moving on

I've been struggling lately, and it's really frustrating.  I understand there are certain things in my life that aren't the greatest at the moment, but I'm not in a state of crisis.  I'm relatively stable.  I should be using this time to breathe, to laugh, to have fun, to experience, to LIVE -- while I can.

My disability case has been under a routine review for months now, and any day I could be notified my benefits are being yanked.  I think there's a three month grace period after they're denied, so at any given moment I'm three months from homelessness, starvation, and poverty.  I need to seize the moment, seize the day, while I can.

I just have no motivation for anything.  No excitement about anything.  I'm reminded of Sylvia Plath's bell jar, trapping me in, cutting me off from the world, precluding all joy.

But unlike Sylvia Plath, I'm not a brilliant poet and writer.  I'm not going to leave an immortal legacy of artistic beauty behind when I stick my head in the oven.  I have to matter now, and matter to myself, and make the most of my life while I'm living it.  Now is all I have.

My nightmares lately have centered on two themes: education (or lack thereof), and sexual abuse.  My subconsciousness is preoccupied with the fact I never finished school, while simultaneously being haunted by my childhood.  One informs the other: my difficulties with school were a result of mental illness, much of which is trauma-related.  

But I finally gave up on school two years ago.  That was the last time I went back.  Circumstances were about as good as they could have been, and I still couldn't cut it.  

Three years before that, I experienced somewhat of an epiphany (I've dyscussed it on this blog before, so I apologize for being redundant): the realization that even if I was never able to accomplish the things I want to do, I could still be the person I want to be.  When I started flunking calculus tests again, I had to accept that as fact rather than philosophy.  

So I moved out of Florida, which has more schools offering astronomy-related majors than any other state, where I qualified for in-state tuition, where I had hung my dreams.  I stopped making choices based on the idea that I *might* go back to school one day.  It was time to stop banging my head against the wall, and just fucking give up.

What else was out there, for someone like me?  Someone whose existential pain had led to my choice of major: analyzing the cosmos because the question of human existence was unanswerable.  Dramatic, yes, and I'm probably borrowing lines from my college entrance essays.  *snort*  But it was important to me.  It *is* important to me.  And I can't have it.  

I imagine a lot of people think I'm lucky because I don't have to work.  And I am lucky, but I don't think it's in the way most people think.  I'm lucky because my disability check keeps me from being homeless.  It doesn't keep me from working.  I wouldn't work either way, because I can't.  Do you know what it's like to be unable to care for yourself?  And on top of that, if I try to kill myself, to relieve myself -- and society -- of the burden, I get locked up and told THAT'S wrong.  Of course there are options between sitting at home collecting a check, and suicide.  But if I'm unable to function normally, and I really can't work or contribute to society in any consistent or worthwhile way, what am I supposed to do?

I was watching "Law & Order" the other day (shocking, I know).  The homicide victim in question had a history of self-mutilation, and had antidepressants in her system when she died.  There was initial doubt as to whether or not she had been murdered or committed suicide.  Setting aside the fact this is a television show, let's consider: antidepressants in a person's system are considered evidence to support suicide.  Theoretically, wouldn't a person on antidepressants be the least likely to kill oneself?  But we all know psychotropic drugs don't work like a vitamin or an insulin shot or whatever stupid analogies people like to use.

The point is, I can take medication, I can get counseling, I can minimize my triggers and do everything I can to manage my illness.  But because it is mental illness, and this is 2014, there is no cure.  Doctors don't even know how SSRIs and SNRIs work, and they don't work for everyone, nor do they work 100%.  Therapy can do wonders, and I learned techniques in counseling that I use literally every day at this point.  CBT allows one to reprogram one's brain at a basic level, and I worked to do that.  But rewiring thought processes doesn't undo the hard wiring of genetics and behaviors learned in formative years.

It is extremely rare that I do anything purposely to hurt or upset someone.  Once a friend I'd known for ages told me laughingly that during a fight years before, she had done something "because I knew it would make you mad."  I was stunned.  But doing something petty to piss someone off on purpose during a rough patch in a relationship probably isn't as bad in the long run as the things I've unknowingly done that have hurt people.  I've come to this conclusion because a lot of people do stupid petty shit on purpose, and they have families and friends and long term relationships and "normal" lives.  My sister didn't even tell me when she got married.  People who, for years, tell me I'm like family to them walk away without warning or saying goodbye; or, alternatively, say goodbye without indicating a reason.  

