New Year's Eve, 2017-2018

            It is amazing how much can change in the span of a year, or even six months. This time last year, I thought the house I was in would be the house in which I would stay for at least two years, if not longer. By the time my birthday came around, I knew that would not be the case and I was not happy about it, but I remained hopeful and optimistic that everything would work out with the family I thought I was creating.    

            Now, 2018 looms on the morrow’s horizon and everything is different. Everything has changed.

            I entered 2017 as optimistically as I have entered the past few years—with hopes, telling myself that this would be my year. Nothing would stop me, nothing would come in my way, this would be my year to get my shit together, figure out my life, and move the fuck forward with real goals and real progress.

            When I made that resolution, I had no idea what it would take for it to come true. When they say, “Be careful what you wish for or you just might get it,” they are not kidding. I have come to the idea that when someone makes a wish—an earnest, true wish—it is released to the Universe and the Universe will grant that wish. The catch is that the wish will never be granted the way you imagine it to be. Never.

            As it turned out, 2017 was difficult, but ultimately I have met much of what I wanted to do. My blog has not remained as active as I had set out to make it, but given my limited audience, I’m not really hurt about that. I know that as I take my time getting all of my ducks in a row, blogging will fall into the pattern of routine. I have been journaling again, nearly every night, before bed. I write down my innermost thoughts and feelings, those intrusive things that come unbidden to my mind and would linger, festering, if not for the release of ink into paper.

            The year draws to a close and as the end, and a new beginning, draw nearer, I find myself reflecting on my own thoughts yet again. I did not imagine I would be in another apartment, nor did I think I would still be renting. I never dreamed that I would be alone with my beautiful daughter. I know a handful of people who have managed to purchase homes, moving forward with life in that typical way that our society deems normal and acceptable. People with whom I went to high school are getting married, having babies, and purchasing houses as if we still lived in the Golden Age of American Financing (also known as the years during which income taxes on the highest income bracket were over 90%). When I compare myself to them, I think I am somehow coming up short on my potential, that somehow I am not living in the timeline I was meant to and instead I am in many ways retarded—lacking in some crucial fashion that others are not.

“People with whom I went to high school are getting married, having babies, and purchasing houses as if we still lived in the Golden Age of American Financing.”

            As 2017 ends and 2018 begins, I find the futility in making such comparisons. It does not do to compare myself to my peers in this way, for my journey in life has been nothing like theirs. These people lived in nuclear households, having both parents and full siblings with whom they lived stable lives and learned how they belong in this world.

            While my peers had stability, love, support, and the sense of belonging no matter what, I had other issues to face. My parents were never together; they were never married and they never lived under the same roof. My mother had four children, each with a different father, and my own dad fathered his second child when I was 20 years old. My family is wrought with mental illnesses, including depression, anxiety, and dementia (in old age). Those who were my peers and suffered similarly became people I called friends, but even then, I felt as though I didn’t belong.

            Ultimately, realizing the differences between myself and my peers in terms of what has led each of us to this point in our lives helps me to realize that I cannot compare myself to them, nor can they do so to me. I have a two-bedroom, two-bathroom apartment at a lower monthly rental rate than any other apartment complex or house within 100 miles. I am located conveniently close to my school (I can ride my bicycle to class), with my daughter’s new preschool within walking distance of our new home. The mall is within walking distance of our new home, and my best friend lives a mere 5-minute drive away.

            So, I am in an apartment. I have less square footage to maintain than my peers with full-size houses of their own. I do not need to worry about paying for my own garbage disposal, water usage, or sewage service. I have no HOA fees to pay, nor property taxes. I may be a single mother now, but I have friends who come to see me and I have friends who invite me out to do things. My daughter is developing much better than she was, six months ago. Her speech has vastly improved, and it has become clearer even in the mere month during which we’ve lived in our new place.

Happy New Year!

Chaos: Moving Again in Less than A Year

It has been nine days since I last wrote and posted a blog entry. In these past nine days, enough has happened to fill a book, but not enough has happened to properly close any of the stories that have been upset.

            Becca left and we all breathed a sigh of relief. We were then forced to hold our breath again when the people from Pettit performed their interior inspection. We were not allowed time to relax after the inspection, as we were given three pieces of paper—all of which read “Comply or Vacate” at the top. “Too many people,” they said, and “too many pets.” They didn’t give us any further details, except that if we were to refuse to comply, our rent would be increased. So, we hit scramble mode one more time to figure out what to do and I left to spend time with Gizmo, the one and only person in Washington State who consistently and quickly clears my head when I need it.

            He helped me realize where the bullshit is and isn’t and he lit the fire within me to squash the bullshit out entirely. This is about my family, he made me realize, which means that no one else really needs to be in my house and if we can make it work with one or two under the radar, that may be okay, but that it is black and white on the lease and that is what really matters to these people. So, I went home and I put my foot down. We got things moving with a few agreements on who would leave the house, who would at the very least do everything in his power to find another place, and who would be okay to stay under the radar because they can essentially be stuck in the attic for inspections. We began to move towards righting everything for the follow-up interior inspection, which is scheduled to happen three days from now.

            Pettit, or at least the owner of the house we rent, has decided not to give us the chance to make things right again. They’ve decided that the unexpected recent activity is simply too much and rather than give us time to redeem ourselves, they want to seek a mutual severance of tenancy. The reasons they’ve listed are complete bullshit, we know it, but we aren’t interested in fighting because we have, technically, violated our lease. As such, however, I insist that we do not leave on anything less than our own terms.

            I’ve contacted the Housing Authority, who put me in contact with the Northwest Justice Project, who deals with landlord/tenant laws and ought to be able to help me with these issues. I want the house to be inspected this week and I want, on paper, how much the place is worth to rent, so that I can take it to Pettit and show them how we’ve been overpaying and therefore will not pay them another dime if they are forcing us to leave early.

            I want to negotiate a mutual severance that allows us two months of income so that we can move as comfortably as possible, especially considering we are going to Colorado Springs.

            Yeah. Colorado. We almost moved there, once, but had to come back because of debts. The debts are taken care of, now, and the only thing left is my court case, which will be settled no later than May 3^rd. Everything is in constant chaos in my house.

