Yesterday, I typed up a rather lengthy post. It did a lot of reflecting on the last year. The problem with it was that it came to some rather unfortunate conclusions. Really terrifying stuff. And I decided that it wasn't appropriate to post, only because my friends have enough to worry about when it comes to little old me. Why nudge them into a state of blind panic? And while I tried not to complain about the help I've received, it still managed to sound like I was complaining. You can't really understand my shame, and it pushes people further away from potential understanding when my message comes across as, "Thanks for the help. Why aren't you sending more?"
Selfish bastard, I.
Some things in the post that I would like to get out there...
With my panicked cry for aid, two people came forward in a combined effort to see $70 come my way. You have my eternal thanks. Unfortunately, it takes several business days for it to hit my bank, and I've had to borrow money until it arrives. Once I have it, I must pay people back. Why? Because I'm in a poor neighborhood, and people here are in equally bad financial positions. It's a situation of the poor borrowing from the poor.
Part of my reflections of the last year focused on my finances and my friends' involvement. I hate...HATE...HATE...that I have become the burden that I am. People who are far from wealthy are squeezing their wallets to see that I have help, and there is a wrongness to this that transcends my moral fiber. I mean, I completely caved this month and took $40 from a 17-year-old. (She'll be 18 in July, but still.) If the standard parasite could have feelings, they would experience the guilt I'm suffering. And to my utter and complete shame, I look at the money coming to my bank account, see that $30 will have to go out on Monday, leaving me with $40 to get me through close to two more weeks, and a part of my mind is wondering if there's any more help to be had.
I really am a piece of work, am I not?
What I have NOT done is delve into that which is illegal. Surely there is a street value for my painkillers and my insulin syringes. In fact, I know there is, as I've been approached by certain parties to find out if I want to sell any of my prescription...stuff. "My apologies," I say, "but to do that would be akin to selling a part of my soul, and there is no adequate price for that."
I can't remember if I told this story, but when I was living in my first boarding house back in NY, one of my housemates renewed his heroin habit. What's more, he started supplying several other people in the house with the drug. As their various habits escalated from sniffing to IV use, I began to fret over my supply of syringes, which I needed to live. Oddly, there was honor amongst these "thieves," and my insulin syringes were never touched...
That is, my unused syringes were never touched. I was an idiot, though, because I wasn't properly destroying them after use. I was simply throwing them into the trash, and would see my trash into a dumpster that was outside the house. (There were 14 men living there, which makes for a lot of trash.) Well, I was stunned to find out that my roommate was one of the idiots who'd added illegal drugs to his alcoholic behavior, and that he was going into the trash to retrieve my USED syringes.
G-d above! Is this what a drug habit drives people to do?!? That was my thought, and the answer was obvious. Although I hadn't been robbed directly, I still felt violated to an extent. Thus began my habit of destroying my syringes beyond any possible repair, and the hiding of my unused syringes. Another thing I did was switch the gauge of my needles. The higher the number, the smaller the actual needle, and I went from 30 to 31, making them more difficult for IV use. Not impossible, but more difficult, thereby relieving myself of some guilt should I somehow forget to destroy a syringe.
Another part of the post delved into my upcoming birthday, and my audacity to want gifts. It seems like one would need a pair of solid brass balls to ask for more on top of what I've already received. Of course, my birthday represents me wanting things I don't actually NEED. I want computer games...I want to go to the movies...I want to buy DVDs. Want, want, want. In Yiddish, such audacity is called chutzpah.
There are those who pass judgments over me that are far more positive. They act as though I am G-d's gift to the world, and that I am deserving of all the help I can get, and heap praise on top of it. Ultimately, I appreciate the gifts my friends perpetually give me, from the financial aid to the LOVE AND CONCERN they show. Alas, there is an infinitely harsher judge, and that's me. The post that's no longer here "threw the book at me." And I am finding it more and more difficult to hold my head high, especially when it seems that all I do of late is plead for more and more of what others simply don't have.