I messed around with a dear friend's ex once.  S/he still cared about him/her, and I knew it.  NOTE: I asked permission first, and it was granted.  But I should have known better: people lie, and I'm expected to read their minds.  I do say that with some bitterness, but also, it is simply what I have learned.  I was drunk at the time, and far more concerned with hurting myself (with sex) than considering my friend's feelings.  Sober, I would never have been sexual with that person, a) because I found her/him disgusting, in every way, and b) because I did know my close friend still cared about the person.  Sober, I would never have asked if I could bang the ex: and that's a perfect example of what I do wrong.  I can take the position that I was honest and straightforward, that I asked before I slept with a friend's ex, and if s/he had a problem with it, s/he should have said so.  I gave him/her the chance.  But a SANE person would argue that only a douchebag would ASK to fuck a friend's ex.  A normal person would just, simply, never go there.  

I've been thinking about this as part of my ongoing investigation into why popular belief is that I am a bad person, despite the fact I strive so desperately to be the opposite.  Also, it has a more immediate, practical application: figuring out why the friend whose ex I fooled around with ended our friendship a few months ago.  It was years after the incident with the ex, but I don't think s/he ever got over it.  Of course, as with most people, she refused to tell me why she ended the friendship, although she did at least say goodbye, and for that I am impressed and grateful.  I think the reason most people don't tell me why they're leaving IS because they're cowards and won't have an honest conversation, but, as with everything else, it's also because a normal person wouldn't need to be told.  A normal person would know, or, more probably, never transgress in the first place, because she'd know better.

Why am I brutally honest but an interpersonal retard?  The same reason we're all fucked up: abusive childhood.  I didn't learn appropriate boundaries.  To compensate, I'm open and honest, but the rest of the world isn't, so unless people are willing to point out what is, to them, the obvious, I'm screwed.  Make no mistake: I take responsibility for it.  It's just frustrating.

One of the times I was locked up in the mental hospital, the doctors didn't want to release me because I had no family or close friends to "vouch" for me, to back up anything I said or to ensure my safety.  One of the psychiatrists in particular was pressuring me to put them in contact with my sister.  I didn't even have her phone number, but the logistical problems never even occurred to me, because there was no way I as going to involve my sister.  She had made it clear -- not in a straightforward manner; she's an uncommunicative coward like most people -- that she didn't want anything to do with me.  I learned this through her partner.  There was NO WAY, once I was aware of this boundary, I was going to violate it.  Meanwhile, here's this bitch in the hospital holding me hostage, telling me that in crisis situations, family members WANT to help, they WANT to be notified, these kinds of things bring them together.  SNORT.  There I am, trying to be responsible and emotionally mature and respect my sister's wishes, and I'm being punished for doing the right thing.  I can't win.  Even now, as I type this, I worry I am coming across as feeling sorry for myself and victimizing myself.  "Poor me, I try so hard, I can never do anything right, everybody hates me and leaves me and all I do is try.  I'm honest and respectful and the world is mean."  That truly is not what I'm trying to communicate.  I don't see myself as a victim.  I do try and I am honest, but I fuck up a hell of a lot and I don't blame anyone for wanting to walk away from me, because if I could do it, I would too.

But I'm trapped with myself.  So I make the best of it.  I strive to be better.  At the moment, I'm stuck in the Parker Spruce extended stay hotel.  I'm living in one room with a shared bathroom, and of course, I have a roommate.  One of the reasons I moved was to get out of my one bedroom open plan loft, which had absolutely no privacy.  It's ironic I ended up with even less privacy.  It's only temporary, but I'm starting to get afraid I'm never going to have a real home again.  I remind myself of all the homeless people, and how lucky I am to have a roof over my head at all.  And yet, it's still hard.  I saved for a year for the move, and all the money ended up being spent on the travel portion of the process.  So now I have to save for an apartment.  It's extremely difficult to qualify for an apartment in Philly, and once (if) you do, move in costs are expensive.  First month, last month, and a security deposit the same price as the rent.  I'm eating Chef Boyardee from the Dollar Tree out the can, trying to save money. 

