9/29/16 06:26 pm - If Sometimes You Know What It Looks Like; If Sometimes You Know What It Felt Like
I went through an anorexia-assimilated phase in my youth, my early teens. I've referenced it, it was incredibly successful. I found myself in excellent shape, despite the strain and the pain, I actually found quite the fruition through the measured routine and practiced exercises in renditions of a researched and exacerbated theory in alternative approaches to help myself stay in a form of health that really seemed to be at risk for me, before I got into my "regimented" practices.
I was homeless for a great while. My parents are the only ones who deny how long I was homeless, while they constantly reference how hard it was for them, how much they worried. Their biased focus never left. I was scraping by on food scrounged out of garbage cans for the majority of my sustenance, almost in entirety... There was the occasional gift of canned food... sometimes a restaurant would offer me aid... Every now and then I'd get a check to make up for remainder funds from insurance having taken too much in the past, or whatever the explanation for the random flow of cash that came back was; almost universally in the form of an occasional check to cover that there was money that had come down to me after some time from when it was noticed I was owed it back. I mostly lived off of refills of coffee with milk/cream to get calories and nutrients at places with free refills... there was a fast food freedom to take up a cup for soda and get enough fluid to fill my stomach and sugar to give me the energy to walk to some place to sleep without getting in trouble, some place to sit without offending someone who had a house to live in and the money to occupy a restaurant rightfully.
I even had a great gift of occasional free food from some of the people behind the counter, I had the occasion drop of of one up to twenty dollars... I salvaged all of it for a decent income of sustenance at the best value. Tactical, practical, in sustaining myself while keeping out of everyone's way and working on my own mind out of the way of everyone's abnormal level of intriguing offense at my own ambitions, as they sat inside of me, swelling with what I really wanted to be. Paying for school doesn't get your props up on the wisdom of insight in the Buddhist meditative practices nor relationships with love and Nirvana in any day I've ever walked through a class room, ears open wide and mind ripping through the words to drain it for what I wish I had out of that unkindly time-costing affair that leads to a letter and a promise that keeps trying to tell me I should give up my values to bend over for someone I can't talk to because they never hear a word I say.
But I kept alive and I fed myself and I remained with the freedom I thought to care for in the face of the whole world telling me not to sit down, not to rest there, not to speak my mind, not to take advantage of the things I did know, I did own, I did get to get to...
I ate held in jail, I don't consider it a long time. I saw the offenses threaten to take me down and didn't have an interest in another injury leading me back to the precedence that had consumed my freedom the day my physician's most associated nurse labeled me with the wrong diagnosis for a disorder; and I never got to utter the words, "These meds hurt, mom..." and be taken for anything but an undisciplined liar and sabotaging idiot working my mouth to take advantage of the people around me. I read book after book telling me I was wrong, I was unreliable, I couldn't be trusted or listened to or believed...
I remember the food... It was like a bare minimum making sure no one could do anything but stay alive. If you had form, frame or figure to speak of... sure as God-damned hell that diet should leave it left to thinning the strips of your strength to fight back. Keep it clean for the guards so you can't hit hard or take things into your own hands; then the irony in inmates mouthing off and turning violent while I get it up in vindicated over an open attempt at processing my own needs. And don't you fucking talk to me about the officers on duty and the corruption of the fucking police force. I saw those men and women, I listened well and heard them while they talked and fought themselves, all their own, to keep the peace in a place that didn't quite entreat nor care but for leaving us in the dust. Just prisoners with prisoners and the occasional drugs: you get to get out when it's readied-up time to talk to a judge. They cared, they fucking cared; but the things that fed us, the things that held us, and the things that we got to say without a repercussion in some fucking legality? We were prisoners through and through, on a mental unit with a doctor passing by we couldn't even talk to.
I lived next into and through that time on the streets and homeless indeed to take up some residence with my two backpacks like property sitting it up for once in a real god-damned bed for me. I took to it in a residential treatment home with a focus on Drug and Alcohol rehabilitation on the only process it intended. Some rundown stretch of cabin where we took to the multi-bed rooms with only privacy in the sharing of the restroom. I'd wander the gates of the front driveway like a pacing discontent, humming and singing on occasion with my mind reeling in a favoring of free-thinking. I got those parents back home making sure I finish that place up on a full-scale education for getting over problems I've never had and only heard in the reiteration of the recovered and the suffering expressed by news casts about actors and psychological theory in a secluded classroom about counseling in practice. But damn, did I learn my shit and damn, did I make good for it. Friends, tune, spiritual paths all fell out of the woodwork as I listened and lived in. The parents yammered on not letting me leave until I proved I was well in their eyes, while never taking the time to listen to the treatment facilitators words without an argument, a string of lies and complaints about the cost for a place that let me be fed and bed in their place while I wasn't allowed to work for being such a socially de-primed disgrace.
