I've Just Walked Again After 10 Years!

Today 27 May 2019 I have beaten the dystonia almost, because obviously the state assumed wrongly, that I did not cognate in free times, when in my own bedroom or space and out with my good atheist friends etc, I did know, always, my own beautiful hands and arms on my manly warm jumper and rugby shirt with white washed jeans and male beige chinos glittering from direct manipulation, but I can now walk along a wall myself, without assistance. Indeed, I don't have carers and never functionally have had carers, just facilitators to live, with mum relentlessly coming to "visit" (-> I did organise and specify speech) and with the indefatigable right to the social work emergency temporary cash amount, for care or health (hygiene), because my very evil and insidious mother said, abstractly, to my Edinburgh genetic dad I think in 1975 and to carers 1989-2007 when the reply was made in the Western General Hospital, argument had, abstractly that this product, I thought in order to cope, commodity, is not "Rhoda's" choice, "she does not use Radox" which preceded "Rhoda does not like Radox".

My g*d, what a psychiatric case, and I knew the abuse structure and its indigenous dust and term would be mistaken as mine by mental health Edinburgh. Bast****. The carers could not give me the love I needed, but I did phenomenally well at university, first time, and never said, because apps and systems, websites, went out so quickly that there was never any question about the users, people, validating me as sane and in need of business autonomy and power, money and reward, in the future when traditional structure brought me down. I did not like school, playschool, where they took over at the least thing, a minute deviation away from traditional or mainstream structure, so mainstream schooling became just schooling, not quite rightly, because I believe the issues are grab rail positioning, no ramps or few, lack of maturity by therapists regarding integration and a lack of teaching assistants for wheelchair users, kids, who need scribes instead of slow tech, since personal apps are not contracted or being built.

I did own these bank accounts and payslips, considerately, and did own life, the world, no questions asked but say so if we do. I did own myself but only myself in the future, because the head warden would not let me dress myself, undress, bathroom, shower myself and of course beauty. Who are you if you’re touched when you don’t need to be and accounted for in your gut when notes should be from your mind; you think to yourself “Oh I need a carer for [this]”, or “Where is my carer?” and “Where is [carer X, or first_name]. Now I am justified in my local area, the GP and the dentists etc, as hurt, annoyed and volicious at carers, whom I don’t like having, because you don’t need them if you don’t need them i.e. medically. Faith healers don’t inquire, this was the heneous mistaken made. The NHS inquires obviously. But where are they? I started, having received independence training from a medical student PA @ ed.ac.uk in the bathroom, assisting myself, independently, in August, consistently and openly to the carers, not just to the neighbours or friends (one really, in my old neighbourhood, and it is fantastic, but I am scared because no OT is coming and this is disgusting.

Dystonia is tremours or spasm when triggered by someone or something, some place, and I have it when someone says “Jesus”, implying the living Lord, not the historical man or figure, ancient times resident, when in the toilet, or undressing, eating making this a mess on the floor. Or god, prayer or holy spirit when coming maliciously from my mother, directly or by representation, meaning any euphemerical semiotically attached literary technique. Any faith statement made toward me shakes me, does not enliven or take me, truly. My dad said I had it, pharmacist, defined it just for me, mine, and its never been written down in my medical records because he’s the one guilty of causing it directly, being a faith healer and embarrassed that this happens, immediately and abstractly, since my disability changes frequently; Tuesday I was fed by Jim at Garfunkles, Friday I fed myself, another time with Marc, everytime, I fed myself, apart from that once when he sat, gawking and pensive, arrogant presumtion. But on Thursday I fed myself as well, to enjoy it on Friday, so sometimes that was with Marc, another atheist as the minister’s son. It’s not funny, if the disabled people know, then they should not think this, which is possible as a reason for my disabled and dependent past and somewhat present carers and PAs, a predicament. The film is The PA. Or previously The Carer. The instance of this horror was The Carers, every time, like Noah. Sadly. Graciously, the said helps, to enable in elevation, because they retreat from my case with sniggering, not flash.

