17 October 2023

Yesterday Carrie messaged me to let me know Dad had been released home. No word on whether he’s considering going to the veterans’ retirement home but really, he should. Even if I were there, if we had another emergency like he had in Carrie’s SUV, it would take a while for the ambulance to get there. He isn’t safe. I can’t tell him that, of course, because he’s a jackass. Has always been, will always be, alleluia, amen. I can’t do anything about it. So he’s there in that little trailer and who knows what the fuck’s going to happen next.

This season of my life seems to be all about learning to let go of things I can’t change. I don’t know if this is normal for middle-aged people, but it’s a bit annoying. But also, I don’t have the “juice” I had thirty years ago and cannot be arsed working up a rage about it. I think I used all that up navigating the situation when Matt went loony on me two years ago*. Or most of it; I’ve had rage episodes since but they’ve been much weaker and shorter, thank fuck. That isn’t any more fun for me than it is for the people who have to hear it. I would just as soon have never experienced it at all. And I hate that my daughter remembers me like that. But it seems to be spent, too. Hopefully it never comes back.

I’ve been having a bad time with the delivery stuff the past few days when I’ve bothered at all, so now I’m in a mode of not wanting to go out and try. I don’t like this about myself, but Tuesdays are not busy anyway. I’ll try tomorrow. Hopefully I will be able to start early. My brain got all screwed up after yesterday and not having had adequate sleep Sunday night.

I went in to that temp agency yesterday and did all the onboarding stuff. We’re waiting on my background check now, supposedly. Usually they’re pretty quick in my experience but if they have a lot of people to process, who knows how long it’ll take. I didn’t ask. I probably should have. There are three shifts available: weekday days, weekday evenings, and weekend evenings. I was hoping for 40 hours a week and it wouldn’t hurt my feelings at all to have three days off (I would — these are ten-hour shifts), but if they give me weekends I won’t be totally sorry. Starting in a distribution center is a huge adjustment. My feet will be killing me for probably the first couple weeks. I could still deliver during the week, too. We’ll see.

It was weird being in that area of town again, too. It was familiar, because I used to go there all the time for pickups and deliveries when I lived in Whitehall, but it also kind of messed with my head how I started out being in southeast Columbus, and then I wound up in far north Columbus and in Delaware, and then I was in Marysville, and then I wound up in Dublin. All in less than a year. It’s been surreal. If I told most people I’ve known in this town the name of the road I am living on right now, they wouldn’t believe me. It’s special circumstances, but I barely believe it myself. This’ll never happen again. I should make sure to get photos before I leave.

I finally heard back from Molly, my Salvation Army veteran-rehousing caseworker, yesterday. Took her five fucking days to answer me and this is the first I’ve heard from her since July. Yes, I’ve been discharged from the program. No one told me it would happen nor under what circumstances. I remember signing a document saying I could be exited for not participating, but no one told me what participation meant, either. It’s POSSIBLE Elizabeth told her I’d quit my job, but she didn’t say and I won’t ask (and I think it rather unlikely, considering getting Elizabeth to sign documents in the beginning was like pulling teeth and now we’re going through the same song and dance with the electric bill). I will say Molly’s a fucking ditz and I don’t know who’s running that office — well, okay, I sort of do, I met her — but I say it’s mismanaged top to bottom. Shit communication. Shit followup. The only reason I even have this apartment was I set up an ad on craigslist. It’s a whole long story I won’t get into here, but it wasn’t a fun experience and I hope I never have to ask for that sort of “help” again. So I’m not going to go complaining to her boss, because what would be the point. It isn’t going to actually change anything.

You’re going “but it was a rehousing program and you’re housed now.” That wasn’t the only element. They’re supposed to be there to help for a little while afterwards in case you are at risk of losing your housing again. Like, if I were still in, I could explain the job situation to her and see if I could get a little help with the last month’s rent. That door’s closed now. I am not going to try to reopen it. I’m in the wrong county now, anyway.

And another thing. I cannot be the only sometime-homeless person who has noticed that when people label you Homeless, they treat you like some weird kind of zoo animal. This turns up in all sorts of interactions. I don’t mind talking about my experience and I wouldn’t mind telling people in my face-to-face life that I’ve been through it but I don’t trust them to be rational and just treat me like an adult human being who went through an unfortunate experience. I don’t think most of them know how. So it isn’t shame, because this shit could happen to anyone and certainly isn’t a mark of merit or the lack thereof. It’s not wanting to deal with the prejudicial bullshit. I only have so many psychological spoons and I can’t spare them for nonsense anymore.

The remarks I see on social media about homeless people, alone. I’ve had to pull up some people on my Facebook friends list like, “ahem, I never acted like that, thank you.” The absolute fucking cheek.

I’ve been making jewelry. I need to then take the next step and list it on Etsy, and I need to figure out shipping in the unlikely event any of it sells, and I’m about to run out of elastic for stretch bracelets, but I’ve gotten off to a decent start. I am trying to do more using up what I already have than adding in more beads. I was going to just sell the beads as supplies, but if I can get more for finished items, that would make more sense from a fiscal point of view. Also, I just need to do things with my hands again. I spend too much time on here ruminating and it’s not good for me.

Though it’s a catch-22 because I also write, shitty as it is, and I need to organize my photos, which have been 99% digital since 2004, and I need to organize other things so that when I need certain information or certain files I can actually find them. Could stand to empty out most of my Gmail, too. It’s gotten ridiculous. But I maybe need to schedule all this shit so I don’t get sucked into time-wasters. I dunno.

Would you believe I have a flat-screen TV in this apartment and I’ve never once turned it on? Jesus, I could be Making Things and also binging Game of Thrones again. I’m so fucking lame. Oh well.

It’s not my television. Or I don’t think it is. It was left here, and I got sort of an idea Elizabeth was willing to just give it to me but… nah. I’m not going to be taking anything out of here that I didn’t bring in here except possibly the Brita pitcher. I’m still debating that one. If I go into Goodwill soon and find one, I’ll leave this one here. I can’t see paying full price for one right now. Of course, it’ll all depend on whether I have a place to move into. I am entirely prepared to go the extended-stay route again if I have to. As long as when I leave here it is to go somewhere with a fridge, fine, I’ll get the pitcher. If it’s back into the car, that’ll be different.

I’m half tempted to call Dad just to see if he invites me back home. If I trusted my car to make the trip again, I’d be leaning more in that direction. But, here we are. Oh well.

*He didn’t really, in my opinion. There were signs all along that he wasn’t where he wanted to be but was making the best of the situation. The thing that fucked with my head was he continued telling me it was what he wanted and where he wanted to be. But it was all bullshit, as usual with him. Two years ago was him showing his true colors at last. It just was such a major change from what he told me was going on that it looked like he’d gone wacko.