~The state of my life

The worst of the detox symptoms should be gone by tonight. Last night, I even had a short burst of energy. Figures tonight I have my session, and there's nothing that makes me want to drink quite like that. There's just something about sitting there complaining for an hour and realizing that there's really nothing that can be done that brings on quite the case of the "no points".

Well, once I get the waistline back down to where it isn't threatening my pants, I'll be free to drink away. There's just no way I want to spend money on clothing on top of spending money on beer. Last year I did actually explode out of my jeans and had to run crying to WalMart. True, at 30, you start growing sideways, but this was a bit over the edge. I'd ended up with a 38" waist. (I should be a 30") That's what a 12 pack a day and no activity will get you. (No, the poor man's diet of Mac & Cheese didn't help, but it was the beer, primarily. A 12 pack or so a day for about 4 years will do it.) Woke me up when I went to the doctor and weighed in at 170. I'm 5' 6". Bad. I won't even touch the subject of my blood pressure or cholesterol.

Anyway, I kicked my own ass and lost 25 - 30 lbs, and shrank my gut back to 33.5". That was according to last month. This week, the tape measure was creeping up to 35", so... beer break... at least until I can get back to the point of being able to work out. If I can work out, it's not such a big deal. If I'm back to being a floor mat, not good.

I never thought I'd have to be concerned with crap like this. I'd lived off of Ramen and Malt liquor, and had no real weight problems for 15 years. Then I met the suburbs.

What the hell kind of sense does it make to design a town without sidewalks??!!?!?!?!?!?

I'm beyond wanting to get the hell out of here, I NEED to get out of here. I don't belong here. I was born in Philly. I grew up in Philly. Philly is my home.

Here's the short version:

Head trouble.
Cocaine addiction.
Suicide play.
Run.
Rent increase.
Friend steps in.
Live with friend (&her husband, her daughter, 3 cats, and 1 dog, with me in an 8' x 8' room and no easy way to get out of the house... stopping here.)
Get on Government Housing plan.
Friend ready to strangle me after a year and a half.
Take first available apartment.
Officially trapped in the burbs for 3.5 years and counting.

Now, before you go tossing out ideas...

I am legally disabled. I cannot work. I cannot drive. I survive on my disability check and get assistance with my rent. I do not have any family other than a younger half-brother, 13 years my junior. (He takes me to the store every other week or so.) I have a doctor and a therapist. No, medication will not make me better. Sunshine, hugs and Jesus make me want to rip people's heads off, so don't even.

That said...

I need to get the fuck out of here. Being here has lead me to 2 suicide attempts, poor health, solitude and disintegrating social skills, and increasing rage. I'm ready to burn this building down and spend the rest of my life in lock up just to get out.

No, that's not an imminent threat, but it does cross my mind on a daily basis. I've been in this apartment for 2 years now. My downstairs neighbors can't control the volume of their tvs and stereos. The walls are paper thin. The complex has more kids than Sesame Street has had in it's 34 years combined. The ceiling leaks and contains mold that causes nose bleeds. The floor is sinking and the roof dipping. (Nice carpets though, and no roaches!) On top of this, my next door neighbor (although a very sweet woman) is a rather frequent cocaine user. My downstairs neighbor is an ex-con with (from what I briefly saw) a beautiful SS tattoo across his back and a serious love of country music. The neighbor diagonal is a voluntarily repressed lesbian (no, this is not a guess, it's actually the case) who is a pro-life churchee with 3 very unhappy, usually screaming, kids. The school bus picks all the kids from the entire complex up right outside the door to my building, so they feel that my building is their playground. Neither door to the building locks because of being ripped open continuously. Last year there was a murder, 2 apartments down from me.

My disability? PTSD/DID.


This is hell.