Phone calls and emails, should be networked but they’ve been redirected to carers or individual clients or disabled people (including elderly people, any elderly person, and hospital dischargees) who “must” phone social care direct in your city or region to engage the assistance, therapy or care company you need. This should be the job of the disability centres, and there should indeed be a care care circling the area, called by disabled people out with 24/7 for anything, assistance at the bathroom outside carer times, jugs you want on the top shelf (the concept is service, not provision, and you need to live contentedly in your own house or flat), meals when no carer comes or when you are hungry (including anything else you need), medical care and so they should bring uniforms i.e. white, medication administration when your carer or PA hasn’t shown or come on time, entertainments facilitation with DVDs as positioned so that you can reach them, otherwise you need a carer or PA from the ILF Scotland or from Westminster, working regular hours, increased, perhaps by one or two, such that you can have your films put on.

But this care car, better called assistance car, like the emergency doctors car here in Edinburgh, should exist but does not exist and it is disgusting, absolutely repulsive, that it does not, in that it would act as another safety net beside welfare benefits to protect vulnerable adults like myself, physically disabled through religious abuse not understood by the state social work department, the disability section, albeit by the homelessness workers, unemployment staff, housing officers and education service. Mental health perhaps. The Edinburgh disabled people feel as if they’ve played with disability assistance and called it social care ‘cos they would like support, or autonomy. “Automatic or earned?” I asked, so they roared at me, after my guardian in Coventry, college, said to earn from carers the right to have sex with someone, like neighbours or friends, whether the carer sleeps, advises, which they freely humour, or helps with the movements, depending on appropriation, invisibility being offered by a magical physics oriented mind, my mother threatening. But I don’t even tell carers when they’re not there, because I don’t like them, I like the people. I instantiate, not them, the carers, if I can, and most often do. The carers could indeed tell my mother and my late father what was occuring, when I was binary with my sex, suggestively male augmented by female organs, jiving, so why not? I was in control, physically, so life was fine. Therefore, my guardian said to do this, pleasureably.

However, disabled people reject reason. Why can’t they do this? The reason of human relationships, in order to supercede the realm of social work mediation between family and themselves, which is fine, and indelibly them, but I am not disabled and do not identify as such, due to the fact that I do want primarily mediation between myself and my family. If I am threatened by mental health from them and physios, their acquisition by report destinations etc, or if I cannot leave Edinburgh without the family name, with myself, without their determination and pursuit. Goodness is inside me, residing, and this gem is different from their virtue, stupid and cruel, to fall. Sometimes you can’t tell hurt, but that’s the condition of strict fundamentalists, Christians living on numbers, those they chat with in the street or in taxis, business, about Jesus, and hj love, and those they give a small bible or pamphlet, tellng the gospel message.

The mistake made constantly, by every health professional or worker, is that I was a happy Graysmill pupil, student, and not instead a hostage Graysmill student, in that my mother lied about the reason for transfer to this special ed school. It was that at Flora Nightingale Nursery, private and high up being Daniel’s nursery, an Edinburgh public school (Daniel Stewarts and Melville College), I came top, at both Words & Phrases and Numbers, in a class of 31 or 32 kids of accountants, lawyers, doctors, academia, business managers, hotel marketers, writers, journalists (freelance in the making), teachers, technology prospectives etc.

I was a technology prospective, but this was not said being disabled apparently, in that Jesus family and suffering dystonic spasms, abstract and made regular by the regular church services, and so because my mother could not accept I came top, not a boy, normal and prospective potentially of a bible, a small Gideon bible like you get in hotels, bedrooms, she forbode me to use the toilet at school and said that I could not use the toilet at an “ordinary” school, fuc**ng snob, not me, and she implied that I was a snob to my f**ki*< genetic dad, WW II sacking the dad. There is a tale there, but never mind, but without this genetic dad, I find it very hard, because I think he’s guilty of circling, not squaring.

