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claiming antoher victim
I've been worried about you lately. You're barely functioning on a good day and that place where you live doesn't have many good days. My concern for you just shows how stupid I am. You decided you don't care. I wish I could have that ability, to turn it on or off depending on what chemical persuasion I am leaning on at the time. Maybe that's part of why I don't bother with drugs anymore. Nothing made me not feel enough. Nothing made it so I can't care.
I worry that you forget to pay your $50 a month rent, because I was reminding you there for awhile. Rent is due on the first, as always. I worry that they keep harassing you about cleaning up your room. Thee government is happy to help the homeless get an apartment, after suffering through 4+ winters outside in Minnesota, but they just abandon people after that. Here you go, a place to live. Now, live like everyone else.
No lessons on how to clean anything. How to cook food. Food safety or even the basics of human hygiene. Things any "normal" person knows how to do, you don't. Or you just don't want to. And with your Scorpio stubbornness, if you don't want to do something, you won't.
I worry because the bed that came with your room you turned on its side near the front door as a barricade and hung your hammock on the wall, which they gave you crap about. Why sleep in a hammock when they give you a bed? Because you have some serious PTSD from being homeless for so long you don't feel safe unless you have some sort of hoard between you and the front door. Your one window is covered in black plastic and you keep dumpster diving and your home looks like a pack rats nest. I am wondering how many times they've asked you, no TOLD you, to clean it all up or get kicked out. And I wonder why your parents won't help you out more. What kind of mother would let her son go around in mis-matched shoes he got out of the dumpster? Why it is up to a friend to buy you a new pair of shoes? And now you don't want that friend so I wonder how you're doing.
Well, I'm a bad person and how dare I give a shit and you're 300 miles away. I miss you and I miss my home and when I think about you I think about my home and when I think about my home I think about you and it sucks. You can never go home again. You can never get back what you lose. But that is my biggest mental illness. Even as a kid. Go to the Aquarium, have a nice day, want to go back the very next day and replay it over and over but it's never the same. But I keep trying. And that is a big part of why I did so many drugs and why I keep people in my mind that should be long gone. I don't know exactly what kind of illness that is. What category of fucked up ness that falls into.
I realized the other day that every single diagnosis is made up by someone. It's all fake. Just words strung together. And what if they're wrong. What if I'm not what they said I was. What if they were right at first, and now they 're wrong, or the other way around, or what I am is a new class of crazy and later on I'll find out they've been treating me all wrong and ooops...sorry about that.
The snow is melting here big time and Texas is getting our weather and I hope you are doing OK up North. Biking around like a lunatic talking loudly to yourself on purpose to keep people away, smoking too much and eating lunch at the Salvation Army and never taking a bath. Claiming you want your baby momma back in your life, but not being able to get off the shit, which is all it would take. Some people are marked from day one.
2:05 PM - Thursday, Feb. 25, 2021
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