            It is time to start packing. Today is Tuesday and the follow-up inspection is Friday. We need to have everything in order by Thursday so that we can negotiate with Pettit as much as possible. I’m waiting for a call-back from the Justice Project. It’s all very stressful. But I finally feel as if I have my head roundly on my shoulders, quite soundly. I feel level-headed and prepared. I feel as if I can now move forward and get a real fresh start. I’ve never lived in Colorado, only visited. Colorado Springs has no one I know except perhaps a former co-worker or two. There is hope where there is sun and Colorado has much more sun than Washington.

            I know this is all very sudden for anyone close to me who reads this. It is for us, too. It’s all quite unexpected and fast. And it isn’t done, yet…

Efforts in Futility

Nothing hurts me more than disrespect from someone who has asked for my help and accepted my extended hand. Nothing disappoints me more than someone who has requested help yet refuses to help themselves.

            My hand extends to every person who deserves it. I do not always know who deserves it and who doesn’t, and so my default reaction to a request for help is to respond in as helpful a way as I know how. Sometimes, my response is to ignore the request either because I do not have the resources, or because my resources are limited and I must care for myself, my family, and my household first.

            My assistance is not free, but I do not charge money for the service I provide. I charge resources. Guests—extended guests, more specifically—and couch surfers are charged in the form of food and other items consumed. Usually, these people also pay us back monetarily, but this is not required except by those who board here.

            We have four boarders and one applicant to our lease and things in the house tend to run smoothly. Two of these boarders will be moving out in the very near future, but we refused to let them get into paying rent at another hotel because it is unsustainable in every sense of the word. These people are our friends. We do not invite strangers into our home. Ours is a family home, first and foremost and always. Even when Persephone is gone, this remains a family home, no matter what amazing acts of sexual exploration occur.

            Recently, we paid for one of my friends to fly from her location to our state. We picked her up at the Seattle-Tacoma International Airport baggage claim carousel. We brought her into our home, explaining in the car on the way that our primary expectation was for her to listen to us and do what we say as well as keep to her own word and do what she says she will. She agreed on all fronts. She met Stacie, our boarders, and our new swinging partners. She is a male-to-female transgendered individual with severe psychological issues, so, I promised to get her to the Department of State and Health Services and the Social Security Administration in order to get her started with food stamps and Medicaid. She failed to get her food card because she failed to tell the truth of her homelessness—after all, she was to board at my house and give back by cleaning. We were providing literally everything for her. So, she didn’t get her card, but she ravaged our food supplies and ate foods that had been planned for meals.

            There’s more. She disrespected every single person in my home. She disrespected the space of every person in my home and she disrespected my belongings and the belongings of every person in my home, whether staying or visiting. I told her to stop touching things that don’t belong to her. She continued to move things around that weren’t hers, such as my books and Pat’s bong, and she would take drinks that weren’t hers and drink them, such as Pat’s Rockstar and Marie’s can of coffee. She was absolutely insufferable and she did not understand the mere concept of personal space or boundaries. We told her multiple times to give us space and not to touch us, yet she continued to hover over people, stare at people uncomfortably, and invade their space by standing mere inches from them and touching or leaning on their shoulders.

            I went so far as to write a contract for her as a boarder in my home. I itemized basic respect and consideration, yet she spat on it. She basically said, without speaking, “Fuck you and everything you are trying to do for me.” After all, we took her to DSHS and the Social Security office. We took her to Goodwill and Value Village, because we do not have the incomes we had recently, and we purchased ladies’ clothes for her so that she would feel more comfortable in her own body and feel as though she was moving forward in her life. I gave her space in my study to keep her things and to sleep, yet she disrespected the space by spreading her belongings all over the place, taking over space on my desk and taking my books off of my shelves and failing to put them away properly.

            Four days. That was all. She didn’t last a day past the fourth, as she broke her contract the moment she signed it and did so repeatedly—lashing out for attention like a neglected two-year-old. She is 28. She made everyone so uncomfortable that every single person who had any means or future means of income was offering to pay to get her out of our house. Randy purchased a Greyhound ticket for her to go back to her home in Tennessee. He spent nearly $300 on this ticket, after spending nearly $200 on her flight here from Montana, and after spending at least $100 on clothes, food, weed, and drinks for her. That’s a conservative estimate.

            She checked in at the Greyhound station, then ripped up her tickets and ditched the station in favor of a bar on 4^th Ave. We heard this from her girlfriend, who called the house phone (since Becca had been using it to call her girlfriend) and told Randy what was going on. Somehow, Randy ended up speaking to Becca’s mother, who begged Randy to ensure that Becca get on a train to Tennessee. I understand Randy having empathy for Becca’s mom, as a parent, but the fact of the matter is, at this point, we simply cannot and will not support Becca in any way any longer. She is no longer our responsibility, plain and simple. Point blank. The way I see it, there are two options, because Becca’s mother offered to reimburse Randy for the cost of a ticket. Becca’s mom can either reimburse us for the ticket we already bought, or she can buy a new ticket for Becca and Randy can track the bitch down and make sure she gets on it. Either way, we are not about to buy another ticket for her.

            I cannot believe the level of disregard she had. I did not expect it in any way. When I had spoken to her online, she had come across as level-headed and sane, for the most part. When she got here, she could not actually adjust or settle in with the group. She could not stop focusing on whatever obsession she had and when she got high, it was an exacerbated problem. So, we cut her off, but she didn’t improve…

            The effort I put into this person has been reciprocated to me by all of the people in my home. Pat, Nikki, Stacie, Leo, Kayla—everyone who has either visited or stayed in my home and witnessed what happened with Becca has been highly supportive and helpful, taking all of the stress that they can off of Randy and me. My house is being cleaned right now without my or Randy lifting a finger, because we have an internal inspection tomorrow and we have a lot of people here but we are overwhelmed, personally.

            Becca was one example of many people I have attempted to help. There are other friends I’ve lost through much the same way, including Mary and Alex. I simply cannot tolerate someone asking for help and then shitting on the help that is offered, nor can I tolerate someone failing to uphold their word to help me. Now, I feel as though I am at a crossroads, in a way, though I’m not sure that’s the right euphemism. Now, I am working to help someone who is not really a friend, but who has reached out to me for help due to a mutual friend.

            This person believes people hate her when they do not. Her anxiety and depression push people away and she recognizes it yet fails continuously to take action to correct it. That’s okay, except that she simply ignores advice that is given to her—or, she has, so far. The one time she took my advice, things went well. We went out and had a social outing at a café, where we got coffee and tea and played chess. It was a good time and I told her how good it was. Now, I’m telling her that she needs to take care of herself and she’s telling me she doesn’t know how, but when I tell her what she can do to help herself, she makes excuses for why she can’t do it.