He is full of assumptions about me, asking me at Uni, Glasgow 1990-1995, if he could use me as an example, as a case study model I added, in his lectures, so I asked my Chinese medical student PA from ed.ac.uk to find out if he does, if I have at the moment dystonia with mild CP, as opposed to mixed CP, in that I knew him at university very well, taking me out on walks, whenever I wanted, but it did coincide with him being available, perhaps faked as free. He also supervised my carers whom I did not want, for two years as a medical student, but he did not want my independence proactively, just very evocotavely indeed, sadly, as if hot in relation to other dads for my hands to function, which they unreservedly dystonically do, as defined by terms and conditions of environment, tautologically non-religious, and if I may, none, no kind man would give me a carer, advice about carers. Care companies, whatever. Why was he with the CU once, for muscularity? Fu***+_ ***t. My professionality with my PAs means she won’t tell me not to expect an answer and the reply will come from her, without question. I know she must not get hurt for me, but believe she could contend to surfiet, within employment law.

Did the state assume innocence in violating my independent, jubulent vibe in the toilet, at imminantly regulating myself, helping myself? What a fu***** bunch of bast****. My old friends and acquaintances, Christian sadly, also thought this, but to say it is apparently vile. Why can’t legality be truth, not framework? Methodology is neurologically predicate with freedom of speech being infinity, if in doubt, or anything. I don’t think capacity is within literary failure, is defined by an incapacity to write that is sensed by expression through speech, but today capacity has changed to include digital criminologies. Hacking, digital theft? (is this not just theft), digital_identlty_theft@job.com, Reference Number misattachments or mistakes, Digital@Fraud, were.internet.crime, digital fraud, a very vague term. I can walk again partly simply because of the love of the web user, any non-binary person or anyman, so I really appreciate you, but psychiatrists did not get me back to normal.

I do not validate swearing online, pornography and paediaphilia, trash rock or the dark web, and indeed, I promised my computer class buddies at Uni that because my carers disturbed me abnormally and suspiciously in the lab just when I was thinking about a pornographical image parser, I could not complete the verilous web and create it, to make all nakedly defined bodies, by me, illegal. Yes, the carers did not mean stupidity, a pride suggestion or allegation, that I was incapable of the task, because they did not, because they did not know the task I was endevouring at the time, because they were congruently cruel to me back in the bedroom, because they were known as this by the students, such that the head warden’s apparent ownership by supervision was unequivicaly and completely ignored by them in the lab. Why did this incident happen? I was very sad at the number of e.g. girls that would be sexually abused perhaps, certainly psychologically and emotionally prowled digitally, basically bullied. But I don’t think about it today and didn’t think about it on the uprun to the program being written, on a normal blog or something, by me, a techy site. This is the mistake made. Happy it’s done now, and glad of clean internet protocol by images. Hope you are too, because it’s for freedom, not kicks. Obviously you can swear, but if it is said that you should not…no swearing, then bar avoiders, pornographers, will not be tempted as much to take to image sequencing. Not so likely.

Indeed, today I don’t need carers, only in the morning until the pertinent rehab is given by an OT, and I am so happy, but I still can’t walk without assistance, and this concerns me, because doctors and psychiatrists along with their health professionals and workers are not getting the dystonia problem. It terrifies me, because either I understand myself to be a care hostage or not, of medical and clinical injury using a medical or clinical injury lawyer. Simple. Myself means independent and living away from Edinburgh, far away, not dependent on carers in Edinburgh, disgusting. It is a disgrace and dishonour that myself = carers or myself = PAs, and retrospectively health professionals have “dance[d]” between the two, taking the mickey perhaps, silently I seemed to hear.

