Frustration is the only word I can think of that fits, only slightly. The constant red-tape and bullshit I keep getting when I reach out for help. I feel as though I’m running in circles, all one-way streets, each going in the opposite direction I need to be. Each try, more exhausting than the last. Even after more than six months I still don’t have everything in order. Sometimes the chaos shows, most times I’m able to hide it.
The professionals, who after hearing my story, say “yes, that’s a lot of moving parts in your life right now.” Duh, stupid! Yes there are lots of parts and I’m calling for help, not your cute response. If I had a dollar for each time I’ve been told my life currently had a lot of moving parts, I could pay a full month’s rent.
The help in sporadic gestures. “I’m sorry you’re feeling that way”, or “I’m sorry that happened to you.” I don’t need their sympathy; I want their help resolving whatever issue is burning at the front of the pile of “to do’s in front of me.
Out of food I tried several food pantries. All had the rules I needed to follow, and that wasn’t the issue. I needed help, actual help with things that didn’t come from their agency. Things like toilet paper, paper towels, shampoo, soap – basic needs that everyone has, why can’t those things be distributed as well. My first time at a food pantry I was given bags of food. Unfortunately, all cans, in need of an opener – and surprise I didn’t own one. So now, all the cans, stacked like soldiers going into battle. All unopened, collecting dust until my fogy mind remembers to buy a can opener next time, I’m at a store.
And the resource paperwork that is handed out at every opportunity I’m looking for help. Paperwork, at least a tree’s worth, sitting on my desk. All different colors remind you that someone’s out there ready to lend a hand. Sadly, they spent all their time and money printing out pretty lists. Each number I called either didn’t answer or went into never-never land on the answering machine. The result? No return calls, just empty air and even emptier promises.
The best part with all of them, the ones that I’m able to actually talk to, is the rah-rah session I get from each of them. “You’re doing great, keep up the good work”. Work? I am serving a life sentence for my shady choices and bad decisions. Good work? Another oxymoron for just scraping by with whatever bones you can throw my way.
My latest absurdity, dealing with the food stamps office. Me, “I have absolutely no income at the moment and can’t afford food.” Their response, “We’re sorry, since you’re employed we can’t help you.” Apparently being broke isn’t the same as being poor. Who knew. Sure, I make money, too much for assistance but not enough to actually live. And by living I’m not talking lavish by any stretch of the imagination.
Bouncing back, another moronic response to healing. There is no such thing as bouncing back from anything. A slow crawl is more like it. I’m guessing it will take me years to replace the things I’ve gathered over my decades of living as an adult. Obtained through a combination of groveling, crawling and crawling my way out. There’s light at the end of the tunnel; I just have to cut through all the paperwork to see it.
Healing isn’t a journey. It’s a customer service queue with no representative in sight.
K.
I'm Still Here. Somehow... 