Working Poor Palaces

Blink. Think. Blink. Think. 

I blinked today. My mouth hung gaping open and startled, those few actions were all my body would allow. Stare and blink, try to think.

What is happening? 

The drugs. It has to be the psychiatric drugs. They are soaking into my bloodstream and my head is becoming unaware of normal reality, of the truth I’ve tolerated since my birth. Men are telling me ‘things are going to be great’ again.

A bully swelling up like the State Puft Marshmallow Man stuffing his ego full on medium-rare narcissistic steak and perfection promised in potatoes.  Smothered in a rich wine gravy served from a golden goblet. His bloated face grows and glows with prideful deceit. Ripping his seams from the grandiose grandstanding as he hopes, “No one will find out the truth.” His disgusting, vile deceit which is stripping bare of the centuries’ old fabric strewn across our land of red and white stripes, blue background, and fifty stars.

Give him a chance. They will say it repeatedly, Give him a chance. 

Tyrants had their chances. And they destroyed nations. They danced in decadent palaces while their people starved. They sent their countrymen to do their bidding and fight wars for more land. Those brave men came home wounded, and were put to work building castles. They were slaves in their native lands. This treatment has repeated itself throughout history.

Kings went mad. Not with melancholy, but with paranoia. Their wrongdoings hung on their souls. Stuck in their guts like the knives waiting to gut them as they slipped into their private chambers. They were spectacles of the country they ruled. Palaces built by soldiers, warriors, and the men with strong backs.

Monarchy, democracy, republics…. governments: all ill-fated in their own ways. There is no perfect system to solve the problems which have always plagued humans. This is not the first health crisis humanity has faced. It may be the saddest. We choose big pharmaceutical costs and insurance premiums over lives. That’s America’s Healthcare System. It’s been happening since my parents took me to a hospital trying find out why my blood pressure was reaching stroke-high levels.

I say to my husband, “I will not bankrupt our family to fix something that can’t be fixed. The money it will costs for a new organ, if I need one, will leave us destitute. Let it go.”

Cancer bankrupting entire families. The system has always been broken. Healthcare, like government and religion, are all businesses. Pay your tithes, and your deductibles, put money into lobbyists’ pockets, get your special interest bill passed. The one that helps the big corporations. Build better centers off the broken backs of the sick, and the poor, and the working class. Build mega churches and new wings onto hospitals but still expect a co-payment to walk into the joint. Didn’t pay your last bill? Don’t worry, there’s a lawyer waiting to garnish your working wage for the x-ray, or the mammogram, or the trip to clinic because you needed some antibiotics.

Don’t get sick. Don’t have an accident. You can’t afford it. Can’t afford to miss work. Can’t afford to use a sick day, or a vacation day. Can’t afford a vacation.

The castles we view in faraway lands were built by the working poor.

The banker’s row on Wall Street, the hospitals with flatscreen televisions airing their commercials day and night… built by America’s working, sick, and poor.

There is a division. Like it or not. There is a line in the sand. Poor. Working Poor. The Mega-Rich who apparently don’t have pay taxes or pay back government bailouts. Centuries ago, these mega rich were called “nobles”. They had titles and felt entitled to not have to pay their fair share of taxes because they carried certain ranks in their society.

They were overthrown and their heads were cut off. In one instance, farmers paraded their perfectly coiffed hair decorated in full make-up on a spike through the streets of France. Noble execution.

Men been telling me all my life how they are going to make things better. Daddy told me, “I’ll buy you a car when you graduate college.” Lies. Greatness is already inside of me, I just had to realize and discover it.

The people who make life better are the ones it matters the most to. Yourself. Take accountability for what is happening. Be the king or queen of your destiny, because that is all you are able to control. Don’t build for others. Build for yourself.

Kings go mad. History has proven so. They suffer from insomnia because they lay awake with guilt on their conscience and they worry the truth will blind them and take away their power. They worry about the exposure. They contemplate how to best hide their injustices and true natures. They tweet trying to justify and bully and gaslight their wrongdoings. All night they fight their internal demons. Insomnia is a damn cold bitch. And she never sleeps.

writers
Banksy’s Dismaland

******

Wri-Ter

Rachel E. Bledsoe is a writer and an Appalachian Misfit Mama. She enjoys swimming, long walks on the beach, and Marie Antoinette biographies. She is the sole voice and writer behind The Misfits of a Mountain Mama. You can visit her on Facebook or on Twitter @MisfitMtMama.

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