Dead Beat and Shattered

This morning, without a provocative incident to pin the blame on, my depression increased tenfold. I’m just tired. Two years of homelessness, bouncing between a return to the dreary trappings of the Golden Eagle Hotel in North Beach where I did nothing better than haunt a bar stool all day long, then back to the horrid Budget Suites in the Las Vegas suburbs, followed by a string of cheap motels and cheap food, has, I think, finally caught up with me and gobsmacked me. Hard.

The last straw was losing all of my possessions earlier this year at the hands of TC’s cruel and vindictive daughter and grandson, leaving the boxes and boxes of my material goods to rot in the open-air for over one year. That enervated me in incalculable ways.

I’m bushwhacked by 13 years of fighting fruitlessly against illness and pain. The last few months — especially after coming off a five-year dependence on oxycodone beginning in September — my pain has doubled, if not tripled. I walked one way to the store this morning and it was one of the most painful journeys I’ve ever made. My days of long walks are over; the bone spur that recently appeared in my left foot is evidence of that, and the fact that my feet are frequently so swollen from arthritis that I can barely pull on my cheap Salvation Army-bought shoes. I need new shoes. I cannot afford them. I cannot afford anything.

I’m dead beat and shattered. I cannot write. I do not know how to go forward any longer. These are tough times for the poor and marginalized in this country — nay, this planet — and you can count me in as one who is finally just too exhausted to fight back any longer.


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2 responses to “Dead Beat and Shattered”

  1. joseph says :

    If you are, you are. Also be aware that this dwindling-daylight nonsense will very soon run its course.

    A few years ago, 2009, I took a train trip and was on the road for a week. On the trip I also spent two nights in a terrible bunk. Five days into it, I was shocked to discover how hard doing that was on my body. It took a long time to recover, I think. And I don’t even mean mere months.

    The problem was, I was just generally depleted through the whole summer, and then nearing the end of summer we had the Station Fire. The smoke from fires are my Achilleus’ heel, as I was an asthmatic as a child.

    I think I had a heart attack on Glendale Boulevard one of the days in the middle of the fire. I didn’t go to a doctor but I was obliged to convalesce, all winter.

    Then I had back to back fall/winters with the flu. I think I told you that this year was the first time I got a flu shot in 25 years. I wasn’t going through that nonsense again if I could help it.

    If you are shutting down emotionally and physically, certainly your body is telling you to do that. All I really want to talk about is about writing, though, because it’s up to you to manage everything else. But I do know that sometimes just to punch out a sentence with one finger makes for a more satisfying day. That’s all I want to say, really.

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