            She says her excuses are legitimate reasons, but the fact of the matter is that she is allowing her depression to run her life completely. I’m telling her what she can do and she is not doing it, she’s claiming that she is “trying.” And so I said as Yoda said.

            “Do or do not. There is no try.” And I said what Gizmo says. “Trying is dying.”

            I am tired. Those who energize me are the ones I keep because I am sick of putting effort into futile endeavors. It was an effort in futility and it had a pretty steep cost to help Becca. I do not want to think it is an effort in futility to help this severely depressed woman in Tacoma, but frankly, I’m seeing all the same red flags. I cannot help those who cannot or will not help themselves. It is that simple.

Worthwhile Endeavors

Often, we hear people say to each other, “It’s not worth it.” This phrase is used in many contexts:

·         “Yo, bro, she’s not worth it,” might be translated to:

o   “It’s not worth putting forth the social and emotional effort to make a connection with this woman because she will not give you the results you desire.”

·         “He’s not worth it,” might mean:

o   “It’s better not to get emotionally involved with him because his lifestyle habits are sure to break your heart in the long run.”

o   “It’s not worth putting your heart and soul into someone who cannot reciprocate your feelings.”

·         “Lol it’s not worth it,” could mean:

o   “It isn’t worth attempting to explain your point of view to this person because they will not listen.”

o   “It’s not worth taking time and effort out of my day to provide you with information you could easily find yourself when I know you won’t appreciate it.”

o   “It isn’t worth deliberating political ideologies/religious beliefs because you cannot see past misinformation and falsehoods to accept empirical data and facts.”

·         Other uses include:

o   “It’s not worth looking for food in that part of the forest because the only thing that grows there is poison oak.”

o   “It’s not worth looking for psychedelic mushrooms in the woods because the best ones grow on the edges of open fields.”

In all of these cases, you will notice that there is specificity. What is the thing someone wants to and why is it not worth doing? I think today’s society has begun to drop the specificity from this phrase, using it vaguely to avoid confrontation, discourse, and engagement with other people socially.

I recently commented on a friend’s status on Facebook. She’s going through a difficult time; her baby daddy is an alcoholic and she recently ended the relationship with him, she’s pregnant with their second baby and the dad is still living with her as a roommate because she works herself to the bone to provide for the house but doesn’t make enough money to support herself and her babies alone… There’s a lot going on in her life and I find myself doing everything in my power, in my own busy life, to support her and offer my sympathy, empathy, advice, and past experiences for her to think about.

I will not deny that I have a specific set of life experiences that my friends do not and, in some ways, this gives me an advantage in perspective. I strive to use this to others’ advantages, as well, by providing insight and information where I see opportunity. My hopes are that when I am incorrect on any topic, someone will correct me with the same level of respect I provide.

In the status upon which I recently commented, someone else commented, “I’ll pray for you.” I’ve seen this many times as well and have come to realize that it is a highly unhelpful thing to say to someone who is going through a hard time, especially when they have expressed specifics of their hardship and left open ways in which others can actually offer assistance. So, I clicked reply and said, “Curious: How is that helpful?” I was prepared to be ignored or even to have a response come from the commenter along the lines of, “Mind your own business,” or, “It’s how I show support.” I would have accepted a multitude of different answers or even no answer at all, but the response I received was from relatives of the person I’d asked, none of whom saw fit to actually answer the question and all of whom thought it better to use sarcasm and intolerance when conversing with me. The exception was the person to whom I’d asked the question; she remained calm and detached throughout, ignoring my question entirely while chiming in a couple of times with a witty remark.

Thus ensued a long thread of comments in response to my question, wherein one particular “sister” of the original commenter took quite a bit of time and energy to engage with me and even send me a private message. Her message was one of clear projection wherein she said that my cheery disposition didn’t “fool” her and that I should remain silent any time someone says they’re going to pray. Naturally, she mentioned something about knowing my place…

I responded, so naturally, she had to have the last word, and her last message to me was sent directly prior to her adding me to her blocked list. That was a bummer because I had a pretty good response to her. I’ll include it at the end of this entry.

When I realized she had blocked me and my message wouldn’t go through, I checked my notifications again to see a response to the thread that had blown up due to my question. I clicked the notification and read the response, giving it some thought before typing my own reply. Unfortunately, that didn’t go through either, as the original comment upon which we were all replying had been deleted from the status. The last reply read, “it’s not worth it,” thus, the subject of this entry. My response to such a claim was to ask what, exactly, was not worth what.

I think, in times like these, those who say, “It’s not worth it,” think they are saying, “It’s not worth talking to this person because they won’t understand you,” but are actually saying, “It’s not worth putting time and energy into a discussion if it could change your mind about a subject; conversations are only worthwhile when those engaging in it are already in agreement.” This is a rather abhorrent thought, as it is the kind of thinking I believe perpetuates stupidity and resistance to change and progress.

What perplexes me about her response, in this case, was the fact that I had made a point of commending the person with whom I disagreed. I pointed out the admirability of her ability to stay up for long hours late at night in order to provide support to our mutual friend. That is, after all, no small feat. Naturally, though, as is the case with many discussions begun with pseudo-religious hard-headed zealots, my kindness was ignored in favor of cherry-picking as much as they could find to prove how much of an asshole I am.

As promised, her last message is included here; it told me that my question was completely impolite—at this point, I think we could agree to disagree—and that I’m one of those people who thinks my opinions are all superior to everyone else’s. She then told me that she doesn’t “have time for this childish behavior,” and told me to have a good day while she went off to click “block” on me. My response, which failed to go through due to the block, was as follows:

It's cute that you took so much time already to engage in so much discourse with me when you don't have time for it and you think it's childish. "Curious: How is that helpful?" is an open-ended question that can be answered very simply or ignored. If you're so offended, great, be offended. I am responsible for what I say, not how you interpret it. You are responsible for your own feelings. If I offended you, good; you probably needed it. People need to stop being so easily offended. Have a good day, yourself.
P.S., it's good that you know how to use the block feature on Facebook. Enjoy the hole in the sand you use to shield your head.

A Friend Without Weed...