My dystonia was such that I suffered hypertonia or severe tenseness and spasms with a speech problem when relating to social workers, before my mother was sentenced out of the room, to leave my life, step by step. Why did no-one care, the state or the disability community, that whenever I got a meeting with my social worker, or a social worker, without my mum neither attending nor knowing, stat. Not knowing why my “parental” (me) guardian from Hereward College, Coventry, would not input in some way the social work meetings I suffered at university and before, for university, from Coventry perhaps, I resent state policy for care and homelessness. Barnardos dealt with me, so I know love from them, from someone, but not an Auxiliary Nurse at school, supposedly for the morning and for the regularities, quite wrongly. The domineering social worker said that all care comes from them, the auxilliary nurses at school, but I did not receive regenerative rejuvenation from these people, instead the therapists i.e. doctors, physios, OTs, speech, dietary, sports, and therefore they produced domineering care and domineering care systems for me. Carers, frequenters of my flat six times a day, deflected.

I hope you enjoy the freedom the web gives as yours, stat, if not flat. We are creating deflections and developing systems with proxies that endorse morality and validate boundaries, to constrain predators, redirecting them towards rehabilitation in wherever organisation. However, this means explicit proxies, but I know as well as yourself how much you enjoy specification, windows systems or buttons and menus, so it’s fine. No problem with Report Content buttons or historically, block friends, and this is great. I only wish state authority and health professionals knew how much it takes to love, to create.

The mind behind it is not a spider, not a fiend, not a feudal operator, not a moral force of particle matter, not eugenic love or lust, eugenic, not god, but cause, the cause of one programmer that loves, and therefore lives. Immortality is in the cheeks, going red from pale with no question of facade, greet. The adverts and updates greet at the same time as the carers, and indeed, this is ownership, not learning difficulties. I concur that the state are vile in construing communal ownership, because I own, contradicting my mother and her care support plan. The UK government has some years ago introduced the word “support” into care plan, as it was, detectably because my mother’s sin and guilt was obvious, so obvious, with her altziemers, undiagnosed formally because she rejected her diagnosis at the GP’s. It was against me, my wishes and intentions, desires, which were atheist, all of them in every form, repeatedly. In a religious family, if carers then carers -> church or temple with the user (sorry, wrong term for me) or “client”, which client server, gods sake.

I don’t know why disability faith is not more understood and why it is not refuted by disability theology, reading it, the articles and books that meet you, and understanding it, in chatting to colleagues and friends, also grappling with difficult social work or health cases faced with death, pathological. Saving someone risk affixed is majestic, and you should do it. You must. It is dignifying and just, and makes bad victims angels, the word. Can criminal law endorse incapacitated criminals as prison short stay residents, probably, not simply as mental illness cases, statutorily sectioned without delay or cause personal. In me is freedom, and in me is you, not evil, and I wish more people would understand this, unquestionably through unequivocal reasoning. Is a cleptomaniac sedated by ~haldol for showing they can move and provide so as to contradict their ascetic and against materialist suggestion family, or are they jailed? Pertinently, therefore, appropriately. The head warden sedated me, my claim, to forget it. If I remember. So are you a friend, back then? I did it in my electric wheelchair, not necessarily my power wheelchair. Fu**s sake, up buildings and smashing windows, because, you know, the carer will open the door. What’s retardation? Door retardation, open the door.

Anyway, I hope I get what I want now. A cook, and someone in the morning for three hours perhaps, to include the ironing whilst I’m still trying to leave Edinburgh. Honestly, I was dehumanised, made retarded it felt, and I think I was injected afterwards for “mental health”, for requesting a Cook only, not a PA or carer, because I had managed (deviously by religion or legally by dystonia) to get myself up, after three days in 45mins, then in 30mins, 1hr before that and on the first day 3hrs, because I could not be fucked with dressing or undressing the magnificent activity. My born again parents unfortunately were dirty livers, greasy hair, and chips thrice a week for supper at one point, chippy chips.

