March 22, 2017
My attendants don’t have time to assist me in using the bathroom at the conference or stay overnight at the hotel. “That’s not our job,” says the house manager. We take care of you. They don’t have time to go for the Capitol for Advocacy Day. This is what I do. It’s my life. I have to fight for everything sending emails to the care agency director. They like the photo ops, articles, and the books, which they haven’t read. They see the long hours being spent. I’m a real author but they don’t care. My people know. Last fall I visited my college classmates and when I said goodbye I cried because I can’t get attendants to go anywhere. I have to be an author, but I feel that what I’m doing for the last time. I’m just beginning life, but deep down I’m dying. The arguing is taking a toll and I will quit fighting sometime. I am the author not like my roommates. Today I gave the Governor a book since he is an author. But I’m a real author. I did PR, handing out cards to people and a volunteer read my letter about saving Medicaid to a legislator. I had a person come up to me say “I know you” and I didn’t know them. That’s an author’s life. My people are not surprised by any of this. It’s Steve, the English people would say. And I think about suicide. I have novels to write and women to make love to. Today I was an author. Tomorrow I’m critiquing papers being a TA. This weekend I’m an author, talking to authors and my agent. And an article came out on Monday. Who does that? Steve, my people would say. They are right again. I got what I wanted though. I’m going to the conference. I won’t give up I promise. I love you. Someday I will be known.