I try to pretend the Parker is my home.  It's a cool building, despite the fact it's run down and probably filled with asbestos.  It's in the Gayborhood, in Center City.  I'm on the tenth floor, and the view out the windows is amazing. 

But the truth is I'm scared.  Scared I'll be stuck here forever.  Uneducated, contributing nothing, barely able to take care of myself.  Missing out.  The world is passing me by.  I moved out of Florida to move on with my life.  I made it out, but that's all I did.  Now, I'm stagnating.

I don't know what to do.

SEX

I was sexually abused when I was a child.  Lately, I've been having a lot of nightmares about it.  They're difficult to deal with because I feel "haunted" during the day.  I can still function (as much as I ever do), but the problem is, if I want to be sexually active, the trauma interferes with that.  

The person(s) with whom I may choose to be sexual have not and would not pressure me into anything; there aren't any issues like that.  What it comes down to is I'm really confused.  The way I'm used to dealing with sex is to avoid it.  Over the past few years, due mostly to chance, I ended up working through a lot of my sexual issues and reached the point where, under the right circumstances, I could actually enjoy not just sex, but actual intercourse, and with MEN.  Very strange for me.  

To clarify, I identify as bisexual.  I'm generally physically attracted to women and emotionally attracted to men.  

One problem is that, for me, sex is not like riding a bike.  I can’t go months without doing it and then have an enjoyable experience.  Part of it is physical.  My body isn’t used to being violated – see, that’s still how I feel about it.  So WHY am I even attempting to have intercourse?  Also, the longer I abstain, the more likely I am to revert to a very frightened state of mind.  My brain naturally associates sex with negativity, so unless I am actively negating that connection, I go back to thinking that way, and it’s harder to overcome. 

If I were in a standard, monogamous, heterosexual/heteronormative relationship, I imagine I would be working through my issues, having sex three to four times a week, and any doubts I had about sex would be written off as a result of my past. 

But, I’m not.  I’m technically single, I like both men and women, and I have a real problem with having sex when I’m not already aroused (I dislike the term “horny”).  What I mean is, I only like to have sex when I get the urge.  I don’t like to do things that put me in the mood when I’m not already.  Sex, to me, isn’t anything to be pursued.  It’s something to be dealt with.  I feel the same way about masturbation.  I only do it when I absolutely “have” to.

If a friend came to me with this story, I would say, “Don’t do anything you don’t want to do.  Do what feels right.”  If I do that, I’ll go months without sex and then have an uncomfortable experience when I find myself in the mood. 

I guess I wonder if what feels right is actually robbing me of part of the human experience.  I do like orgasms.  Allegedly, only 25% of women can achieve vaginal orgasms, and I’m in that category.  How ironic is that?

It all comes down to one thing.  How do you deal with that awful feeling of a man touching you when you’ve had one do it against your will?

angry truth: the letter I will never send

When I found out you got married and didn't tell me, I was hurt.  When I asked why you didn't tell me, and you replied by requesting clarification: why wasn't I invited, or why didn't you tell me?  That made me feel even worse.  I know you would never invite me.  I'm too poor to travel, and I'm unstable.  In your eyes I'd probably get drunk and ruin your wedding or something.  If that is the way you think, that's fair.  You have every reason to.

I want you to know who I really am.  Not your little sister, who you barely knew in childhood, who turned into this crazy, uncontrollable adult.  

I feel like you see me differently than everyone else.  Other people respect me.  They like me.  They ask my opinion on things.  I have value to them.  

I don't get that from you.

I know you think I have/had an alcohol problem.  I know this only because when I asked to borrow $35 from you for a therapy session and you referred me to Kent, he emailed my therapist asking about alcohol treatment facilities.  He had generously agreed to pay for several sessions, and requested I sign a release so he could discuss payment and attendance with my counselor.  I filled out the release form, with the specificities.  He had no interest in my personal affairs, and wasn't supposed to discuss anything with my therapist.  Well, Kent doesn't know me.  He never cared to get to know me.  So the request for alcohol treatment had to come from you.  

