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I could have used some atta girls today. I know y'all don't know me and it's a xmas weekend and all.
I've been really scared I wouldn't be able to find something to live in or some place to live. I was planning my suicide: gathering the supplies, writing notes about my stuff & animals, 3 days before the trailer came through. I was planning it for the DAY it happened.
I was robbed, stranded, my ducks, geese and chickens were shot by my old landlord. One of my dogs came here with a bullet in her shoulder. That was the nightmare last year.
So, with the lease here running out, no local connections, impossibly high rental rates, no vehicle, no friends, no family . . . . I was ready to give up.
I am working a lot harder than my body can actually handle. When I stop for the day, I can't walk hardly at all and have come close to soiling myself because it's so hard to get to the bathroom. I'm not eating enough because it's so hard to wash dishes, to cook, etc. without running water.
I spent Thanksgiving and Christmas alone, watching people talk about their plans on Facebook, knowing I couldn't even volunteer at a soup kitchen or a convalescent hospital because I have no car and it's just too damn cold to hitch hike, although I did it last year, and because I need to conserve my strength for the trailer.
I'm trying so hard to be strong, to stay focused on hoping for a future, even though, having had my heart broken by false hopes so badly in the past, I'm afraid to hope for much more than maybe, some day, being able to take a hot shower in my own space.
I think I have the kind of emphysema that has gone on too long to be reversible, so I expect I don't have much time left: probably less than five years. Imagine working on that trailer, with coughing fits so bad I throw up or soil myself, and still working because, frankly, it's too hard to wash up, so I might as well finish working and then go through the hassle of cleaning myself.
I am desperately trying to live out what's left of my life some place safe and peaceful. Maybe I can do that with my friend's grandparents, on the reservation.
I could have used some atta girls today. I know y'all don't know me and it's a xmas weekend and all.
I've been really scared I wouldn't be able to find something to live in or some place to live. I was planning my suicide: gathering the supplies, writing notes about my stuff & animals, 3 days before the trailer came through. I was planning it for the DAY it happened.
I was robbed, stranded, my ducks, geese and chickens were shot by my old landlord. One of my dogs came here with a bullet in her shoulder. That was the nightmare last year.
So, with the lease here running out, no local connections, impossibly high rental rates, no vehicle, no friends, no family . . . . I was ready to give up.
I am working a lot harder than my body can actually handle. When I stop for the day, I can't walk hardly at all and have come close to soiling myself because it's so hard to get to the bathroom. I'm not eating enough because it's so hard to wash dishes, to cook, etc. without running water.
I spent Thanksgiving and Christmas alone, watching people talk about their plans on Facebook, knowing I couldn't even volunteer at a soup kitchen or a convalescent hospital because I have no car and it's just too damn cold to hitch hike, although I did it last year, and because I need to conserve my strength for the trailer.
I'm trying so hard to be strong, to stay focused on hoping for a future, even though, having had my heart broken by false hopes so badly in the past, I'm afraid to hope for much more than maybe, some day, being able to take a hot shower in my own space.
I think I have the kind of emphysema that has gone on too long to be reversible, so I expect I don't have much time left: probably less than five years. Imagine working on that trailer, with coughing fits so bad I throw up or soil myself, and still working because, frankly, it's too hard to wash up, so I might as well finish working and then go through the hassle of cleaning myself.
I am desperately trying to live out what's left of my life some place safe and peaceful. Maybe I can do that with my friend's grandparents, on the reservation.
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