It is a new year and it has had an interesting start. One of the housemates I’d recently taken in is no longer with us, while the other remains. Here’s the story…

            My Halloween party was a raging success, in my opinion. An old friend with whom I’d scarcely even conversed in our six years of friendship, Pat, showed up to the party and brought two friends, AJ and Curt. Pat and AJ were staying with Curt; Curt was the driver. I had other guests, as well: My best friend Jessica, recently separated from the Air Force; my friend Joanne from high school, recently out of the Army, with her husband and son; my friend Rose, with her daughter and sister; my mom, brother, nephew, and two little boys my mom occasionally cares for… Overall, I definitely had a full and happy house for the party and I feel good for throwing it.

            When Thanksgiving rolled around, I received a message from Pat indicating that he wanted to talk about something. He insinuated that it was important but that he didn’t want to stress me out, so I wasn’t obligated to respond immediately. Immediately curious, though, of course, I had to ask what was up, and so Pat told me that he and AJ were being kicked out of Curt’s place by Black Friday when they’d thought they’d have longer to find a new place to go. He wanted to know if he and AJ could stay with Randy, Persephone, and me. Remembering their demeanour during my party and taking Pat’s word for AJ’s character, I acquiesced easily. I enjoy having people in my home, helping them move forward and get back on their feet. This looked like my next opportunity to do so.

            So, on Black Friday, Curt drove AJ and Pat to my house with the vast majority of their belongings, and they essentially moved into my upstairs art room. It started out great. AJ and Pat were both really cool, really chill guys. We would smoke throughout the day and retain the buzz we’d get and it would be wonderful. Then, Randy started helping AJ out quite a bit, because AJ was more eager to accept the help offered than Pat. Pat would rather work for himself to get what he needs. Already, I saw this difference in character and knew that it could cause problems if AJ, who I knew had been addicted to methamphetamines, were to act like the typical tweaker.

            Well, much to my chagrin, and the chagrin of Pat as well as Randy, AJ did act like the typical tweaker. He started out grateful—ever so grateful, graciously thanking us for everything, from the meals we’d feed him to washing his laundry to taking him somewhere to get something he needed. He was thanking us left and right. Then, he started thanking us less, substituting “Thank you,” for, “I really appreciate everything you’re doing for me. I’m just so not used to it…” I wanted to ignore his behaviour and write it off as holiday blues or a seasonal issue. I spoke with him frequently, took him away from Pat with increasing frequency because he showed so much envy toward his friend. I gave him advice and gave him activities to do to keep himself in a positive mood, as well as what to do if he couldn’t get his mood to lighten.

            Christmas started to roll around. On the 23^rd, Pat invited his friend Mr Hat to hang out and Mr Hat paid for us to go to laser tag. After the first game, AJ acted like a little bitch and stormed away, saying he wasn’t going to play anymore because he wasn’t having any fun because he didn’t score as many points as he wanted to. Mr Hat had already paid for AJ to play 3 games and there was no one in the place other than those currently working there who could have taken his place on our team for the games AJ said he didn’t want to play. As it turned out, Mr Hat was okay with cutting his losses on the money spent on AJ’s ungrateful ass; we played one more game with him and he only joined us because we went against a team of equal numbers as ours. He still didn’t have any fun and thus didn’t join us for the third game, which advantageously put us with even numbers and we split into veterans against civilians and had a blast. Later that night, I broke out some magic mushrooms I’d bought from a friend. I thought AJ may have managed to get into a more positive head space since the laser tag, and if not, perhaps the mushrooms would help. I was mistaken.

            At first, as the mushrooms kicked in, AJ got into a really great mood. He let off great vibes that were really positive and I had hope. Then, suddenly, after we’d moved upstairs and were kind of waiting for the shrooms to really take effect, AJ suddenly got up and left the room in a huff, as if he were angry. He entered not long afterwards and filled the room with the vilest, most violent, most vitriolic vibes one could imagine coming from a person. It was horrendous. It made my heart sick. It made me want him out of my home because I didn’t want that kind of energy permeating the environment in which I am raising my child. He left the room shortly and I felt relief, which I expressed to Pat, who asserted that he felt the same way. It was a long night, during which Pat and I essentially took turns babysitting AJ during his tumultuous trip. It was not nearly as pleasant as it could have been—my own high was absolutely magnificent; Pat’s high was great as well; only AJ had the problems, but his problems extended onto Pat and me. I wish I could have just sat back and enjoyed my trip like the stereotypical hippie I represent when I eat shrooms.

Randy and I took Persephone to my grandparents’ house in Roy for Christmas Dinner on Christmas Eve; she opened all her presents from my dad’s side of the family. We went home that night. AJ had recently received a great many presents from his grandparents, who were quite nice people and got on with me rather well. He had a large bag full of nice socks, a new pair of shoes, and a nice button-down shirt, as well as a new pair of jeans. He acted as grateful as could be when he opened the gifts, but soon it was as though he’d never received them and had absolutely nothing.

Pat and I couldn’t smoke with AJ without feeling him harsh the vibe. Even when AJ thought he was chill, he was far from it. His chill factor didn’t exist. It had, at first, existed, but it had evaporated like water under the springtime sun the longer he stayed with us. I took Pat’s sister, Nick, with me to Walmart so I could spend the $50 gift card my mother got me for Christmas. I got a handful of colouring books, gel pens, colour markers, and a 100-pack of Crayola coloured pencils (they turned out to be a rip-off; nearly half the colours have twins, so there aren’t even 100 different colours). AJ wanted to use the gel pens, which I was generously allowing Nick to use with me while we coloured. I declined him permission to use anything other than my old coloured pencils that reside within old pencil boxes that are in immaculate shape, as are the pencils themselves. He wasn’t happy with that. He was ungrateful to use only the pencils; he wanted full access like Nick had, even though, as Gizmo himself pointed out, I wouldn’t even have let my best friend use the pencils I’d offered AJ until I’d bought those new colours.

I pondered for a while. Finally, before Nick and Mr Hat went home after the new year weekend, I approached AJ in the living room, which had been designated his space since no one was using it and he needed to be by himself for a while because no one wanted to be around him. I sat down and talked to him and let him know that he needed to get his attitude and behaviour straightened out that day, or he would be put out. If he could get his attitude and behaviour under control, then I would give him until the first of February to find a job and have a start date, to have everything lined up for school including having applied for and been accepted and thus have a starting class date, or both. He wanted to know why I was giving him a push but not Pat. I told him that Pat was proving that he was doing what he wanted to do to make money, and Pat was grateful for everything, while AJ really needed to get something going for himself as soon as possible or else I didn’t think his behaviour would get better. I forgot to mention it at the time, but I also wanted to tell him that I would no longer be supplying him any weed, due to what my dad told me about it not helping him get over his addiction or his addict mind-set.

