The Submit Button

I am tired, not only physically, but mentally. Emotionally. I grow more weary with each information-less day. I am like a condemned man, waiting for a pardon. Except, I know my pardon will come, it is just a matter of when. So I should be happy, right? I have a way out. There is light at the end of the tunnel. That is correct, but every time I begin to see the light, and think I have reached the surface, the tunnel stretches. The darkness takes back over.

My life has turned into a series of ups and downs, and that is the most difficult part to deal with. If you are down, you figure out what is making you that way and change it. Or try to. My problem is the highs and lows come to quickly to deal with. By the time I have identified a low, I am back on a high. I can't keep up. I am on a low right now. Friday my Interstate Compact wash refiled, the correct way, and Friday afternoon my sister received a call from Albany NY, and the guy there said he could see the compact in the system. So I was on a high. He said we should hear from the new officer soon. I'm floating at this point. No call Monday. Tuesday is a holiday. Wednesday, no call. My sister calls the guy from Albany this morning. Thursday. The man in Albany says he can see where my officer has reprocessed my compact, but her supervisor failed to hit the "Submit" button! This is my fucking life! Being held up because someone forgot to hit a button! Back on a low. My life is becoming a goddamn Kafka story.

Something has to give. Something has to go my way. I sent a text to my parole officer to advise her of the mistake. She has actually been the one helpful person through all this, so hopefully she gets this remedied. I don't know how much more of this I can take. Trying to remain optimistic, trying to stay off drugs, trying to get my life back together, trying to focus on the things that really matter, trying to do all these and more, and getting one setback after another. All of them outside of my control.

People write and tell me I am so close, it is almost over, stick with it, you're doing great. After awhile, I can't take it. I talk to people in spurts. When I am riding a crest, I text back and forth, joke around, and then the low comes. I stop talking. I can't deal with it. These people are offering hope and support, and I don't mean to shun them, but I can't help it. We will be exchanging messages and I will disappear. I will get the "Are you there?" and "What happened?" and "Are you okay?". I get to the point where all the optimism makes me feel worse. I feel like I am going to say something I will regret if I continue our conversation, so I stop it. At least my part. Some people keep sending messages long after radio silence has been established.

I need a break. I will try to get a pass for the weekend and get a hotel room. I have to make sure my bed will still be available after the weekend or I won't be able to go, because I don't know when I will get out of here. I need a day or two where I don't have to worry that it is sixteen degrees out and 7:30 in the morning and I have to figure out what I am going to do with the next ten hours. It is exhausting. Physically and emotionally.

It is such a weird situation. If it was different, if I was homeless for real, it would be easier. I could have had a job by now and moved into an apartment. I would have school and employment to fill my days. I would seek permanent relationships with people. Right now I distance myself. I am not looking to put any roots down in this community I am not looking for a job. I am still registered for school here in January in case something goes terribly wrong. I volunteer with the Midwest Pages to Prisoners Project, sending books to incarcerated individuals. Even that, something I feel strongly about, gets old. Everything gets old. Writing is the only thing that keeps me from drinking a quart of bleach,and I struggle getting the motivation to do it. I know it is depression. I know the way out is to keep going, forcing myself to keep doing the things I know will make me happy. I don't eat. Here it is, 11:21 am, and I have consumed nothing but coffee and cigarettes. I was going to go eat two hours ago, but have yet to get motivated. I don't sleep. I stay up all night, watching DVD's or dicking around on Facebook or both. I know I have to be up in the morning. I know I need my rest. I still stay up, because, as crazy as this sounds, when I get back to the shelter I can finally relax. I don't have to worry about where I am going. Home sweet home.

Part of the reason for my slacking is the fact that once I get motivated to leave a place I figure to figure out where I am going and where I will go after that. I was walking by the store this morning, where I buy my cigarettes. I only had about six left in my pack, but I thought, "That will give me something to do later. If I buy cigarettes now, that is one less thing I have to do." I don't have to worry about managing my time, I have to worry about how to mismanage it. Get the least amount of efficiency I can. The other day I had to get something to eat. it was about 3:30 pm. I was right next to the grocery store, but I walked all the way across town because the shelter doesn't open back up until 5:15 pm. I had a couple of hours to burn. That is how I spend my life right now, figuring out the best way to waste it.

And I have been in this situation before. The last time I was released from prison. I stayed in the same place. I got a job right away, and moved out in less than a month. This time is different. This time is a waiting game. I have to stagnate until I am given the word that I can move forward with my life. I have to wait for someone to remember to hit the fucking SUBMIT button, and let the computer know I am ready to start processing my life.

And, because I have been in this situation before, I am losing patience with my fellow residents. It is getting increasingly difficult to remain compassionate and understanding. Some of these people have jobs, some of them are looking, and some of them never will. The hardest part is keeping myself from getting angry with the people who have jobs but waste all their money on drugs and the people who won't look for a job. I am supposed to be helpful. I did a fucking radio show trying to support these people. I volunteer with other projects with the goal of helping the incarcerated and homeless. And then I talk shit about them. You are allowed 120 days at the mission during each calender year. Some of the residents have less than a month left, have had a job the whole time, and don't have a dime in their pockets.These people are days away from being out in the cold twenty-four hours a day, and have made no preparations.

I understand there are problems I can't see. No one has had an easy life, especially no one currently residing in a homeless shelter. But you have to step up to the plate at some point. There could be abuse issues or depression, things I can't see, so I try to keep that in mind. Most of them have addictions to feed. Even if they were to get a job, they wouldn't keep it. People don't quit until they are ready. And if spending a few nights in the cold saves the rest of their lives, then I guess it is a good thing. I took a painfully fucked up path to my understanding, so who am I to judge?

And I can't even motivate myself to go to the grocery store and pick up the money waiting for me at the Western Union, or go eat breakfast. How can I talk about anyone else?

So that's it. A little explanation for those of you who were wondering. I will go on vacation this weekend, get a room, try to relax, maybe write something better, meditate, masturbate until I can't move my arms. AH, good times will come again.