Even though I had wanted adopted and wanted adopted, they made me eat this and more fatty acids, but they didn’t know I did exercises, sit-ups and push-ups, because people with athetoid mild CP like Sophie Christenson or Sophie X Y the runner from the Rio Paralympics and Matt from Breaking Bad, we can’t walk and use, move without heamorrage I think, if we are overweight by slim builds: thin. So the disabled people in Edinburgh said that disability = control of what you wear, eat, especially kids, disabled kids, and they called me insane. Simply.

Refusing to discuss, I could only request certain services from social workers, not any, as in homeless, unemployed (my first sayable job was a dishwasher at the Carlton, within dystonia, but not within their view of cerebral palsy, -> mine), mediation between myself and my family and also myself and my relatives who composed two ministerial families, education support (hence support the word), sex abuse counselling, a financial officer especially created for myself having almost everyone say that I was special but also for a few of my friends (Marc, Lisa, Murry, Pas, James). Having a few ten thousands, every half pence was counted by my parents and bank statements read nervously, esposing the hell theology fundamentalists believe, every month, but the social work and disability community mistook this bulligerantly for my retardation, mental retardation, severe and so not said and certainly not obviated. Disgusting.

My mother had given me her attendance allowance, needed by her according to my faith healing pharmacist father if she was contrary to her desire, to care for me effectively or hygenically, but I knew she did not want to and just gave it to me when I was 5yrs old, secretly three disgusting, just in order to witness to Jesus in the social work department, and in the doctors’ room. Also to therapists like physios and OTs also nurses, dentists, taxi drivers. I’m not a taxi driver customer by disability, just by home abuse, by shouting and displacement, but this is not understood when I grin and board the bus 29 or 21, maybe 37, 19 or 27?, and I certainly did not emit these bank statement vibes, evil and insidious, conscious terrifyingly, that my mother did. She is the retard, not me, and she’s prohibited me again, potentially, by forcing by chat with the carers and myself, a car, or WAV, one with a ramp in a van conclave. Fuck*** cun*.

The social worker concurred that a disabled person that could get the bus, themselves especially, was respected, but one with especially a WAV was cared for. God, I would not like this, this image, but the car is good with Anthony. Maybe a car in the future, but I would prefer an AI car, or a driverless car, no problem. Never wanted anything else after I saw disability from the state, not ability, age 5, on the first day of special ed, school. Apparently. But I was disciplined at another…becausejesussaidIt.

I would truly rather have money from the state today, as opposed to care hours for a carer (two carers swap the job) to make me lunch and dinner, also a sandwich for later and any spreads left out, ‘cos they won’t do it, in Edinburgh I suspect, not regularly every day according to my desires. At the moment, because it’s retarded to go to restaurants all the tme. But, being my original carers with so widespread the family incidents of insanity in these places, hell being mentioned too much, so many waiters and servers at cafès and restaurants welcome me, needily, through appropriation and success, sheer success. Critereon must be such, and not failure, because indeed, I feed myself now everything, the peas and beans as well, at restaurants and cafès but not at home in my flat, which is sad. So sad. They cry and glee, not the carers. How can this be? They don’t let me, eat the beans myself. And they smell success. The Romanian waitor at the North Bridge Hotel, the Prince Bar, told me when I asked too late for ice cream to come in tomorrow morning, the next day. Fantastic, but I did not. They annoy me at home. If I could have money, please allocate this, because it is healthy and for my wellbeing. Happiness. Simple happiness. Not enough here.

Not yourself Rhoda. Well, it should have been said, both semantics of medicine, dystonic mild CP with cruel stats or dystonic mild CP with cruel carers, shi*t*.

All the best for your life. I’m trying to go to Oxford, Aberdeen, Birmingham or anywhere but am not succeeding. I like it, life, but not in Edinburgh, never did, even though the common people are the best at caring, quiet and everything, not pesumptive, only of not caring, for me. I believe this may be the long term mistake made, that the Edinburgh person would presume suppression and suffocation, not knowing intention or kill. Never mind, my late brother told me to leave Edinburgh, with themselves in mind. Thank you James. And legality, the legacy being live.