After Nick and Mr Hat had gone home, I took Pat into my study to smoke a bowl because I didn’t want AJ walking in on us while we smoked and I knew he would if we were to do it upstairs. I wanted to have a peaceful smoke session without the guy there to harsh it. Randy came in while we were smoking and said that AJ had asked if we were smoking because he felt left out and alienated. I told Randy I’d talk to AJ later that night or the next day, but that I’d forgotten to mention that I wouldn’t be smoking with him anymore when I’d spoken to him in the living room. Randy left the study and, unbeknownst to Pat or I, told AJ that Pat and I had something to tell him later that night or the next day. AJ proceeded to come to the study, tell us Randy had sent him to us with words of how Pat and I had something to talk to him about. So, I had him sit down, thinking that Randy had sent him and that I was getting pushed into something at the wrong time and knowing that it would blow up badly—all the while, hoping it wouldn’t…

I didn’t even finish my first sentence when AJ tried to cut me off. Pat wouldn’t let him. AJ stormed out of the room. It went a little like this:

I began along the lines of, “So, I talked to my dad, and he said that for you to be doing any mind-altering substances, it isn’t good for your recovery as an addict and I feel like I’m not helping you by supplying you with weed—”

AJ interjected: “So, I’m going to stop you right there,” and Pat stopped him with, “No, you’re not. She wasn’t even halfway through her sentence and you cut her off.”

I sat quietly. The interaction between AJ and Pat was brief.

AJ: “If I can’t smoke here, I won’t stay.”

Pat: “That’s on you. Seriously, dude, this was my last ditch effort to help you. I’m done!”

AJ: “Good. I’m done, too!”

With that, both of them left my study. I followed because I heard the sounds of AJ throwing his belongings around the room upstairs as well as throwing them down the stairs as he prepared to leave. I let it happen. Where he ended up from here was his responsibility, not mine. I had done everything in my power to help him and he hadn’t actually taken any of my advice. He hadn’t listened to me at all. Pat and I came back to my study to finish smoking the bowl we’d started in my Rasta-coloured elephant pipe. Then, I heard AJ’s voice directed at Randy and I knew that Persephone was on Randy’s lap. AJ did not sound calm or collected; he did not sound in any way the way that one should sound when speaking to another. I certainly didn’t want my daughter near it, so I mentioned to Pat what was going on and we agreed to kill the elephant upstairs. I took Persephone with me when I went and closed the door to get her away from the negativity. I knew it wouldn’t last, but the conversation between Randy and AJ did.

Soon after I’d taken Persephone upstairs, I heard AJ blatantly mocking me to Randy, disrespecting me to his face, and I went downstairs to confront him, ready with the words on my lips to tell him that he had exactly two minutes to get the fuck out of my house with all his shit or I’d call the police. Randy stopped me, cut me off, and sent me back upstairs so he could try and play nice with AJ, although at that point I was 1000% done with the guy and I wanted him out of my house as soon as possible.

He stayed that night, went out the next day and caught the bus to wherever and bought a gram of weed. He brought the weed home and said it was an olive branch, a peace offering. He had made no apologies to me. He had made no amends. I wanted nothing to do with the plant he’d brought back, as though he hadn’t heard me at all when I’d said I wouldn’t smoke with him anymore. He stayed that night, too, but he was gone the next morning. Tuesday, January 3^rd, I was rid of AJ and it was as though a rainbow shone on my house the day he left. It was glorious.

I’m glad Pat stayed around. I’m happy to help him and he’s happy to have help. He is grateful for all that he has and all that he is given and it is extremely refreshing.

Finding the Ground

Roots. They grip the ground. They keep plants in one place and provide nutrients and everything needed for the plant. In order to have roots, you have to have ground, and moving seriously uproots me, sends me into the air. I feel like I’m tumbling through the air, trying to land and figure things out again. We moved into our house at the end of August, this year. It took me until yesterday, December 16^th, to unpack my box of trophies and trinkets that have always resided in my bedroom. Now they reside in my study. It’s awesome. I have my bowling trophies on the windowsill, I have the engraved plate my mom bought for me on the shelf above my monitor, right next to my awesome, new jester frog. My study is fucking awesome, now, and it took me until now, halfway through December to Christmas. It feels like I’m settling down as I put more boxes in the attic and find homes within my house for more of my belongings.

            Plenty has happened in the months since I last wrote. I realize now that I need to forgive myself for not writing more often. Forgive myself for taking so long to unpack and get everything set up. Frankly, though, I didn’t want to write blog posts from the living room, anymore. I don’t like moving the furniture on the carpet because the carpet is really thick and even the chairs, as light as they are, don’t move very easily if I try sliding them. The apartment floor was much better for it. I’m so glad to have my study set up so I can blog not only with a monitor and a computer chair where I can see everything on my screen clearly, but also so that I have a secluded space in the house that is my own, where I can get away from everyone or select my company. There is only one chair, and it is mine. No one else sits in it. I plan to make my altar next to the window in this room. This is my space. The only things in here that aren’t mine are two of Randy’s books on Tao, because this is basically the book place of the house and they look good on my shelf.

            My trash container is a party cup. Literally a black Solo cup that sits on my desk and holds a few small things and is nice and discreet. I don’t have to change trash bags or cart things in and out of the room. I can take the cup out, toss it, and grab a new cup to bring in for trash. It’s wonderful. I bought new speakers, a new monitor, a new tablet—everything is fucking great. I can’t wait to actually start using the tablet, but I’ve been really absorbed in the Sims 4, lately.

            Two friends are staying in my art room until they get on their feet and can get their own place(s). I have yet to hang my dragon posters because I want to swap the locations of the hutch and what Randy thinks is a carrion cabinet. If it is a carrion cabinet, it’s very simple and has a large opening and single shelf in the large area for maybe a TV and cable box, I would imagine. Either way, I want to switch the walls on which these pieces of furniture currently sit, and put Persephone’s TV in the “carrion cabinet” and the hutch against the wall next to the front door. My battle dragon can hang over the hutch and the cliff dragon can hang over where Persephone should put her riding cars away, next to the fireplace. I plan to hang my other purchased paintings along the walls in the stairwell to the art room.

