the time.  You refused to allow me to create things without you staring at it.  You had no respect for me, my privacy, my self worth and dignity.  Goodbye.

As to Blake, you are the greatest thing in the world that has ever lived, and you will always be on my mind.  Blake Tucker, you really have made my day better.  IF only you were awake at this very moment, in Denver, in my arms, so I could hold you tight, so I could kiss your wine-red lips, so I could hold your soft skinned hands.  I want to feel your breath around me, over me, through me.  I want you, more than anything else.  Blake, you were supposed to come here, and God almighty knows I’ll be on the phohne with the Clerk’s office immediately after I wake up at seven MDT.  Blake, don’t worry about me so much unless you mean to.  I love you, and I will never leave you.  Don’t leave me.

As for Lily and Deanna at Bayaud, you ladies rocked the house.  Deanna, you look lovelier than I thought.  Forget about the weight.  Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder.  Lily is cool, and she’s the first person I met at the place.  As for my coworkers, thanks a bunch.  I won’t give any more names of any more people for fear I might be going nuts.  Perhaps this blog will go down in history as the rant of the century, but I must go and do something else.

I’m not kidding.

Thanks a lot.


Audition jitters

Hey you guys. I’m still having a bit of a jittery feeling about my audition. My audition is coming up next month, and this … believe it or not is the last week of work training. Shoot, I think I’d like to go back to school and do a production job. I’d like to record music, and it’ll be a time before I can. What ever. I might just try radio, which I know is a dying art being replaced by I Heart Radio and apps and streams, but so what? People still enjoy it. I might make my broadcasting career a reality. Let me see where the Voice audition goes. I hope that Blake Shelton takes me in and teaches me stuff, finds good songs for me, and so on. Maybe he’s going to think me a good singer, hot at the most. Blake’s sitting here, getting drunk again. Well, not really. He drinks beer, but not beer as in Coors Light, but beer as in … yep, root beer. Blind and whatever else is going on won’t stop Blake from drinking a root beer every so often. I love Blake, and he’s just too sweet. He’s given me so much love, and yet he’s one of the strongest guys around. I wish Blake Shelton would please hear me sing. I want you to hear me sing, Mr. Shelton, and I want you to know that if you like it, I’ll be happy to win it for you. But most of all, for me.