Still here and still can’t sleep

I slept for a few hours yesterday morning at Stacy’s, came to work and closed my door for the day. I didn’t feel like facing people at morning coffee, and I had an instant soup so I didn’t have to go out for lunch. I had my head on the desk a lot. I suppose I got little bits of sleep that way. I thought earplugs might do the trick and let me sleep last night, but no, my mind is too tormented. Wish I had something positive to write about, but no, not from yesterday. Maybe today…

Still here

The judge caved and put me back on the street.  I had some soup and slept for a while.  Did my 365 photo.  Still feeling dazed.

Can’t sleep

Is it any surprise? My Flickr 365 photo turned out to be fantasy. Something that never happened last night. My 365 sequence, by the way, might provide a little continuity for this month that I haven’t been writing. You can see a few of the things I did, but really, it’s nothing like my writing. It’s been a fun exploration of learning my camera and trying to be creative, but the portrait it paints–like my photo from last night–is mostly a fantasy of a happy life. Undocumented went things like a night or two of heavy drinking, against cautions of my doctor, my mother, and common sense of course. Undocumented is me falling and breaking a couple of ribs. Me going a month without opening emails, postal mails, or listening to messages on my answering machine. Missing a dentist appointment, not returning calls to various doctors, not making various appointments. Not returning calls or emails to anyone. Not showing my face at work for days at a stretch. Not taking care of my teeth. Not taking care of my appearance.  Well, if you look closely at the photos, you might catch me wearing the same clothes for days in a row. How did this month go so badly? What will the crash feel like today?

Despair

I am in total despair. I have another court date tomorrow and I’m expecting to go to jail again, this time for several months. The realization of this hit me a week or so ago when I realized that once again, I hadn’t done my homework, and that a week wasn’t enough time to do it and…I just saw no hope. Why haven’t I done it? I don’t know.

I don’t know.

That is a real answer. It is not a non-answer. I am not being evasive. I am not refusing to answer. I mean those words. I don’t know. I really don’t.

Why haven’t I helped myself? I don’t know.

That’s not a shrug and an “I dunno,” That is my answer.

– I don’t know –

That is the literal truth. I don’t know. I can’t explain why I haven’t helped myself.

I’m not refusing to explain it.

– I don’t have an explanation –

I wish I did. Explaining my problems to Stacy recently, I ended tearfully by saying “you want to help me? help me answer that question.”

Jail will be a nice temporary relief from homelessness, but it won’t help me. I was there already and obviously, it didn’t help me. It did nothing for me. I think it’s the wrong kind of institution for me.

I have missed writing. I stopped writing, I guess, because it was showing me how I needed to help myself, and I didn’t want to look. Why can’t I face this?