            Today, I read some articles. One was about the effects of alcohol on babies while breastfeeding. The other was about Mick Jagger having a new baby at the age of 74, with a woman by the age of 30. The breastfeeding and drinking article started out by saying that imbibing in a few drinks during the holidays will not necessarily result in anything negative with the nursing baby. It then went on to say that mothers should be conscious and aware of how much they are drinking, however, as getting drunk while breastfeeding is generally frowned upon for many reasons that have nothing to do with how much alcohol gets into the breast milk. As far as Mick Jagger having another baby… Well, that’s for another blog post, but my point here is that I’ve managed to pull away from the Sims long enough to get my brain working and creating ideas based on my experiences as they relate to what I’m reading. It is also immensely helpful to have the two friends I have staying with me. They provide socialization and while I have gone through more marijuana over the past month than I have in practically the past two years, it has been a pleasure to have them because I have started to find myself again. One friend, I’ve known for the past six years, since the end of high school but prior to the start of the military, pays attention to things far more than I’m used to people paying attention, particularly about personality traits and the like. He has helped me recognize, again, who I am. Who I have been. He’s helped me put some of the pieces together.

New Friends

My life has been marked by few friendships and many acquaintances, not all of them pleasant. Living with my mother for two years as a kid had a significant impact on my social life as I grew up and even as an adult. As an adult, I find that friends are harder to find only because I am not placed in a room with a group of people on a daily basis, as is the case as a child going through school. This will change soon enough as I go back on campus at Evergreen, but until then, every new friend I make is significant. I’ve made one, recently, and I have a new acquaintance who may well become a friend.

            I met Kita through my friend Kat and initially only found myself at Kita’s house when it had to do with Kat in one way or another. At last, though, I added Kita to Facebook and we started to hang out without Kat around. I even brought Persephone over to hang out with the kids, especially since there’s a little playground right in front of Kita’s back patio. The playground is great and I really enjoy taking Persephone over to play and hang out; it’s time that she can climb and have fun as well as socialize with some other children who are her age, older, and younger.

            Persephone’s new friends include 3-year-old Nessa, 6-year-old Aliy, and nearly-1-year-old Atalia. That doesn’t include the other children who go through the house; 6-year-old (I think) Caitlyn, a baby boy, and 2-year-old Mazaeah. It’s nice to get out sometimes and take her over to hang out, rather than keeping her in our apartment by herself and having her play with her toys forever.

            The first time I took Persephone to Kita’s house turned into an adventure. Kat was with us and I was uncomfortable letting Persephone outside to play with the other girls without supervision, so I went outside with her so she could play on the playground under my watch. Naturally, while I was out there, she thought it would be a good idea to take off around the side of the building, and I caught her and brought her back to the playground with ease. A little later, I thought Nessa, who speaks in clear, full sentences, could keep an eye on her and alert me if something happened. I was right in my thoughts, but I could not predict what would happen.

            “Her gone,” Nessa said in her sweet little voice. My immediate reaction was a less-than-graceful, “What?!” I had been sitting in the living room with my friends and Nessa stood in the doorway and repeated, “Her gone.”

            I ran back to the bedroom, threw my shoes on, and ran outside, immediately yelling for Persephone the moment I hit open air. Freaking out, I took off in the direction Percy had gone when she’d tried doing her own thing while I’d been watching; then I noticed that my friends were heading the other way around the building, under the direction of Nessa, who was quite the good little watcher and knew which way Persephone had gone. It was a good thing, too, because when I followed the herd and passed it, going around the building, I found Persephone trying to play with a boy who looked older than her, but was still a child. It was a relief to know that she hadn’t gone far; still, I immediately called for her with urgency and she came at last.

            We left shortly after that incident, but I didn’t think of it as an experience that should keep Persephone away; instead, I figured I would have to ensure she was monitored when necessary. With Persephone’s next visit, I asked Aliy and Caitlyn to watch her and it worked quite well. Our last visit saw all the children indoors the whole time, as it had been raining, and that worked well for me because I didn’t need to monitor Persephone’s actions while indoors. She really is a good child and she generally stuck around the other kids until it started to get late.

            I enjoy spending time with Kita because she’s nice, I like smoking with her, and her home is the kind of child-friendly that allows me to bring my own kid and let her play with the others in the house. We’re all moving in August and I’m moving pretty far away, but it’s nice to have someone to spend time with until the time comes to pack and move. I also think we’ll still spend time together even after we move.

An Adventure in Puppy Fostering

This week has had an eventful start. I’ve managed to spend a good amount of time with friends, particularly one who regularly takes care of about five children, two of whom are pretty close in age with Persephone. Her name is Kita and she recently acquired a 2-year-old, half-Labrador/half-Chihuahua puppy.

            She needs to have someone take Milo, the dog, until her boyfriend’s lease ends in August and they move into a house. I thought the person to watch Milo could be me; after all, I have another dog and she could use a canine companion, and my cat is chill enough that it shouldn’t be a huge problem. She’d also told me that Milo was good with other dogs and cats, as well as children, so I had high hopes.

            So, Tuesday night, I took Milo home with me. Before entering my apartment with him, I took him for a little walk and he peed. I didn’t go too far or insist on watching him poop, as it was the end of the day, I still had to walk Baby, and I assumed he had probably pooped earlier in the day. So, I took him inside long enough to drop off his supplies, then grabbed my dog and took both of them outside.

            The greeting process was highly energetic. Milo was all over Baby, sniffing, and Baby was overwhelmed. My poor dog is so timid that this little 2-year-old puppy was intimidating her despite being smaller than she is.

            A few problems arose right away. First, Milo started barking the moment he met Randy. I put him in Baby’s crate almost immediately, to try shutting him up. We put a blanket over the top so that he wouldn’t have any stimulation and he could calm the fuck down in his own space. That was my thought process, anyway. I had to let him out, though, because his barking got worse in the crate. So, I let him out of the crate and put Baby in it so that he wouldn’t be able to bother her.

            That didn’t work. He was restless and would wander back to my bedroom, where I’d hear Baby’s growl arise from his intrusion. I managed to keep him in the living room for the most part for a little while, but then it was time for me to go to bed. Milo seemed slightly improved; he’d been listening to me, at least a little. I left him in the living room and went to bed, letting Baby out of her crate so she could lie next to my side of the bed the way she likes.

