Melodramatic? Yeah. It is, but after I get a few “problems” off my chest, I think you’ll understand.
And I will be “graphic” and “putting my business out there” and I just don’t care anymore. I cry daily. Feeling human is something I miss. Being “private” is a luxury that I foolishly can’t enjoy. Just when I think things can’t get worse, they do. My life is an endless mudslide into an abyss.
Before I go to the boring doldrums, I just want to convey hopes and dreams I have. I want to write – multiple books regarding my stroke and recovery, homelessness, adoption, the wicked witch/psychotic bitch who was my adopted mother, the flawed man I hero-worshipped (and still do). And a few other things if I have time. Even some fiction! But I also want to do something for the homeless community, advocacy, give people hope – because there is NONE. Cots at shelters, so people don’t have to sleep on the floor. A PEMANEENT PLACE FOR THEM TO SLEEP IN THE TRI-VALLEY OF NORTHERN CALIFORNIA. This “system” frankly sucks! Those “not-in-my-backyard” jackasses need to SHUT-UP, quite whining about how grren their grass is, how the homeless are trouble makers and leave dirt and debris in their wake, and, God Forbid!, congregate!
Not ALL homeless people are drug addicts.
Not ALL homeless people are alcoholics.
Not ALL homeless people have mental illness, i.e, CRAZY.
Not ALL homeless people want to be lazy and do nothing.
Not ALL homeless people want to sleep outside.
Not ALL homeless people are dangerous
Not ALL homeless people HATE YOU.
Not ALL homeless people will accept that God will take care of them. He will not quench your thirst. He will not feed you. He will not put gas in your car or drive you to a church serving food. And if your feet are blistered and you cannot walk, he will not physically carry you to food and water. Quote all the scripture you want. Believe in those words. Give your life to Him. I did. And He has been there for me, so many times, but did He stay the hand of my adopted mother when she insisted Dad needed to stop a needed medication? No. He had a series of strokes and died. Did he stop her from throwing out my medication, as she was insisting that her family didn’t suffer from Diabetes or High Blood Pressure, so I didn’t either! And how does that work, Gunn, when you didn’t give birth to me? I have the caesarean scar! Yeah, from that girl you had in 1963 that you buried. God didn’t make crazy go away, keep her from beating me, screaming at me, accusing me so many lies, for soooo many years. He stopped none of it. Yet I still prayed. And I still do, but nothing will change. At least she died, but not before I started having mini-strokes. Hell, she almost succeeded in killing me. I never raised a hand to her. I yelled. I screamed. And how much I wanted to hit her for every time she hit me, slapped me, called me a whore, ransacked my room in an attempt to find proof that I was a whore. I just remembered what Dad said, “That’s just the way she is. There is nothing we can do.” There was Dad, you just never had the balls to do it.
Homeless are scary. They scare me, and I am one of them. But they are desperate and afraid and most know they are living on borrower time and don’t expect their lives to get any better.
They are without hope.
Being homeless will change you mentally. There are too many factors that our brains cannot find ways to “cope”, and this is my issue.
I can type as I once spoke, but speaking is HARD for me now. I was a public speaker. I enjoyed speaking before a crowd! Now I can barely talk to one person if no one else is around. I stutter. Words fail me, meaning I know what to say, but I physically can’t because I can’t remember how to form those words. I cannot modulate my voice. I can’t keep the emotion out. I am crying now just typing this. The lasting effect of my TBI. There are “therapies” that can be taught to me and I can work on them. Just as I can get my singing voice back. With time and effort. Maybe. If I get the right speech therapist.
Somehow, I don’t think I’m gonna get a good one. There us only one facility available for my insurance here in Alameda, and the last time I was there, it put my brain into major chaos. My cognitive “impairment” exploded , and I shut down. That “impairment”, the full impact of my TBI, is debilitating and there is no one to talk to about it, unless I go back to UCSF. I may have to, to get the help I need.
I am struggling, and I can’t fix it! I could always fix anything before, but now? I have my good days, and I have my dead days where I can do nothing. Just driving on auto pilot and praying I am not asked what to do or where to go. And I feel so guilty for not being better with Will, but a major portion of my brain is dead and it isn’t coming back. Neuroplasticity be damned! I’ll get some of my old self back, but not close to all of it. Always wanting to please and never doing that. There is much I want to do!
I especially want medical treatment for Will so he isn’t in pain or his cancer kills him. So Gary doesn’t win. Again. That brother of his should burn in hell, along with that skank of a wife. How can you abuse your mother, your daughter, your brother? How do you live with yourself? Your mother dies and you greedy bastard, you just want what is coming to you. Just like when your Dad was dying, use your uncle and have the will changed on his deathbed. Make sure Will is NOT the executor. When Mom has died, lie in court and steal Will’s executorship and have him evicted from the house you both grew up in and he has lived in TAKING CARE OF YOUR MOTHER FOR 10+ YEARS, his name is on the utilities, but file an illegal detainer – as if he was a renter – and have the sheriffs remove him and threaten to have Andy put in a Kill shelter, or have him thrown in the trash, you caustic, sick fuck. I know the skeletons in YOUR closet.
