Support Of The Non-Existence Kind

Spent an hour juicing internet from my phone.

*Breathes; Does Thai Chi, smacks politician in the face, screams “Just Do It!!!!” at some golfers on a golf course, and finally falls to knees thankful the wifi gods have graced me once more*

Anyway, I had some plans to do some cool portrait photos outside with my friend but woke up at nine fifteen this morning to the sound of nuclear warheads battling it out with the Greek gods in the sky.

Turns out it was just thunder.

Lightening flashed, Thunder hit a split second later and the power surged. After the thunder paused, the power came back on. I think the street lines got scared.

It stormed for a few hours, thunder shook the entire apartment complex, all the pipes are backed up, it rained, it hailed briefly and now it’s sunny. All within the course of about five hours. Who knows what the fuck goes on in this town.

I also learned I have to pay back all the financial aid I received this semester on account of my mental breakdown and that really bummed me out. I’ve already spent some of it. It’s funny that when I vent and express my bummed-outness to people, the response I get is either

*crickets chirping*


“Well, I don’t know what you want me to say”.

At least I never get “Well that sucks” or “I told you so”. Those answers would just make me fly off the handle.

I’ve always had financial support. Yes, I’ve been on the street but we had money to eat and eventually hop around from hotel to hotel to basement to tent to random ass room in a house (oh man, do I have some stories from that place; I’ll probably tell one now), so I’ve never had to be on the side of the road in a sleeping bag begging for food. We were lucky we had so many connections in town. A lot of people aren’t that lucky. So I’m grateful for that and I’m not trying to seem ungratefulĀ but . . . emotional support? It’s non-existent.

I’m always amazed at people who can speak to their parents or family or siblings about their suicidal thoughts and such. In fact, I’ve always been amazed at people who can speak freely at all to their parents, family, or siblings, whether it’s about mental health or not. I’ve always been constricted to talking to outside events with them. If not, I either get the silent, stressed-out treatment from my mother or the defensive stance from my father. I’m always the shoulder to cry on for the people I’ve been friends with in the pass, and I absolutely enjoyed being their for them, but I never realized how often I’m alone to deal with my own issues.

It’s not easy.

*Yes nature, cue the darkening of my room. Thank you for the added atmosphere.*

I think a cloud blocked the sun.

Anyway, I’m not asking for people to give me sympathy or let me curl on their lap while they pet my head and feed me ice cream. I’d just like someone to, for once, say “It’ll be okay” or “you’ll get past this” or, in response to my financial situation say “money is money, you can give it back to them, you’re not a loser, you’re just having a rough patch everyone has rough patches, you’re not a failure”. Something along those lines. I can tell myself that all I want but when I heard it from a third party, in person especially, it’s so wonderful. If anything, it boosts the confidence of my positive side. I’m always searching for reassurance for my decisions, another issues of mine, so when I receive it I feel a little more stable. Right now I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing with my life anymore. I don’t want to go talk to a counselor at my college, I don’t want to deal with financial aid, I don’t want to be put on academic probation–I’ve never beenĀ that student.

In the rational part of my mind, which also happens to be the back, black abyss part that is rarely ever exercised, knows it’s not the end of the world or the end of my college career, but the irrational part of me, the one in front playing puppet master convinces me it is. Just like it convinced me I was hacking up blood yesterday and was going to die of a pulmonary embolism. In reality I had just eaten salsa and had to cough and it happened to be stained a little red. Tends to happen when you eat something red, you know?

Anyway, stayed up until 6 am believing if I closed my eyes I’d die in my sleep, so I got three hours of sleep also.

If you’ve ever experienced that type of medical health issue, I’m sorry if I sound ridiculous right now, I know how serious it is; I’m not trying to be offensive, this is just how my brain acts.

Now, I promised a bit of a story, right?

My family knew a lot of people from the apartment complex we lived in before the one we currently live in–we’d been there for about five years. One of the women (she had twin daughters) moved out before us so when we needed a place to stay, she offered us a room in the back of her house.

This is the house where my dog phobia was forcefully cured.

She fostered dogs regularly, as I’ve said before.

Anyway, our room considered of . . . a fucking room. And a bathroom. My mother and I slept on four mattresses piled on the floor and my father slept on the floor in front of the television.

This is not the house where my spider phobia was cured, however, because my spider phobia is fucking incurable. Those things are demons. This room had so many daddy-long-legs they were probably crawling in my mouth and laying eggs in my esophagus, laughing at my insolence. They enjoyed descending from the ceiling atop my face in the shower, so often I took one with my face at the ceiling. Or I took one half out of the shower and half in the shower. Honestly, I was just glad to have a shower; the last place we had been at I had to take bathes in the bathroom sink because the bathroom was only a toilet.

Anyway, things were cool until shit hit the fan. Things are usually cool until that point, right?

This woman drunk so many bottles of jack and took so many pills I don’t know how her body . . . she was like a cockroach. She’d survive the apocalypse with some painkillers and some jack and not even notice the earth imploding in on itself.

A functioning addict, if I ever saw one. She kept her job, paid her bills, maintained her house (sort of; her daughters did most of the work) and spent the weekends slamming her head into the wall threatening suicide. The paramedics came every week and eventually learned our names too. Them and my father were pretty good friends.

Her twin daughters were adults at this point, I believe . . . maybe 17, whatever, I don’t know. They had a lot of friends over. One was a lesbian and the other was not and their room was chalk full of kinky shit like whips and paddles and handcuffs and when all their friends came over I’m pretty sure they had a nice little orgy up there like no one’s business. Except, they were loud. The moans were loud. It was very obvious. So I’m not pretty sure, I’m absolutely sure.

Sex was explained to me (very appropriately and informatively) when I was eight years old and again when I was ten. By twelve, I knew what it was and I could pretty much guess when it was happening.

That knowledge when I was young helped me make better decisions when I was older. When kids came to me with bullshit rumors about getting pregnant by swallowing I dispelled that shit so quick their eyebrows singed and their eyes rolled back in their head. I was the go-to kid if you wanted to know about sex. Sounds wrong.

Anyway, for some reason the people in this house really loved to smile in our face and hatchet us in the back. The family suddenly stopped speaking with us or smiling with us or saying thank you for taking care of their suicidal mother and instead posted a sign on our door (printer paper, blue scotch tape, and black sharpie pen) stating “WE DON’T WANT YOU HERE”.

Then they slashed three tires on our 1972 Ford Ranchero; our only mode of transportation at the time. We couldn’t afford to fix it, so it got taken to the junk yard. It wasn’t junk.

I loved that car. I still love that car. Fuck them.

If you don’t have the balls to come and talk to someone in their face, than you’re a coward. The house has been demolished; the lot is empty. That’s karma.

Honesty is the best policy. Especially when brutal.