I wasn't offended that you apparently thought I was an alcoholic.  I definitely had a booze problem.  I never denied that.  I thought it was disgusting the way you apparently tried to help me was through Kent sticking his nose where it didn't belong.

I was already getting help for my alcohol problem at that time.  You didn't know that, because you wouldn't talk to me.  And by the way, I wasn't offended by that either.  What Kent told me was that you couldn't handle both my mental illness and our mother's.  That made complete sense.  I told Kent to tell you I understood.  

I couldn't believe that I offered you nothing but understanding, and you acted the way you did.

Let me tell you who I am.  It has been two and a half years since I have overdrank and/or blacked out and/or done anything I regretted while drinking.  I drink maybe two or three days a month, randomly.  Sometimes I'll have a drink or two if I'm out at a restaurant.  Sometimes I'll crave booze and buy a bottle of something and drink at home and just hang out.  I never get out of control.  It's been over three years since I've self-mutilated, which I only stopped because it's a one-way ticket to the mental hospital.  It's interesting, because a superficial cut is less dangerous than alcohol, but it's socially unacceptable.  If I'm having a bad day and I'm out with friends and I have a couple drinks, that's okay.  If I went out and indulged in a couple of cuts, I'd be locked up.  

Society is weird.

So I don't cut myself anymore, I don't abuse alcohol.  What do I do?

I've been on disability since December 2008.  It was backdated to the first time I tried to kill myself, September 17, 2007.  Yes, Mom's birthday.  

I was in love once.  I miss him and I am empty.  

My roommate is an interesting caveat to my life.  I call him my heterosexual life partner.  I'm not heterosexual, but everyone thinks we're together, and the way we live, we may as well be married.  

He's a good guy.  He loves my cats.   

I spent a lot of time on activism.  I wish I still did.  There was a great clip of me on the news, protesting Chik fil A, but it got deleted.  I looked decent, I was articulate.  Things you would never think of me.  I wish it was still up.

Why do I want to PROVE to you that I am capable, smart, worthy?  I suppose because my entire childhood, you drilled into me that I was a piece of shit.  I know it's not your fault, it's the Fonster's, but YOU still did all those things.  You were so fucking mean, and who the HELL were you?  Some insecure kid, pouring all your hate and venom onto an innocent child six years younger than you.  Have you ever thought about your behavior?  Have you ever taken responsibility for it?  Have you ever thought about apologizing to me?

I pretty much just survive.  I read voraciously.  Justin and I watch a lot of  movies together, and news shows on Youtube.  We lay together, and the cats lay with us, and I am so thankful to have someone who loves me, a place to live, food in my stomach.  Just the basics.  

After I started living on disability, I had an epiphany.  Even if I never do the things i want to do, I can still be the person I want to be.  That was a huge realization.  Because obviously, I never finished school.  It hurts, it hurts, it hurts so much.  All I wanted was to be an astronomer, and I couldn't do it.  I have all the credits for an Associate's Degree, I just never applied to graduate.  So I sort of have a college degree.  

Oh, to be worthless.  Do you know what it's like to be this smart and this trapped by mental illness?  There is so much inside me, so much I have to contribute, and I never will.  

You in your wedding dress, smiling and happy.  That stupid back hoe and the old tyme truck, Kent in his stupid jeans and cowboy boots -- where was his rifle?  I hate you.  You did all the right things, and although it certainly wasn't a path to happiness, at least you progressed.  College, job, jobs, jobs, living in different places, law school, now you're a lawyer prosecuting people for things I think should be legal.  You have two houses and ten vehicles and you send me postcards from France while I'm in the hospital, which you don't even know about.  I have to protect you from who I am.  

After everything you did in childhood, you shouldn't treat me the way that you do.  I asked you once, not to play competitive damage, but who did you think had it worse in our childhoods, you or me?  And you replied you thought it was me, because you and the Fonster were actively mean to me.  

Why don't you take responsibility for that?  I'm not saying it's the reason I am the way I am.  I'm not placing blame.  I just want the truth.