Cheers, and hmm, happy blogging, but no Easter eggs whole and water in the night, because this is for retards and is not the plan, the Care Plan, without support in the sexual land, beauteous five. Night liffe is constrained and you are not dystonic; if you say Jesus to me in the toilet I will f***, or god and prayer, in memory of the mother, the care supervisor for years, until last June when I revoked her as my Welfare Attorney. No good, but now I need to therefore revoke my cousins, complaining about me and reprimanded accordingly this afternoon. Bas******. Thanks for caring. You matter to me, and you will always live in my heart, as sensible autonomous adults.

I really don’t know why there’s a war on still, honestly, about autonomy, because disabled people get, with consideration, what they wish, need that is, and this can be corroborated by the digital or written validations of health professionals, and healthworkers, no problem.

No problem. Am I no problem; am I a friend. No problem = independent of carers: no problem = walking without assistance after acheiving independence from carers; no problem = working and earning money, because I can and know this from the past; no problem = education, student or lecturer, researcher or reader; no problem = giving public or otherwise lectures, by voice or by Mac voice, phonetically enhanced every time even when it’s not; no problem = sporty, and exercises at home, in my bedroom with the massive windows as the curtain to the NHS; no problem = reading; no problem = writing, with the pen of the tongue, not affected deliberately by cerebral palsy, intentionally; no problem = selling books; no problem = creating apps; no problem = website being read, or used, websites; no problem = software engineer in other’s minds, a difficult aim; no problem = programmer (a different level or difficulty from software engineer) and gamer; no problem = me. Are you no problem? Differentiate between friends and antagonisers in this way, because there is no other.

Define your identity, never asking why. Stat.

Let that be your stat. A stat, to become, but not a stat. God sake, her neurology, the social worker’s, is hers, his, or theirs, not mine objectively and directly to affect, because that’s life. This sits, not me, and truth with love stands, not me, because I am not minerally truth and love. Honestly. The biz is me in terms of my body, my brain, the evolutionary inquiry, not you or disability, even if the late Stephen Hawking said or thought it. I thought you, not wheelchairs, and not disability, so that’s what I have the right to, the physical, or art. Efficacy is in loving, and entitlement photographs within it. Aparture, said. Honestly.

I don’t want to go to lectures necessarily, I want to leave Edinburgh. I could lecture at a college, work, do online work, busk (I was called a liar at special college for this), write more books for Amazon and my US publisher in Bloomensberg and my agent and another publisher on Wall Street New York, I could make vids for YouTube for you, I could make six websites, I could create a website builder like Wix using HTML5, but that would take ages, although I wouldn’t see it because on Saturday I took 3.5hrs to dress, without an OT to say that the rugby shirt Jack Wills is easier than the long sleeved top ok **$.

God, can we go there, here, anywhere without reason of Oxford lectures, but I hesitate to say this because I really want to lecture, and the best department ever is Oxford, religion, not Christian theology, which it would be an honour to elevate. Enhance. The level is atheist religion theology, or religion as human goals and intentions with ambitions dealt with by the priests. Sacrifice is dietary and hymns mean aerobic respiration. Ritual is for hygiene and Jesus was a man, dead now, not a god, coming through the gods mythological because he changed structure, societal. Anyone could believe in him because he was axiomically universal and people based, humanistic, or axiomically inclusive, not axiomically exclusive by monarchical treason, a legal clause for someone’s imprisonment. True.

If you can work Jesus out, you can work religion out, as true religio, the word religion being latin for cultural physiology each week, where you got your agricultural or trade (perhaps fishing or craft, [womens]) advice from the priests through dance and sermons, talks or epilogues. Texts. Jesus 0-33, or perhaps 0-32 or 34, 35, 36, 31, depending on the placement of the apocrapha and other ancient texts including Ovid, the poet, perhaps surprisingly, but he was hinted at as Jesus grandad, cohesively epigenitically.

Good luck, and thanks. Genuinely. You're fine. Supposedly.