Posted by Andersen Richards
January 11th, 2016
If you’re reading this and you’re already sick, I’m sorry. If you’re not sick, you soon will be. I’m sorry for that, too. For a long time, all I did was tell people it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t do any of this. I’m just somebody who… well, someone is not going to get sick.
But nobody cares if it’s my fault. People don’t blame me. They just want…
So why am I writing?
Right now I’m parked in a cul-de-sac where I will probably spend the night. I say “probably” because there’s always the possibility I’ll get rolled by the cops again. Or, worse. I’ve been sleeping here for weeks, mostly because it’s nice to have a bit of stability and the cul-de-sac is empty. It’s nice to feel safe when you’re six feet trying to pack yourself into a four-foot space. It makes waking up every fifteen minutes to re-position a little less stressful. My phone is plugged into the cigarette lighter and I’m piggybacking the wi-fi signal of nearby house, so I can slide my thumb across the cracked screen looking for whatever catharsis is supposed to bring.
Catharsis is nothing, by the way. It cures nothing, solves nothing. If what I just said was untrue, hospitals wouldn’t need opiates, they’d just let everyone cry it out.
Most nights I struggle to fall asleep. After last night…
I can’t go to class anymore. I’m not welcome at work anymore. My apartment is gone. My dad has enough to worry about without taking me in and my mom… well, I couldn’t stand to put my little sister at risk like that.
I spent the morning outside the work service building waiting for them to open. It was low forties, but I don’t really know what that means. I just know that somehow it was hailing in San Diego, so much that the sidewalks had little snowbanks made out of chewable ice pieces, like you’d find in a recovery room. Every breath felt like I had to pull it out from underneath a piano and rose in front of me, still smelling of blood. The officers kept asking me if I’d been fighting. I wasn’t sure what to say that wouldn’t get me arrested. Obviously they know my name but I don’t think they recognize it yet.
The same friend who told me I should try writing this blog told me it was good that I still went to my work service. She thinks this is all going to resolve itself somehow. I don’t believe her. I don’t believe it could ever go back. But I guess I still went to my work service hoping maybe someday people won’t be chasing me down. But after last night, how it felt when they were shoving me into the back of that car, there’s no going back for me.
You can’t forget what it feels like to have your humanity be less than a dollar sum.
Anyway, my friend picked me up after my first offender’s group tonight. I called crying. Please understand, I don’t do that. She picked me up and took me back to her studio. We listened to David Bowie until we both agreed I had to go. He died yesterday, did you know that? Someone told me while we were picking up trash on the side of the road. It was very lonely.
This friend and I used to listen to “As the World Falls Down” so much I can’t really think of it without her. So much has died now. So much is gone. And I’m sitting in this cul-de-sac typing a blog post because she said it might help, it might help to tell people how I’ve been feeling, what all this has done to me. She told me to write it all out because she doesn’t know what to say when I tell her all this and she doesn’t want to let me down.
And I’m doing it because I want to have something else to say to her. I want to be able to say “I tried” because as it stands now, there’s nothing else.
You won’t know what to say when I tell what’s happening to me. When I work up the courage to tell you who I am, you won’t know what to do. That’ll be okay. Just… let me finish before you try.