Let me just vent for a second. I haven’t written much in a while. I haven’t the energy lately. I haven’t eaten much in a while. This morning I had a spoonful of beans. Yesterday I had half a baked potato. I’m getting sick again. Stepped on the scale at Publix and my weight had dropped to 119 again. Last week, I was starting to freak when I saw that my weight had plummeted to 123. Fuck this.
Sorry. Like I said. I’m just going to vent stream of consciousnesses style until I get this all off my chest.
My agoraphobia has kept me prisoner in this apartment. I hate this apartment. I hate this isolated life that I, unwillingly designed for myself. I leave every morning at 7am to get our food for the day. I return promptly by 7:15. And I don’t leave the house again. Not until the following morning. I’m serious. I don’t even open a window, I don’t walk out into the garden, I don’t LEAVE THESE WALLS.
Philip and I were watching Rupaul’s Drag Race today. We’ve been watching a lot of that. Clever, crafty, comical and cunning, it has been a delightful watch. I love the show. And while we watch it, we laugh, we “hee hee,” throw shade at the queens we don’t like, and have a ball. Paris is burning, wish you were here….
I’ve needed that. This agoraphobia has bred a depression unlike anything I have ever seen. I miss the world. I could be on tour right now. I could be signing books, hugging people, thanking them for giving me a miraculous life. But, I can’t. I’m held hostage in an overpriced piece of concrete shit that won’t let me leave,
When Phillip and I were watching Drag Race, he commented that my laughter and my tone reminded him of when we first met. He thought I was delightful. I’d pop round to have Pho at my favorite Vietnamese restaurant. I’d dash to Sportstown to play air hockey (I do so love it). I’d slip a few bucks in my wallet and head to a coffee house to knit, meet people, say hello, be congenial and smile.
“You were everywhere,” he said. “You were a star. You smiled without even realizing it. You were that happy with life.”
And all of that ended when we moved into this apartment. I started getting sick. Bronchitis, laryngitis, pneumonia. I know it’s a moldy old sick hotel of breeding spores that causes me to get this chronic, continual, frustrating hack that begins to worsen. And before you know it, I’m sick again. And I just can’t do that. I can’t do this anymore. I don’t want to be in the house anymore. Do you have any idea how many bears and books I have to sell each month to pay for this crummy pad? JESUS! And it gets harder and harder the more these bouts of sickness happen.
But, moving is expensive. We barely make it happen here. At the end of the month we have around $20 to share with each other. WHAT ARE WE DOING????
There’s no way we’re able to just pack up and slide into a nice little pad, cheaper than here. Ironic, isn’t it? It’s cheaper to live here where it’s expensive, rather than move. First months rent, last months rent, deposit for possible damages, NON refundable deposits for the cats. It would cost at MINIMUM $3000 to move. So, I write, I knit…..and the whole time I whisper to myself, “I want out of here. NOW!”
I want better than this. I really do. Now, someone could say that I was homeless before and I should be damned thankful to have a roof over my head. Screw you. I busted my ass knitting to get out of homelessness. KNITTING! Did you hear that? KNITTING! I worked these little fingers to the bone to get out of that situation. So, you’ll excuse me if my first reaction is, I don’t have to compromise my homelessness by living in an expensive shit hole. I have earned the right NOT to live in a place that is slowly killing me. I’m one helluva writer, a fantastic knitter, a marketing freakin’ powerhouse, and I deserve more than I have given myself. I want out of here. And I want out now. I want to grab my husband, my three cats, my books and my yarn and just get out of this depressing, moldy, $1000 a month nonsense. I can’t get sick again. I just can’t.
I don’t think I’d make it this time.
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