Tuesday, March 19th–I continued to putter and accomplish little. I copied down a check-list that pertained to the SSDI application. Still, I need to read over that site extensively.
I retired in early afternoon, after reading in Wharton and Nichols.
I had at least two dreams.
One was set in Europe, wasn’t it?…
In the other dream, I moved back to Kirkley Dorm, but I sneaked in. I was there illegally, before the semester started and the dorms had been opened. I was caught and actually arrested and taken to trial. I was sentenced to spend a month in the very room I’d been living in, albeit with a convict room-mate.
My friend and former R.A. D___ came by, I think with another person, and we talked in the hall. He, like several other people, had known about the “crime” I perpetrated, before it happened and while it was happening, and really had no problem with it. He may’ve even helped me a little with it, the same way he let me stay “illegally” in his various dorm suites when he was a Hall Director in 1986, 1988, and 1989.
I’m sure this dream pertains to […]’s crazy plan to move me out of my apartment to a halfway house, homeless shelter, or shit-hole ghetto apartment complex.
I got up at 10pm, thanks to Belle. I probably could’ve slept even later otherwise.
Wednesday, March 20th–I spent a good deal of time sorting through my important paperwork, in preparation for using it when I apply for SSDI.
I retired exhausted around 6pm.
Thursday, March 21st–I woke around 3:40am, walked and fed Belle, took a shower, and got ready….
I finally embarked upon a long-postponed set of errands.
I made a photocopy and mailed off three letters at the UPS Store, then went to my bank, where I was given the run-around while I attempted to deal with a $20 check…
Every month the bank charges me about $10 in a service fee, because I don’t maintain a minimum balance. So half of the $20 [I get monthly] for pocket money goes to cover that fee….
My checking account was overdrawn to the tune of $7.77 because of this goddamn fee, and my intention was to put $8.00 into my checking account, and get $12 in cash. but the cashier picked this time to try to sell me on some new kind of account that wouldn’t involved a monthly fee. She dragged in her supervisor, who explained that I could get an account with no fees, provided I used my bank debit card twenty times a month. I had to explain to him, as I had just explained to her, that I’m unemployed, have no income whatsoever, and have to get money from my family. So I wouldn’t be using my debit card much at all. It was very humiliating to have to explain all that.
Then, as the cashier tried to process my tiny check, she had trouble because of the overdraft, so she had to go get her manager to waddle his fat ass up to the counter, and type in an over-ride so I could get my twelve fucking measly dollars.
I got to HEB and my anxiety level grew much, much worse. I managed to keep within my shopping budget and still have $20 left for the month on my Food Stamps card, but I did buy enough groceries that they were a pain in the ass to carry home. The weight was killing my back, and the bags hanging off my shoulders kept pushing the waistband of my sweatpants down.
I crossed Jollyville Road, and saw a number of people, including a tall black man who was walking directly towards me, albeit backwards. I was making little progress, stumbling and hobbling along under all my bags, and I was sure the guy was going to either run into me or at least get in the way.
He looked over his shoulder to see where he was going, and then I became fairly sure that he was the same crazy fucker who’d assaulted me back in August just a few blocks away. But when he saw me, he made a 90-degree turn and headed in another direction, still walking backwards.
I got home, and Belle kept up her shrill, painful barking for some time, both before and after a walk. Running errands had made me hot and sweaty, so I took another shower. Afterwards, it was cool enough out that I opened up the patio doors, and Belle went back and forth, lounging indoors and out.
I had some phone and IM conversations with J____ D. He was horrified to learn [I get only] $20 a month pocket money, and made me a gift of the contents of his Paypal account: $50.26, which will solve my money woes for some time. And he sent me an article to edit. I watched the fifth episode of “Just Like Me,” edited most of the essay before my eyes gave out, then farted around online….I retired at 10:10pm, not having gotten any reading done.
Friday, March 22nd–Belle woke me around 5:30am, but I managed to loll around, without entirely getting back to sleep, until 5:55am.
I walked and fed Belle, she got noisy and agitated, then, before it had even turned 8am, that ignorant white trash guy from downstairs sat in his car directly in front of my apartment, blaring loud, shitty music on his car stereo. I finally peeked through the blinds and he turned it down. Stupid fucker.
I had to wait around for the stores to open. I went to Petsmart for dog food and two kinds of treats for Belle. Though they hadn’t turned on their loud, blaring music yet, I was still a bit stressed to be there. After that I went to the dollar store, and returned home, stressed-out and heavy-laden.
I finished editing an essay for J___ D., sent it to him, got paid $23, finished [an] e-mail…, and was pretty much done for the day around noon or a little afterwards. I puttered and read, and went back to bed around 2 or 3pm. I had another one of those instances where I went into a dream state while still very much awake. In this case, I heard British pop dance music, dating probably from the mid-1990s to maybe some time in the present. I even made out a lyric, but when I tried to consciously repeat it to myself, it came out as nonsense. (I later learned that this pre-sleep dreaming is called a “hypnagogic hallucination.”)
I got up around 9pm, and puttered some more.
Saturday, March 23rd–Friday flowed into Saturday.
I tried to read, but got tired and distracted….
I went to bed, read a little in Nichols, and retired at noon.
I woke at around 7pm, walked and fed Belle, ate, and checked my computer. Not surprisingly, […] hadn’t bothered to respond to my message, which of course got me upset and depressed.
I became aware of a pain in my perineum, as if a pimple or boil is building up there. An examination in the shower didn’t really help.
Sunday, March 24th–I’d had coffee not long before bed, and as a result, I kept waking up during the night, needing to piss. I think I had about five dreams, but I only remember the first two….
The second dream seemed to take place in a city with a tropical look, possibly Havana, New Orleans, or maybe even Galveston. I was living in an old Spanish Colonial style apartment of two rooms, which were side-by-side, with big French windows and louvered shutters, and a shady balcony going around three sides of the apartment. The apartment was on the second, third, or maybe even the fourth floor of an old building, at the head of where two streets formed a “T.”
I was a writer, I think, and was hiding out, possibly from my friends T___ and R___. There was a demonstration out in the streets, and someone was loudly giving a funeral oration….
I puttered and read in Nichols….
Monday, March 25th–Belle woke me around 11:30am or so. As we lolled around in the bed, I started fingering a cyst on her chest, maybe as long as the pad of my thumb and two-thirds the width, and much more firm. I squeezed it, and then liquid and a white, cheesy substance came out. I squeezed some more, then used a Q-Tip to dab some rubbing alcohol over the opening to prevent infection….
What I learned for the first time, though, was that when I was about four or five, our housekeeper Mrs. Zubic reported that I had been obsessively changing my underwear over and over again. And prior to my seizures (my mother says there were only two), I wet my pants and the bed. These seizures I knew fad preceded the occasions when I was supposed to visit Jimmy [my biological father] after he and my mother had been separated.
But it was shocking to me to be getting new details on this case almost fifty years after the fact. And since I’ve heard that frequent urination, incontinence, and general obsession with the genitals is often a strong sign of sexual abuse, this seems to me even more proof that something indeed happened to me.