Tuesday, March 12th–I woke about mid-day or thereabouts….
[There was a movement to have me put into “transitional housing”–either a halfway house, homeless shelter, or shit-hole apartment in some ghetto. To make a long story short, I vowed that if anyone tried to force me into this, I would kill myself.]
I walked Belle, then saw J___ D. had called, so I started to tell him what happened, and he interrupted in a continuous stream of talking until I had to yell at him and insist he let me talk. He said that if it came to look like I was about to kill myself, to let him see if he could fix the situation first.
Finally, I headed out and went over to the UPS Store, made a bunch of copies, and mailed [a] letter… and a negative evaluation of the telephone legal service I used last week. (They’d sent me the evaluation form, so I was honest about saying they didn’t help me.)
I took an express bus downtown. Traffic was awful due to SXSW. I checked out a stack of books on the Italian language, Turkey, and Asperger’s Syndrome. I was a bundle of stress the whole time I was doing all this. All day long my head resounded with me in an imaginary conversation with […], begging…, “Just stop threatening me!”
After I finished up at the library there was a mob at my bus stop.
I got up to my neighborhood, went grocery shopping, came home very stressed, but headed off Belle’s barking at the door by giving her a chew stick as soon as I walked in.
I sent Todd, the owner of Wally the Basset, a list of the options I’d found for him thus far for the care of Wally, and he thought that one was by far and away the best. So we’ll see what happens with that.
I got a letter saying the phone call to determine my Food Stamps eligibility will happen between 9:30am and 10am on Thursday, so I’ve got to rearrange my goddamn sleeping schedule to fit that.
I watched footage of the beginning of the Conclave at the Vatican.
I stayed stressed out and exhausted all night, but for some reason didn’t get to bed until about 1am.
Wednesday, March 13th–Between the stress from all that bullshit…yesterday, and the computer coming on in the wee hours of the night and brightly illuminating my bedroom, I got little sleep. I woke up much too early, puttered around a bit, then went back to bed, and finally got a decent amount of sleep.
I woke around 2:30pm. I had just missed the announcement of the election of Pope Francis I. I was not especially pleased to learn that he’s a modernist and is no friend of the Latin Mass.
…My Case Worker wrote, saying nothing that was especially memorable or helpful, though she did encourage me to hurry up and apply for SSDI and call my doctor back. I left more messages for my doctor, but to no avail. I forget how I spent the evening, but I was generally unhappy, and retired around 1am.
Thursday, March 14th–I dream that I woke up in an apartment–my apartment–though I’m not sure where it was located.
It was night, and oddly enough, I was barefooted. I walked across the mirror-like surface of the floor, noticing the two beds to the left, and a long bank of windows to the right.
At a 90-degree angle to my wing of the building was another wing, topped on my floor by a fancy, exclusive nightclub, the entrance to which was just a few feet beyond my front door. I looked out the windows through the thin, sheer curtains over to the club. Were the patrons all wearing a special, distinctive type of clothing? And what was that music that throbbed from its precincts? Should I shuffle over there in my pajamas and see what was happening?
Then the scene seemed to change. My large apartment was now lit up, and there were all sorts of people in there. My apartment had become a strange hybrid of public and private space ….[There was an attic which] was mostly filled with my belongings, including old clothes I could no longer wear….
I got up a little after 8am, but before my 8:30am alarm, walked Belle, ate, and was boiling water for coffee around 9:08am when the interviewer from Health and Human Services called. (She was supposed to call between 9:30 and 10am.) At first she had me down listed as “able-bodied,” and claimed a certain release form was blank, but I did some fast talking, explained the situation, and I believe, was approved for another six months of Food Stamps. Surely there must be some way to definitively establish my disability so I don’t have to jump through hoops like that again.
After that, I had some coffee, walked Belle again, and took a shower. Then I started getting bored. Some time after 2pm and before 3pm I went back to bed, sleeping for about six hours.
When I got up I had two messages: the second was from J__ and the first [I won’t got into]….
I IM-ed J___, but he was of little help.
Belle wanted a walk around the block, so I complied, but it got me so hot that after we got back I showered again.
I watched the fourth episode of “Please Like Me.”
I spent most of the evening upset and worked up over this shit….
I eventually went to bed and read for awhile in Beverley Nichols’s “The Gift of a Garden,” then started W. D. Howells’s “Italian Journeys.”
Friday, March 15th–…I had two messages on my machine when I got up (around 8pm or so). The gal from DARS…called to say I needed to come by their office to sign a release…, and some nurse from MAP returned my several calls to my doctor.
So, a handful of nothing. Does this mean I’m going to have to waste two or three hours Monday running over to the DARS office?….
I puttered around online and talked a bit with J___. I read more in Nichols and Howells.
Saturday, March 16th–I spent over an hour preparing a sweet potato recipe one of my Tumbler followers had suggested to me, but as is usually the case with my cooking, it came out tasting awful–just nasty and bitter. I had to eat all sorts of other things afterwards to get the taste out of my mouth.
I became engrossed in one of the Tumbler blogs I’m following, but which I’d not really looked much at before. I spent hours looking it over.
I’ve got a nasty feeling […] is investigating ways to get me institutionalized or will start doing so next week.
But from what I understand, that’s very difficult to do nowadays, since you can’t just dump an inconvenient [person] in the nuthouse anymore.
Sunday, March 17th–I woke about 11pm, walked and fed Belle, and ate.
Monday, March 18th–Sunday glided into Monday. I puttered online, losing track of time.
I got into a lengthy IM conversation this morning with M___, with whom I’d not talked in almost six months or so. I filled him in on DARS, the crazy shit with […], and the rather extreme nature of my poverty, which shocked him. He said I sounded like a hobo with a roof over my head.
While we were talking, I squeezed a blood blister that had been building up for months, and it oozed blood everywhere, especially all over my fingers and palms.
I tried to call that gal from DARS back…but her voice mail was full up. I called back the nurse from Central Health, but got her voice mail as well.
I went to bed in late morning, or probably early afternoon, and read a bit in Nichols before going to sleep. I got up around 9 or 10pm.