I was assaulted by cops on June 30, 2009.  After that I lost the love of my life and my best friend at the time.  I have PTSD.  I tried to sue the police department, and there was an investigation, but ultimately I didn't have the money to pursue it.

I am unhappy, but I have my cats and my books.  

Why don't I get a job?  

I did get a job.  The first week I was in Philadelphia.  I went to the interview wearing a blazer I'd bought an hour before for 50 cents at the thrift store.  I got the job, and I was promoted within the first week.  But then I couldn't get out of bed.  

Am I lazy?  I know when I'm hungry, my friends think I should get a job and work for food like everybody else.  What they don't realize is it's easier to be hungry than to keep a job.  I just can't.  I don't expect anything from anyone: I expect my disability to be revoked at any moment (it's currently under review), and I don't expect  the kindness I get from some friends.

There is something wrong with me.  But I am surviving.  You will never get a suicidal phone call from me.  Or a drunken one.  Or any kind of drama or emergency.  Sometimes gossip is fun, like the girl who asked me on a date, but I will never bring my true problems to you.  I know you don't want them, and guess what?  I can handle them on my own.

I am living life.  That is all I can do.  I can't work, I can't go to school.  I can be here.  I have integrity and insight and I'm not worthless.  I'm a waste, but I'm not what you think I am.

--
‎"Be ashamed to die until you have won some victory for humanity." -- Horace Mann

The Letter that Made a Wawa Employee Disappear

or, Don't Fuck With Me: I have two hands, two eyes, and an Internet connection

06/24/14

To Whom It May Concern:

This is in reference to a Shift Manager named Marc who works at Wawa #103 on Walnut Street in Philadelphia. 

My roommate/best friend and I visit this particular Wawa location almost every day.  We're new to Philadelphia and haven't found an apartment yet, so we're temporarily living in an extended stay hotel that doesn't have any kitchen facilities.  Because of this, we find Wawa especially convenient.  Between that (the convenience), the high quality products (delicious coffee and deli items), and the usually good customer service, most of the time we enjoy our daily trek to the store.

Shift Manager Marc is the only negative thing that stands out about Wawa #103.  During our first interaction with him, we were attempting to use multiple forms of tender to pay for our purchase.  I don't know if he was genuinely unaware of how to process more than one kind of payment (which would be a problem unto itself, considering he is a manager), or if he had a personal problem with us because one of our payment types was food stamps.  Either way, he was quite rude about processing our order, and ultimately refused some of our payment.  We had to put some of our items back.  Even so, what really bothered us was his unkind attitude.  However, everyone has bad days, and there are bigger battles in life, so we let it go.

The next time we saw him, he wasn't waiting on us (for which we were grateful), but our attention was drawn to him because he was loudly being very rude to another customer.  A woman had ordered an item at the deli, and I think there was some kind of confusion going on regarding paying for her food first and then picking it up.  The procedure in this store, as I assume it is in other locations, is to order one's food, collect the receipt, use the receipt to pay at the register, and then take a stamped slip to the deli counter to pick up one's order.  This customer may have been new to Wawa.  In any event, she had seemingly made some sort of mistake, and Marc was berating her in front of the entire store (his voice being loud enough to attract the attention of bystanders like us).  The customer was visibly shaken by her interaction with him.  

Our third and last experience with Marc was just this evening.  As I said, we don't have any kitchen facilities where we're living, so in addition to the coffee, sandwiches, fruit, and other food we've been buying at store #103, we always take advantage of the free water and ice available at the drink fountain.  I admit I don't know exactly what the water/ice policy is.  I just know the first time I took a large (32 ounce) drink cup filled with ice up to the counter, it was given to me for free.  This has continued for the past five or six weeks.  I usually get a large (32 ounce) cup of ice, and my best friend gets a cup of water the same size, always for free.  It turns out we may have been unknowingly taking advantage of the free water policy, because tonight Shift Manager Marc was behind us in line at the drink fountain, waiting to fill his own soda cup, and informed us we were only entitled to a 16 ounce courtesy cup.  Now, this is fine.  We didn't know that was the rule, and we're happy to comply with it.  The problem, once again, was Marc's attitude.  He was extremely unprofessional and rude.  It was embarrassing for him, and the store.  He began by simply stating the rule, which is completely reasonable.  But his demeanor was so aggressive, my friend tried to respond to him, because it seemed like there was more of an issue going on.  My friend said, "No one has ever told me that before, but --" and Marc cut him off to say, "Well, I've told you that several times, and I'm nobody, but okay."  My friend tried to engage Marc a couple more times, but continued to be cut off.  Marc kept loudly interrupting him and turning his back so there was no hope of two-way communication.  After he left, we dumped out our large cups, threw them away, and filled up smalls (16 ounces).  At the counter, we made sure we were not rung up by him -- his anger is off-putting.  However, he was at the register next to us, and when I asked our cashier for the number to corporate, Marc mumbled comments to himself about us. 

