While I’m waiting for this case of flu to blow over, I may as well write something.
I had a dreadful experience in the Land of Cleve, which I will write about as soon as I get un-triggered enough to be capable of writing more than ba-ba-baaaa-baba-baaaaa…see what I mean?
And the root of it all is shame.
Shame that after surviving a childhood of violence, confusion, loneliness, and fear, surviving rape, prostitution, homelessness, and fear, pulling it together and getting successful in art, music, and medicine, shame that after all those shooting star successful years, I’m still broken, more broken even than before.
Shame that at the age of 63 I am homeless.
Don’t think for a moment that my fancy camper van and my (to quote my dear mother) “fat disability check” means I am not homeless.
“Don’t say homeless, say house-free,” sage advice from just another such as me.
Don’t believe it.
I know what it’s like to have a home. I’ve had them, from time to time. They just don’t stick.
I can’t stay anywhere, because she will find me. She will drag me out from under the bed where I am hiding…so I have to move. I have to run.
I can’t stay anywhere, because he will hit on me, he will sell me to his friends while I am knocked out on Angel Dust that he put in my joint…I can’t stay here, because the cops will find me. You don’t have to be pretty for the cops to like to play with you but it helps, sometimes in a good way and sometimes not…
Such a shame, she’s got all these degrees and doesn’t use them, just sits on her ass all day….
Shame can drive you to despair, makes you want to disappear, but where?
If I were well, I’d go back to work
Settle down
Volunteer
Publish my books
Find some friends
Get a life
If I were well, there’s a lot I could do.
Now it has to be good enough just to deal with the stares.
Yes, it’s that bad. I try to fix myself up so I don’t look so crazy as all that, but lately (I think it’s the limp now, from the sciatica, it’s killing me) I’m noticing…maybe I should buy some new clothes. I hate throwing out perfectly good clothes. OK, they have holes, and when you live outside, you’re bound to get dirty.
Maybe I should cut my hair. Even when I braid it, it ends up all wispy and wild.
Maybe I should….
I hope this doesn’t last too much longer.