            That didn’t work, either. Milo whined, barked, and scratched at my door persistently enough that sleep was out of the question the way I was trying it. Still, I tried until I couldn’t stand the noise anymore and I got up to check on him…

Problem the second, he pooped all over our floor in front of the front door. And I mean all over—it was scattered little-dog poop (mind you, Milo is not an ankle biter; he’s about knee-high to me and I’m 5’8”). Randy had just gotten home and I saw the poop in the front hallway. Randy cleaned it up while I shoved Milo back into Baby’s crate with a new resolve to keep him there all night regardless of how much noise he made.

            Finally, his barking became whining and his whines became fewer and farther between until he was quiet except when Randy walked by. Then, he would growl and maybe bark once to voice his discomfort. I managed to get to sleep and it was glorious. I thought that the morning would be better.

            I woke up and began my day as usual, leaving Milo in the crate. I didn’t want to let him out before I was ready to walk him because I didn’t want him to potty in the house. This turned out to be an all-too-valid fear, as the moment I let him out of the crate—before I had the minute to put his harness and leash on to go outdoors—he peed on Persephone’s toys.

            I caught him the second he started, grabbed his nape, smacked his hindquarters, and shoved him down by his nape so he’d be close enough for a nice strong whiff of his piss. I didn’t rub his nose in it. He yelped and, while I don’t think I hurt him, I did reconsider the course of action I was taking to ask myself if there wasn’t some other way of punishing him for his actions. Meanwhile, I took him and Baby outside while Randy cleaned up the mess.

            This was quite early in the morning; I don’t think it was even 09:00 yet. I walked around the entire apartment complex, thinking all the while that Milo has a great deal of energy and the regular shortness of walks I take with Baby would not be sufficient. I also wanted to make sure he got out as much pee and poop as he had in him, so I was quite pleased when he did poop outside—a decent amount, it seemed, though it could have been more. I learned that later…

            It’s one thing to have a dog who is noisy and needs correction. It’s another to have a dog who seems completely un-housebroken. I took a shower yesterday to take my friend Katherine to City Hall to get her passport. After my shower ended, somehow, both Randy and Persephone ended up in the bathroom with me. When we stepped out, there it was again—

            Poop. All over the front entry. Again.

            Jumbo Chihuahua shit.

            That’s the best way I can describe it. If you’ve seen dog poop, you’ve seen the different ways it comes out of dogs’ asses, and you know that little dog shit looks different than big dog shit. Well, Milo’s shit has the aesthetic of little dog shit, but is on a slightly bigger scale because of the Labrador in him.

            Milo had shit all over my front entryway again.

            I had been considering, while in the shower, giving it a couple of days with Milo to see how things would go. With the second scattering of dog shit on my floor—and the second bout of relief at my refusal to live in a carpeted apartment paying off with the ease of cleaning up animal waste—I realized that watching Milo would be overwhelming, despite my best hopes.

            He had seemed better behaved after the initial pee incident on Persephone’s toys. I thought the pee was just an accident from being kenneled all night and not going potty. When I saw the poop on the floor after my shower, though, I knew that watching him would be too much. I don’t have a yard; there’s no way I could have put him outside. If he stayed, I would have had to monitor him practically every waking moment, watching and waiting on edge to take him outside to avoid indoor pottying.

            I have a lot on my plate. Those who regularly read my blog are aware of this; you’ve read about some of the struggles I face with raising my daughter and getting recognized for my artwork to make money with it. The last thing I need at this stage in my life—in an apartment with no yard—is an animal shitting all over my house all the time.

            So, much to my chagrin but to Kita’s understanding, I took Milo back and explained the situation. Randy was quite angry with the puppy and probably especially angry that he was the one cleaning up the shit and piss. He hadn’t wanted anything to do with the puppy, but still I’m grateful for his actions because I was busy after my shower with keeping Persephone in my room with me, away from the dog shit.

            It was difficult having a puppy in my home, but having Milo for the night and morning made me realize how wonderful Baby is and how blessed I am with the animals I have.

On the Road to Health

Things have been changing for me as time progresses. I’ve been calm and generally happy, lately, which I would gladly attribute to my smoking marijuana. More than that, however, I’m happy because smoking usually gives me the munchies, but lately that hasn’t been the case. I’ve overeaten a lot lately regardless, but my realization that I’m no longer feeling the munchies feels significantly important to me, like the realization itself was the first step to making the health changes I need to.

            This morning, I woke up shortly after my alarm, rather than simply shutting it off and going back to sleep to await when I need to react and get up. I’m tired of living my life in a reactionary way; my goal is to live my life in a proactive and productive way, so it gave me a measure of pride to rise before 07:30. I cooked breakfast this morning; last night, I changed the bed sheets and folded a load of laundry. These are some recent things I consider successes in my life.

            My health is not at its peak. I’m sure I’ve gained weight again; I can feel it and I can see it in the mirror. The fat is in my face and I can’t un-see it when I take a selfie or look closely at myself in the mirror. Keeping the munchies at bay while smoking weed has been my dream since I started smoking weed; the fucking munchies ruin me. I binge-eat and hold it down rather than puking like I really feel like doing. It’s unhealthy and it needs to change and that’s a fact that has been solidified in my mind since taking my health and wellness class.

            It might help me to publicize my physical health journey. I feel as though I now have the ability to control what and how much I eat, more than ever before; part of that is my starting to cook. I cooked breakfast this morning; I can start cooking breakfast every day and gradually include lunch and/or dinner. This would give Randy a break from cooking and we wouldn’t go out as often, since the cooking burden would be shared.

            This blog would serve as a decent way to log my journey and I can begin now by reporting that I ate a handful of scrambled eggs with broccoli for breakfast and Wendy’s for lunch. I’m full now but I didn’t feel too stuffed after my fast food meal; moreover, we walked over to the thrift shop and wandered around it for a while to burn off some of the calories right away. I’m exhausted now because meandering around stores takes more energy than I understand; I did eat some dumplings with my friend Katherine, as well, as we smoked a blunt together after I took her to City Hall.

            I finished last week’s homework all on time, as well. One of my assignments was to create a blog entry about an infectious disease. I chose bacterial vaginosis and I’ve been considering posting it to my actual blog, as it is good information to spread but I’m not sure it’s the most relevant thing in the world. Not as relevant as, say, climate change, that’s for sure. My first assignment was a PowerPoint presentation on Alzheimer’s Disease. That’s another topic I considered blogging about, as I am at an elevated risk for the disease due to my great-grandma having dementia.

            My healing journey is progressing steadily, I think. I’m still taking Ziprasidone at night, which may also be helping my mood. I’m excited about the new development with my marijuana habit; not having the munchies makes it really easy to just drink water or some other beverage, instead of stuffing my face continuously.

