It’s about a week until Christmas. I am sitting here at 8 in the morning after a long night of not sleeping, listening to the drenching rain outside. My head is being pulverized by worries and despair. My back injury seems to have only gotten worse, I have less than a month to find another place to live, I have not been contacted about any job’s I have applied for lately, I no longer have a car, I have a little mouth to feed, and if you include Jason, a big mouth to feed too. I feel like giving up. I have tried so hard, with no results. I wish I had escaped it last year when I was going to Australia. I regret not going. There I wouldn’t feel guilty that I can’t get my son a Christmas tree, or decorations. There I wouldn’t feel responsible that I could hardly provide him a Christmas he deserves. If I were there he would be taken care of by people who could afford to get him new underwear that actually fit him. Jeans that don’t have holes in the knees, and long sleeved shirts. He would have his own room with a toy box and a big boy bed, and parents who weren’t on edge all the time wondering how to provide for the following month. I feel like a burden to those people who do help me out. Drive me to appointments, or take me to the grocery store. I hate feeling like I am putting someone out, yet I end up having to do it often. I wan’t to start over. Make different decisions in my life. Go back to my childhood and change things knowing then what I know now.
Merry Christmas are for people who have family, and children. For me it’s just one day closer to the day that I am back on the cold streets wondering what I’m going to do next, how I’m going to feed my son, and how I’m going to survive, and if it’s even worth it.