Waking to the Nightmare

Have you ever woke up with a gunshot wound though the center of your foot.

Not a .22, or a .38 even. I'm talking something large like a .45 caliber. Enough to nearly tear the foot clean off. Well, that's what it's like to wake up with the gout. What the fuck? I mean, I skipped my pills yesterday, but what's going on here. Is the gout is panting at the door? If I miss my meds for twenty four hours it pounces on me? What if this was tomorrow? How could I get to WECare for my appointment.

Fucking foot. I gingerly got out of bed and started popping COLCHICINE.

I'm wired. I couldn't sleep last night and here I am, standing, or should I say 'gimping' in front of my window, staring at a brick wall. Yep. Staring at the cracks in a brick wall. Then, to my right, on the windowsill is my little altar area, given to me by a friend to spruce up the joint. Give it a more 'lived in' appearance. It does. It looks less sterile, less bland. I have my pills on one side, and my altar on the other. Oh goodie!

I'm just now, resigning myself to spending another entire day in my room, connected to the Internet. Sounds like a jail sentence, but in fact, it's a sheer joy to me to get online. Like a fucking addiction, it charges me and drives me. It makes me feel alive.

OBSIDIAN is heading for Kairos Poetry Reading today, and had invited me, but I had to bow out, simply because of this foot. I sit down and compose an email to him stating that I can't make it. I will not be there. We have a big art show coming up soon to make and that sounds like it will be fun. That's if WECare gives me a break with all of their appointments. There was a time...I mean really...there was a time when I was homeless and living on the streets, and it wasn't much of an imposition to have somewhere to head to during the day other than burning it down on a park bench. Yes, I used to do some of that too. Sleeping on park benches during the day to make the day go by faster. So that I can get to the night, and sleep then to make the night go by faster.

But WECare's constant schedule intrusion was no big deal then. But now. Cheese and rice! No wonder people call it a pain in the ass. I remember sitting in the waiting room of the first battery of examinations and listening to other people in the waiting room, on their cell phones, it was very enlightening. They spoke as to how the WECare appointments were encroaching on their new jobs. They were there, with employment, trying still to hold onto their benefits, and WECare had them coming in and waiting around in their stupid waiting rooms for testing.

This is the only way they can keep their benefits. Probably medicines for their children. Therapy for themselves. Food on their tables, roof over their heads? Who the fuck knows. They were there for a reason, just like I was.

And then it dawns on me. I'm preparing to drop PA. But if I do that, I'll have to pay for my meds. Okay, I think I can swing that. But my therapy?? How would I be able to swing that?? That is expensive. And without therapy, you cannot get your head meds. No therapy, no head meds. Holy shit! I didn't event think of that before. Hmmmm, can I get back to doing without my head meds? I mean, it's not being able to purchase them. That's not the problem. You cannot get them unless a licensed physician writes you out a prescription for them. And they cannot give you a refill either. They give you only one prescription. You have to go back to them for more. If I can't go back to them...I'm out in the cold.

FUCK!

Then there is no option. There is no dropping PA. Not now. Not until I can find a way to have my head meds dispensed to me. This is a crucial thing. How am I to beat this one is beyond me. When they put you on Social Services, they know exactly what they are doing. More and more dependent services are afforded to you so that you grow in dependency to them. You'll never get off of this sick treadmill. I'm fucking pissed.

Sitting alone in my room, blogging now, I'm growing des- pondent. There is no need to keep a stiff upper lip all the time. Sometimes even us hobos feel down. My therapist once told me that the greatest ailment to visit the homeless is depression. Stark, cold depression. If you've never felt it, you don't fucking want to. It's like a screaming black hole. It's not the quiet settling of the spirit to some point that's dark and comfortable, and then a hole that you fall into and continue to fall.

NO! It's a screaming hole, like the gullet of some dark animal that screams for you as you plummet to the rocks on the shore below. Your body bursts on the crashing surf, and the raging waters wash you way. AND THEN IT REPEATS ITSELF. Endlessly. Constant dying. Constant screaming until you feel as if you are going to go out of your mind. You want to jump to your feet and start pulling hairs out of your head and scream out. You want to flip out.

Either that, or you take the other route. Fall into your own head, screaming that way. Those are the guys that find broken glass fragments and pare open their wrists.

And that's why homeless people are quickly placed on WELBUTRIN by the state. Quickly. Because homeless life sucks. How would you like to live in a city where the homeless wig out and start pushing people into oncoming traffic or trains? Running about wielding knives or like some goddamn fool some years ago, a power saw at commuters. Wouldn't be too nice of a city then...now would it? Drug these bastids as quick as you can. That's what they do.

Now...the question is...is my life so happy now that I can do without WELBUTRIN? Just a sobering thought. This is not even going into my other three favorites: ABILIFY, LAMICTAL and LYRICA. Yes. I am on all of them.

And soon, none of them. Cold Turkey.

Maybe I'm letting the situation dictate the outcome. Maybe I'm jumping to some stupid ass jack rabbit conclusions and I need to calm down.

I'm in this little room. I'm starting to get stir crazy.
Tomorrow I'll have a full day out on the streets. More than I would care to have.
First stop....WECare.

I smirk.

Hobobob