God damn had I known and heard everything those carriers of my rights had laid claim to, you won't know how much I saw in everything they were disgracefully down-talking to. Good people of heartfelt knowledge and well-earned rights in a world of experience. Talkers who knew math and hardship like such lowly serviced employees on a low-cost independent enterprise providing the service you tend to hear of like some high-yield expensive resort in an industry to which you can't resort. I knew their wisdom and kindness when they spoke, I watched them give to me and help me when I had little right to have kept it up in hope. You watch people whine and lose it when they've got nothing they need to prove it valid nor available, not even actually real in any life or way. I've heard of diseases my doctors get shocked can be claimed as theoretically available while people whine from wealthy rights and total arrogance... but you ask them if they can relate to your pain in some semblance of care, and compassion flies out the window wherein it was never there: and I can't help but watch them not know what it's like, to have suffered and survived in some real fucking life.
So I lived and I learned, again on food not fit for this bird. The diet was for alcoholics to recover at best price, and you bet your ass the owners in charity asked me to talk about how to arrange to not have to charge. Then my parents whined and complained to me, and I couldn't help feeling the awkwardness of living like insanity.
So I left and lived in a run-down place, overlooking a street where nothing lived across to face. Blank houses with families who owned loud t.v. screens, and I occupied a room with the laptop on overdrive playing from back when I wasn't yet out of high school. I ate when I felt my body whine for needs, but never did it threaten to start dying. The medication couldn't be turned down, and I couldn't help noticing how much it made me feel sick. Just like the olden days it was worse than having nothing yet I couldn't get rid of it. What the fuck was I supposed to do? Go back back to the streets living without my own money guilt tripping over the demands of people's generosity?
Since whenever I started feeding out tips and handing off cash to the people on the side who looked like they needed it, never in my life where I wished I had enough to give did I want some dependence on strangers to live. I taught myself ways and practiced trying to get the world around me. All I've learned is how much people can take from you when you try to live for free.
I played myself out in that room, pushing to get it all done with Domino's double-medium pizza deals refrigerated after a couple slices in wherever the refrigerator had room. Don't get me wrong... I soaked up the cheap-ass bulk of coffee out of too-easy-to-break machines and dosed myself up with a simple plastic filter to guzzle down water when I needed a little fuel. I got the occasional visit to a Costco, compliments of someone with a car who held my cash for me because by then I wasn't allowed to handle any of my spending. That dosage of ramen out of a cheap water-boiler and sometimes a peanut butter and jelly on white bread with Skippy and thick pasted faking it was fruit. But those pills had to get eaten and my time was spent abiding by the pain that had been growing my whole life as I had nothing to lean on that told it to stop getting worse; the pain those meds kept pushing me into so I couldn't lay them down and think in comfort for some while around.
You bet your fucking ass I was grateful back then. It may not have been my right to spend freely a dime; yeah, I may not be allowed to breach into owning by bank accounts in total at having two thousand bucks at a time. Sure, I could get sued, dropped, broken and unpropped while I work to live without losing my dreams to be able to someday solve and give. But fuck you and fuck that, no offense to anyone who cared about whether or not their pet cat was even enjoying their house and life amidst them like something with feelings could be something to feel for.
I was getting it through, playing out everything I could play with as though the future was still available, as though being beaten back and told a straight firm no to my own rights to walk a street were something new. I know now to be careful, don't tell someone you've heard what science is for some time now, don't mention the words enlightenment or that you've spent your life walking towards it by any way and and any how. I know the rules and I live on what I can get while I'm cut off from moving forward because I'm not allowed to mention what I don't forget.