As you can (hopefully) see, I'm not the type of person to impulsively respond to conflict.  It took three negative interactions, two of them personal, before I decided to report Shift Manager Marc.  I'm not doing this to get someone in trouble.  I would have been happy to discuss the issue with just him, but he wouldn't talk to us.  Further, as I said, his anger is off-putting, and honestly, it's to the point that I wonder about the safety of customers and coworkers around him.  He seems, at the least, to have an anger management problem, if not some sort of personality disorder.  In my humble opinion, he shouldn't be working with the public, and he certainly shouldn't be in charge.  I worry for the employees that work under him.

I hope this message is taken in the spirit in which it is meant: as concern.  Ideally some form of follow-up that might get Marc some help would be wonderful.  He can't be happy with himself if he feels he has to deal with the rest of the world the way he does, and I'm troubled when I think how his attitude could ultimately manifest.

Also, somewhat less importantly, could you please let me know exactly what the policy is on free water and ice?  We would like to follow the rules, although we will probably only return if there is another Wawa location nearby.  We are not comfortable patronizing #103 anymore.

Thank you for your time and attention to this matter.

Sincerely,

Dysmonia Kuiper

I submitted the above letter to Wawa's corporate offices via their website a few weeks ago.  (Justin wanted to punch the guy in the face, understandably, but I complained in writing instead, haha.)  Afterwards, we started going to a different Wawa location to avoid Marc's abuse.  One day, though, it was so hot and we were so tired we just went to the closest location on our way home, which was #103.  Marc wasn't there, but one of the other shift managers (the one who gave us the corporate phone number, actually) was, and he personally apologized to us on behalf of his fuckwit colleague.  We started frequenting that location again after that, and we've only seen Marc once.  

On another subsequent occasion, the inventory manager, whom we'd never seen on the floor before, approached us while we were at the drink fountain, poised to get our contraband ice and water.  We were sure he was going to reprimand us.  Instead, he acknowledged the issue with good ol' Marc, and gave us a $25.00 gift card.  All in all, impressive customer service.  AND he informed us there IS NO free water policy.  It's up to the discretion of the cashier.  So if someone who isn't buying anything tries to get free water, like a homeless person, he or she is denied.  But people like us, who spend way too much money at Wawa, can have any size courtesy cup we damn well please.  Take THAT, shift manager/water micro-manager Marc the Psycho.  Ha.  And, as for him, he seems to be on mandatory leave, or gone for good.  He's been conspicuously absent, and other employees have obviously been covering the hours he would normally be working.  

I don't feel gleeful when I consider I may have gotten someone fired.  I feel good that I stood up to an abusive person in a position of some power, and spoke for all the customers he mistreated who didn't report him; and hopefully offered his coworkers and employees a reprieve from his nasty behavior.

In this case, the pen (or rather, the keyboard) was indeed mightier than the sword.

anywhere but there

This move hasn't been very crazy, or very fun.  The only insanity was in the decision itself.  Picking up all one's belongings, two cats, and a roommate and driving north with only a vague idea of the final destination when money is limited is a little nuts.  Which means the only excitement has been stress.  As for fun, I'm sure a lot of it could be had, but I forgot who I was when I planned this.  In the last week, I visited New York City for the first time in my life -- and the most enjoyment I've experienced is sleeping 20 hours at a time in my hotel room in New Jersey.

