streaming thoughts

I’m down, really really down.

The depth of down that makes getting out of bed to begin a new day difficult.

When was the last time I cooked a meal for myself? I love to cook — as a craft, creative expression, a way to share and, lastly, nourish the self.

My last and day’s only meal in the house was day before yesterday — a handful of Fritos at night, after I got “home” and all (early risers) were in bed.

The day before that, a can of soup and piece of toast (which of course I prepared and cleaned up immediately afterward oh so quietly so as not to disturb).

Before that, I dunno. I don’t know. I don’t eat here. How do you practice self-care when around you are hateful messages?

The situation and roommate (whose dominance dictates the atmosphere) are so unpleasant and negative that if I’m not in my room with door shut or outside as weather permits, I’m gone. Gone. For. Hours. And. Hours. And Hours.

I’m very very experienced at living outside the home. Hostile environments are not new to me; they could be called the norm. Through necessity and suffering, I’ve come to master the art of finding things to do outside the house … of “killing time” so to avoid going “home … of, in a very real sense being orphan and street waif — with a laptop.

These practices are but coping mechanisms when the home is dangerous – made dangerous by another’s mental and emotional unwellnesses, hostility, unpredictability and so on. They began when I was a girl and continue to this day.

They have got to stop.

I have got to find a home where kindness reigns and goodness has a safe place to unfold and blossom. Not exclusively others’ kindness and goodness but mine as well for mine has been beaten into veritable non-existence /expression by people in the homes who are mean, selfish, unconcerned with others, excessively controlling, without gratitude, appreciation or a positive remark about others.

In the short time in this residence, I’ve been criticized and scolded to the end of the block and back. I’ve been treated like a 5-year-old child, talked down to, yelled at, scolded, watched incessantly, faulted and corrected at my every breath, misjudged, unfairly judged, handcuffed, silenced, threatened, isolated and forced to leave because why? What did I do wrong?

My acts of kindness, thoughtfulness, consideration, people-pleasing, giving, contributing, helping and doing — without being asked or told! — from the goodness of my heart because something needs to be done — not one, not a single gesture, has been acknowledged. Not one has received a response of appreciation, a “that was thoughtful of you” or simply “thank you.”

I sure as heck have heard everything I’ve done wrong!

I do not live on praises, compliments or positive nods of others, no small reason that they were absent in childhood; it is a cross that I bear.

But this – the dynamic in this house, for I dare not call it a home – crosses a line (even for me, adept at and accustomed to insanity!) into a danger zone of irrationality.

I’m not sure which distresses and depresses more, the isolation, crap and things that went down or the person’s malice and ill intent.

The malice and ill intent.

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