The Duchy of Jerald

It boils down to they hate us for our empathy because it makes them look bad. We must never
make them look bad.
It's insane.
So I sit here, alone still, with my loss and my grief, and write about it, because friends refuse to
go out in public with a walker, a cane, a wheelchair, it would make them look bad, being the
centre of attention accompanying me. No visits to the hospital either, too busy, not a priority, too
creepy, whatever.
I am an INFJ in the Myers Briggs personality type, the rarest of all kinds, full of empathy, so I
am able to understand and feel the terror these people fear at being exposed. They refuse to read
my writing because I (intentionally) expose myself, as a shame attacking exercise. It creeps them
out, don't mention me by name don't take my picture, all the usuals. As if your right to privacy
were a weapon I might use against you, which is your mind numbing fear, held over from being
controlled by just such a fear by a scared and angry 4 year old of a partner, the same partner I
had and all the friends too, a business deal of shame, anger, depression and disease.
So, I crave intimacy, that is defined by creating a safe environment for emotional honesty.
Since folks are too busy running from that due to fear of exposure, I have made it my work, my
writing and my visual art, a personal history of expressionism, emotional honesty. One of my
readers said he reads my posts aloud to his wife, has for years. They sent me hundreds of dollars
when I was ill and broke, complete strangers that I have never met. People who crave emotional
honesty.
Alice Neel, one of my painter influences said 'finding a businessman involved in art, is like
finding chicken shit in your chicken salad'. The same is true of finding them in any relationship
that requires intimacy, safety, honesty. Ironically, I have found intimacy, safety, honesty by
being 'exposed' and talking about myself in my work.
You described me, when you met me, as fresh, alert, awake, someone who showed up. The
ashrams and buddhists call me enlightened. That's what it looks like when someone is dealing
with their fears as best they know how, then ignoring them, and focusing on ways to find
satisfaction. I mean I was homeless, extremely ill, living in a hospital, just lost the use of 50% of
my body, my income, my home, my lovely dear dear cat, extremely lonely, even family refused
to visit, due to my refusal to make shame deals and not discuss stuff. So I wrote about that, with
my left hand, as best I could, taught myself to wipe my own ass, put on my own clothes, got