Hire attorneys to sue Gary, and they side with Gary, saying I am not helping Will. Will should take the pittance Gary is offering. Will should have the house, unencumbered with that fucking loan that is on it that is YOURS Gary. You never helped with ANY of the costs to keep your Mom safe and happy at the end of her life. No, you bitched when she bought an Accord. That was too expensive! Why couldn’t she buy something cheaper? She needed a good car when she was still working at Intel? She felt safe in it? Balderdash! She was wasting your inheritance! You and Colleen lived there for years, and you bitched that the house wasn’t updated. That the house fire was her or Will’s fault. As if a Major Appraiser would remove a fire door and replace it with a plain old interior door, Or that Dorothy would! Odd, how the fire inspector commented on that, and odd that it looked so much like the interior doors found in a house like yours? Who was always coming over to the house, using a key they weren’t supposed to have AS THEY DIDN’T LIVE THERE ANYMORE? How much did you and Colleen “borrow” over the years?
Will often wonders how is niece is. Gary alienated her from the family. She was as close as a daughter to him that he will ever have. He wonders if she took Victoria with her, and how sorry he is that he was so dense he didn’t realize what she meant back then. He was taking care of grandma, and that was a fulltime job! Keeping her from running down the street, sans clothes, was a challenge. He feels guilty that he wasn’t able to fulfill her final wishes. Often, in his sleep, he begs for her forgiveness. He thinks he failed her. And you. You have Grandma’s blood running in your veins, young lady! Good on you for taking your life in YOUR hands!
I’ve rattled on about THAT long enough. Back to what is at hand.
We both need medical attention. I need a social worker. I need someone to speak for me, and It isn’t going to be Will. He can’t, as often as he tries. The alcoholism is an issue, with memory and patience and “stuff”. My one income, the Socal Security, isn’t enough. There are “low-income” housing projects, and the minimum income requirement is more than my social security. And we are still waiting on Will’s final determination. They have turned him down for Social Security Disability. His $340 a month for General Assistance doesn’t count for much of anything. At least he has food stamps. I got a whooping $15 a month! Peanut and Butter Sandwiches will be all that I can afford. Perfect diet for a diabetic!
I can’t even get a glucose monitor because the prescription says testing 4 times a day, but I’m not on insulin, I’m on Trulicity, so that “perception” needs to indicate 1 per day. I had a fucking stroke BECAUSE I’m a diabetic, but Testing once pre day is hunky dory? Give me a fucking break!
Insurance company “rules” will kill people. We do have death panels to save THEIR money, not our lives. It isn’t Obamacare. It this colossal mess the Republicans have created in attempting to abolish healthcare for all.
I can’t even get a prescription for Depends, and I can’t see a specialist until December. I am homeless, but the company that supplies the Depends, or a portable commode, needs it in writing from the Doctor that I AM NOT RESIDING IN A DOMICILE. I have a PO Box. I live in a car. But the doctor needs to write that in a note, otherwise Medicare won’t cover it. In the meantime, I urinate on myself daily. I even defecated in my underwear this morning waiting for the bathroom to become available at Starbucks.
Throwing away a brand new pair of underwear is difficult for me. I haven’t shit in my pants since I was a child and had a stomach ailment. That was at KMart. I kept telling Mom I had to go to the bathroom, but she said to hold it until after they had paid and were leaving. My bowels made their own decision. Anyway, because the need was so great, I choose Starbucks instead of Safeway, because I figured I would probably soil myself driving over to Safeway. It didn’t matter.
To be 54 years old and defecate or urinate in my underwear is sick and sad and pathetic, and I can’t help wondering how bad I smell? Gunn was so particular about “smell” and “looks” and “being dirty”. She gave me a fucking complex, and that is what ran through my head this morning that I felt like an animal, not human, disgusting and loathsome. Just what she complained about all the time.
If we had a place to stay, a place to lay down with a bathroom and a kitchen, it would be so different. But we don’t, and it isn’t looking good for us anytime soon. Fill this out, jump through these hoops, and maybe you’ll be lucky enough to be on a waiting list or the lottery. No guarantee of how long or even if,but you have a chance to maybe, to possibly live there someday, like 9 years from now..
At least it isn’t a plot in a cemetery. That’s something. Those cost good money. If you’re homeless, you’ll be lucky to have an unmarked grave. At least the County will do that for you.
Lots of reasons to be depressed, and I can’t “talk” about it without breaking down. The TBI Effect.
We need help. We need other voices speaking for us. Some news coverage? Report this to a Bay Area Channel. I have tried to reach out via Twitter and Facebook, and often shocked how so many are able to raise huge sums through GoFundMe. I guess Will and I are too average. God has abandoned us, since he’s “gay” and I’m not Narrow. We can manage on our own. We have no children, and we have to be to blame for whatever happened to make us homeless.
Am I complaining too much? If you could walk in my shoes for just ONE DAY, you would understand and ask “how do you do it”? That’s just it, we can’t.
Thank you for reading, and this is the link to the GoFundMe, for what it’s worth. http://gofundme.com/f/life4wng20