Manhattan was unique.  If I could only use one word to describe it, that's what I would choose.  Most of what makes it different, I think, is the functionality involved in cramming that many people into such a small physical area.  Apartment buildings with storefronts on the first floor (a la "Friends"), tiny bodega grocers, the sound of the subway coming up through the street grates, studio apartments that cost $2,700 a month...etc.

Yes, New York City is unique, and that makes it special.  And I didn't dislike it.  But I wasn't particularly attracted to it either.  I knew it would be crowded, so I was prepared for that.  I knew it would be expensive, of course.  I guess I just didn't have any of those "only in New York" moments or experiences.  I visited D.C. in 2009, and I liked it much better there (which is also, I'm sure, too expensive).

So I didn't do any of the touristy things people do in NYC, because I wasn't there on vacation.  I was there looking for a place to live.  I would go back someday, with more money and time and less stress and depression, and see the Statue of Liberty and the Empire State Building and the museums (especially the one that snagged one of the shuttles from KSC), and do all that shit.  This simply wasn't the time for it.  I went to see if I could live there, if I even wanted to, and the answer to both questions was "no."

Now, I'm in New Jersey, where we stayed in a hotel for several days.  Money is running out so we checked out of Extended Stay America this morning.  Now we're tooling around trying to figure out what to do next.  The plan was to investigate New York, and if that didn't work out, move on to Cincinnati, which was our original destination back in the day when I still had a car.  New Jersey isn't that bad, though, so as long as we're here we may as well apartment hunt a little.  It would save a lot on gas if this was our last stop, and rental trucks don't exactly get the best mileage.  

I had no idea how stable my life was until I did this.  I knew I had made a lot of strides in that direction, but it wasn't until I became voluntarily homeless that I realized what I had given up.  When I think about Gainesville, I cringe, and when I think about the apartment I had there, those memories are bad, too; but when I think of the home I had, I miss it.  And that's something I can recreate anywhere.  Hell, the hotel room felt like home after the first night.  A big comfy bed, two adorable, adoring, and adored cats, books to read, shows to watch on the computer, Justin to keep me company, and the occasional cup of coffee or meal: that's home to me.

I hope I get the opportunity to make another home before my bank account runs dry.  I am so fortunate to have this chance to explore and choose.  I never want to be complaining about something I can change.  "I hate this fucking town," were words I uttered far too often back in the 352.  Don't like it?  Then leave.  Done.

The NYC skyline, taken from the NJ Turnpike.

(Photo courtesy of Justin Kersell.)

acceptance?

I may not be able to accomplish the things I want to do in life, but I can still be the person I want to be.  

This is how I achieve moments of content and experience instances of happiness in an unaccomplished life, as the clock ticks louder and louder toward death.  

I don't have that PhD. in astronomy, and I don't work on top of a mountain doing research with a telescope.  My answer to existentialism -- studying the multiverse as a whole -- therefore remains an unrealized dream forever.  I'm never going to write my memoir because I don't have the motivation, and I don't care about it anymore.  I'm probably not going to take any automotive technology classes and learn how to fix my own car, because I can't afford them and I'm anxious and I probably wouldn't do well in a class full of men.  Wait, I don't even have a car anymore.  I keep forgetting that small fact.  I may never speak another language since I lack commitment to personal projects.  The love of my life already made an appearance, and s/he is never coming back.  The same goes for a lot of valued friends, and my sister will never truly love me and I will never understand her.  I will most likely be mentally ill up to and including the day I die.

But I have morals, beliefs, and integrity.  Every single minute of every single day doesn't hurt -- at least not right now.  I am too old to keep chasing what I cannot have, and too experienced to deal with the pain of disappointment with self-destruction.  I've grown the fuck up.  

I can smile and mean it.  I can laugh and feel it.   

I have my freedom, and I have my physical health (for now).  

I'll take it.

for Justin

My roommate.  My best friend.  My support system.

We laugh, we cry, we yell.  We survive.

Right now, he's barely holding on.  The system is fucked, and it fucked him over.  He doesn't know I'm doing this, but I'm desperate to help him.

Please contribute if you can.  Even just clicking on the link is something.

Thank you.

Emergency Prescriptions