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.