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.

Author: denverqueen

My name is Beth. I'm blind from birth and enjoy the blogging atmosphere. I am a creative person, a musician, a writer, etc. This is me. Take it or leave it.

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