The Enemy Within

BK got his apartment today.

He's out of here tomorrow. The guy was here in the shelter for just under two months and he's on his way. Dante was shown his apartment today too. Both of these gentlemen were just awarded Social Security. Now they're off to their own domicile. They are ecstatic.

I'm going on a year. And because of my relapse, I can tack three months on top of it. Meaning that I'm going to be here for a solid year. Nice huh? Just what the doctor ordered. And you wonder why I'm so disillusioned with this place. They're liars here, every last one of them. They've got their reasons for holding some and releasing others. It's all economics. How can some people relapse after relapse, and others are AWOL after AWOL, but I fuck up and it's a contract out on me. Now I have two. One more AWOL and one more late arrival, and I'm history.

Nice right. It's enough to make me depressed. And now that I'm MI/CA getting an apartment is even harder without a psychosocial evaluation. I wonder if this shit will follow me for the rest of my life? I'm indeed getting too old for this shit.

But I say that with a smile, because I'm lifting the phrase right from Lethal Weapon, the movie. I can still see the fucking humor in my predicament. Which is good. I think things would get crucial if they told me the I couldn't blog. But instead I have the Internet right at my bedside. That shit is incredible. Yeah, I'll jump through hoops just for that. Not to mention my printer, full color, HP, print/scan/copy. What homeless fucker do you know has all that? I'm not ready to give all of this up so easy. Even if it means an eventual apartment in Brooklyn.

And maybe, just maybe, I wonder, did I do this intentionally? Did I fuck up because I WANT to be here in this shelter. I've had my reservations about moving into Brooklyn, or uptown into Harlem. I like it here where I am. And my actions draw me precariously to the precipice of discharge, but do you notice, not over? Is there something in me that wants to be the bad boy, so that the higher ups don't feel sorry for me? Incite them to punish me, so as to keep placing restrictions on my actions? Restrictions though that keep me here? At least for another ninety days? And my delay in getting my psychosocial evaluation. What is that about if I want to leave so badly?

I'm snug as a bug in a rug here. The ap- proaching winter cannot touch me. I have coats and shoes and boots and scarves for when I do go outside. I'm not going to freeze this year, and neither do I have to be concerned with the police rousting me. I'm somewhat content here. What can I say? I hate it here, but I'm happy here. It's like watching your mean assed mother-in-law drive over a cliff in your brand new Cadillac. Mixed emotions, know what I mean?

I wake up in the morning to find BK out of his bed, his sheets wrinkled, his clothes stuffed into four, large garbage bags. He is probably around voicing his goodbyes. I get up and get dressed and do my calisthenics before heading out. To Starbucks, where I read mail and blog. I need to get out of the Box and get some fresh air before my meeting with Adam. When it comes time, I go to Morning Meeting and waste valuable minutes of my life and shortly thereafter meet up with Adam.

It went better than expected. I thought that there would be a long and lengthy discussion about how I will need to go to a program suited for relapse VICTIMS, as if I was someone chanced upon by thuggery and left beaten in an alleyway. But no. I was put under what they call here: "Contract". Sounds like I'm slated for a hit, to be bumped off by some hitman. But no, I'm asked to sign a contract stating that I understand what is expected of me: coming into the Box before curfew, testing clean with random searches, and no AWOLs. The usual fare. I sign the contract because honestly, failure to do so means immediate dismissal.

I also sign release forms to IDC for my psychosocial evaluation. They seem to want to move me along now. I'll be a failure on their record if they are forced to dismiss me. Could this be the case? Shit, I don't know. I just know that they have to explain how someone who has been clean for a year suddenly gets caught on a Detox jag. Is it the environment? A hole in their detox screening? What could it be? Even these oafs have to report to someone. His name is Muzzy, if you think I'm just blowing smoke to hear my head on fire.

Muzzy is coming to Morning Meeting tomorrow, which will make it VERY important to be there. This should be interesting to see. When we can complain directly to the director. Sounds like bad news for someone.

I head out to the library, ready to start my day as normal as possible. No major changes for my schedule. I'm happy. My imagination was running rampant with retaliatory actions from the higher ups.

I blog this.

I didn't say goodbye to BK either.

Hobobob