#Winning

My time this week has been spent primarily working on my illustrations. I also did a photoshoot with a friend of mine, so in addition to completing three drawings very recently and inking a new one on top of it, I have photographs to go over, edit, and upload for all to see. I look forward to the process, though it will be time-consuming and I’m not sure how I’ll get ahold of Photoshop in order to do it. I’m proud of the work I’ve accomplished thus far.

            In addition to pressing forward with my artistic endeavors, I feel pride in my ability to research things online and find information on various topics. On Facebook, I provided four reputable sources to back up my claims that families on public assistance are not what have destroyed our economy, but that instead it was the bailing out of the big banks in America that has tanked the economy and caused massive problems. I had a friend who was convinced that the people who abuse drugs while receiving “welfare” are proof that “most people” are lazy, unmotivated, static burdens on society.

            I allowed the topic to be dropped when my friend linked me to a source that provided an argument for drug testing welfare recipients. The same site had the opposing argument as well and I saw it as a moot point; yes, I think people should be tested for drugs for public assistance the same way they are tested if they join the military or get a real job. However, there is existing evidence that proves that drug testing those on public assistance costs much more money than it would save—despite the claims by those who are like my friend that it would somehow save money for state governments. My friend is convinced that the only reason it cost more than it saved was because the Supreme Court ruled it unconstitutional to administer drug tests without reasonable suspicion.

            As far as I’m concerned, I won the debate due to my abundance of source material. I had the stronger argument, better referenced. But my thirst for knowledge was not quenched simply by proving that the big banks are the problem in America. After all, with Bernie Sanders’ campaign for President of the United States, the big-bank bailout is pretty well common knowledge and the only thing I learned was that the bailouts are still ongoing and costing trillions, rather than billions, of dollars. (http://www.forbes.com/sites/mikecollins/2015/07/14/the-big-bank-bailout/#26e9b2a83723)

            Thirsty still for more chances to assert my intellectual superiority over those around me, I went into my online classroom with University of Phoenix and took a look at the week’s discussion questions. Then, like the pretentious asshole I am, I found five different sources and wrote over 400 words, almost in essay format, on the topic at hand. Of course, looking back on it now, it’s difficult to remember, because that was on Monday and each week starts new on Tuesday.

            Overall, I would say that I feel like it’s a good time now for me to use these abilities for the greater good. I can do so by using my blog to my advantage and simply creating a blog entry for an issue I find in America or the world. My blog can be my personal collection of essays.

            Look out, world, here I come.

Successes Week 1

This week has had many small successes. Looking back, I find it is better to look at the things I have done, rather than the things I have not done.

            Too often, I have found myself reminiscing on my day or my week, thinking, I should have done more. Monday was a turning point for me, this week, and I am proud to be able to say, today, on Saturday, that things have gone well, overall.

            This week, I saw my psychiatrist and my therapist, both. I have follow-up appointments with both of them. I returned everything I needed to, to Securitas. These things stand alone as successes for me, because I accomplished them.

            I colored one of my drawings and scanned it, but it came out as a .PDF. Still, the picture is complete and I can now use a library scanner to get a .JPG image to upload to Patreon. It will be my first new drawing posted to Patreon and it stands as the start of my work life as an artist.

            Furthermore, I fed my daughter this week—perhaps not for every meal, but I did contribute—and I contributed to cleaning the house. I also went grocery shopping and organized the refrigerator.

            So, what are my next steps, you might ask? I’ll tell you…

            My first priority is to make sure my phone stops dying in the night, so I can get up before everyone else does in the morning. My next step is to begin an exercise regimen that I complete on a daily basis. I need to do this in the morning before people wake up because when Randy gets a job, it’ll be on me to take care of our daughter without help. Having a morning exercise regimen will begin my day with purpose and success, which lends motivation and leads to movement, rather than sitting around, for me.

            My next priority is to create and foster an environment within my home that will best suit my daughter, who is a young child and deserves to feel respected, independent, and confident in herself. This will be a much more difficult task and that is why it is not my absolute first priority. After all, I must begin my day with purpose and momentum in order to achieve the movement needed to work with my child in my home.

            Already, Persephone shows interest in cleaning. She uses baby wipes to wipe down surfaces; she grabs the broom and tries to sweep with it. She wants a clean and tidy environment that she can manipulate to learn and develop. My resolve is to provide that for her, no matter how difficult it is or how long it takes to achieve the ideal environment.

            I have the whole summer to work with my child and my home while Randy finds a job. I have the whole summer to get everything together, including my transcripts for The Evergreen State College. Until September, I have the opportunity to greatly improve my health and wellness and develop a system within my home wherein my daughter can freely grow, learn, and develop.

            There is no way I can know at this time whether we will be able to purchase a home or need to rent a house. Either way, I know where we are going and I know what we seek in a living place. There is no way I can know at this time when Persephone will go back to a childcare facility, but knowing that Evergreen has a daycare on-campus sets me at ease because I know I don’t need to spend time during the day searching for just the right place for her to go.

            I’m going back to school. I thought about looking for a job, today, because although I’ve done well this week to remain positive, the voices of mania and anxiety speak to me and tell me that I need to do something that is immediately reasonable and of a regular income. They tell me that Randy will never find a job and I’m the only one who can do what it takes to provide us with the income required to purchase a home in August. This has happened to me so many times I cannot count them, but the difference this time is that I’m aware they’re false thoughts.

            Randy is perfectly capable of finding a job between now and August. However, if he doesn’t, I now recognize that it isn’t the end of the world. If he stays at home, it frees me up this summer to spend a good amount of time at the library, to and from which I can walk. At the library, I can work on my art and my writing to post to Patreon. I can scan my pictures the moment I finish working on them and I can sit in a quiet place and write my heart out until a story emerges.

            Owning a home has been the “end goal” for a while, but it’s time to change that because owning a home is not the end-all, be-all of life and it will not inherently change the way we live. It is much more reasonable for me to set smaller, shorter-term goals and work towards owning a home when it is absolutely possible, even if that means next year or the year after.

            I’ve felt like shit because my peers are buying homes and I feel like I’m behind them. I fail to see, in those moments, my peers who are just like me or worse off. I fail to truly look around myself and notice that I am in a stable place, if not the most ideal, and I have time to get to where I want to be. My greatest revelation on Monday was realizing that I have time.

            So, I’m going to use it.