But I lost that room, I got in trouble at the school I tried pushing for while working to get up on the thing I was commanded I had to pursue. I gave up my information and my rights for a disability check because no one would hire the insane young kid coming out of a rehabilitation center out of a couple of visits with inmates in the 'you're mental' section and all of its magnetically sealing holding cells; always room for two or more. I couldn't even get a chance at being held up to a way out while military personnel apologized in voices that sounded right that told me I couldn't join up to earn my future just because I'd kept to my values and followed the rules once they were told, while people kept telling me I needed to stop putting up a fight. I don't even get to volunteer without a higher level of ownership over property in this country, a better background check that results in looking at what I'm told is the cleanest background. I don't get to leave the hospital until they tell me that I'm too well to remember my wounds, I don't get to be released from a psych ward until they're sure that I've finished the program and can be predicted to obey their rules in mentality, I don't get to leave prison until I do the exact time they claim me to... I'm not even allowed a certificate of graduation for the schools I passed, that rehabilitation center I spent so fucking long at. They'd tell me I did it, graduated altogether with it, then I got to sit there while my parents said they were afraid of turning me out to live anywhere else, then complained about the price of keeping me so long, whined about the price of a home for addicts not taking the surgeon's forms for applying medical insurance.
So I looked up for logic and read out for reason. I tried my whole life to learn what I was told and kept up with people by working at more generous and peaceful entreating. But it comes down and I've got a record in ploy, sure I've recovered and learned but the record's right there from a history written up by people treating me like I've got to constantly behave as though every word out of their mouth is something to fear.
And now I am, living amassed in practice, listening to my friends and loved ones say they can't get at this. I've gotten to hard into my mind to lose what I believe like I could have when I didn't have the power to keep it mine. I got friends telling me what they say, that I give non-stop, talk intellectually. People keep reminding me I've gone deep into getting it, tell me their in love with the ways I keep reaching out and never regretting it. I've got that kindness looking up to me and in all the world they let me help them and speak and I've seen results as they play out just like I'd like them to: taking my words or thoughts and reaching out something in a way they enjoy to bring themselves up to something they'd rather be, some way they'd rather live, some idea they'd rather believe in.
So I'm starving on too little, I'm looking at the things that are supposedly supposed to recognizing it's just some jive that can't ever be good to me. I sit in a prison of being cut out all too clear an outcast surrounded by everyone acting out in fear. Still it's good to me and I'm not hear to breathe out like some bitch giving up on what's it gotten to within and without. Fury and wrath aren't complaints to an ear, talking about shit is giving away what you can say and I'm speaking up out of all of those times people have begged me to tell it out.
I hear those words of people who wish they could fucking kidnap me, steal me, breach me... Friends who can't afford to visit my town crying over wanting to earn me into their homes while we talk up a storm and they beg me to write more poems. I know too many kind people, I see too much growth and purpose in all of my effort as time lets on and the decency and well-beloved things I once longed to serve in people get stronger from it. I keep myself up every god damned day, and watch the people I respect most while they pray for me to my fucking face. Someone out there just got married, but I don't need some law-bound practice to feel love. I know plenty of people learning out of school the craft of preach and pastor to live in a dream of something and then they turn on me and we discuss the way to find out God's something we all ought to love as though it were real; if its all a lie and this shit's worth nothing, do you think that matters if the practice of believing in something pure is such a perfect way to take a sinner and make of it something?
I know I'm walking into death every day. I know no one whose authority I'm obligated to listen to is ever going to have the power to actually take care of me. I watch in fucking enlightened euphoria the ones who love the truth that we're together in this alongside me, who gives a shit if they're in my pain or helping lift the strain. I get what people can do. I know that no matter what I'm a fucking corpse being hunted out by laws that can't even go from 00 to 01 if they count, I don't care if I barely even get to have the perks or the benefits of this bedroom and the property that's there. I'll fucking survive that nothing else is mine, and that other people get to dictate what is and isn't mine. No matter the length of my life, I'm getting tired of the worthless fucking lie.
I'm not someone who has rights left. I just have what I've built out of myself. You think I give a shit about that winning on the multi-million lottery ticket being a gamble that gave you so damn much of it? I'll handle that I'm with nothing while I'm fed to death with shit that always costs me something. I'll keep pushing as hard as I have for it and I'll keep working forever because I'm no longer stupid enough to think I'm not good for it. I know I'm dead every time I feel through my chest that what I know of measuring my own pulse in my teens has proven that this weak and hollow echo isn't a fucking heartbeat anymore.
I don't get to have anything from the people constantly taking away how I get to live, so until there comes a day where maybe someone figures out a way we can save me I'm going to act like that creature that doesn't need it's life to live.
In care about my values, in joy at what I've become and in dedication to the things I love: regardless of any day to come, so long as they are the them that have cared to be something that I can fight for with self-respect not being entangled in thinking I'm putting it up for some asshole who's going to pull off the process for cheating out the things I fucking work to die for___
Whether I end up in something to call Heaven or Hell,
May it all serve my intentions well...