I’ve been reading. Good books, too. I finished Ivy Aberdeen in a day yesterday. A great gay book. I haven’t read MG in a while, so I was pleased that I didn’t get bored. I stopped reading Boxcar children and Animorphs ages ago, because although I loved them, the language style was too dull for me.
I finally finished reading Undead Girl Gang. Not in a day, it dragged on to two weeks. The story and concepts were fascinating, but there were some minor disturbances in the writing that made it easy to put down. The writing style was a little clunky.
In the midst of the Undead sludge, I quickly read History Is All You Left Me. I love Adam Silvera. I loved the book, all stars, but.
I’m so depressed lately, I can’t bring myself to fully enjoy a book. I know my heart should’ve been affected by History IAYLM, but I couldn’t be present enough to put my heart in there.
I’ve mentioned this already. I’ve recently become homeless. I’ve been staying at a shelter the past four nights. I feel helpless and unknowing. Normally not knowing the future is an adventure. But knowing absolutely nothing, like this, is just scary.
Normally I’m able to put myself in the books, feel the feels, think of how I’d interact with the character. But this is just killing time, reading because the computers are timed out, because I’m not hungry or don’t have food.
And it’s not just depression because things are crap and I can’t do anything at the moment. It’s depression because my brain doesn’t have a healthy level of serotonin. I have a mental illness that I suspect is PTSD, but I don’t have a therapist. I did when I was a kid, but I had to hide how bad is always was because she kept talking to my mum, who always made it about her. So my kid therapist disqualified me from therapy when I graduated high school.
I know I shouldn’t say anything else, but I’m sick of this. I’m sick of hiding. I don’t even know where my mum is right now, because there’s safe shelters for college aged folk, but seniors get kicked out onto the streets, so she went to a safer neighborhood.
I was assaulted when I was 17 years old. It was the summer before senior year. I was walking my dog, when an old man started talking to him. My dog didn’t show his usual amount of affection, which I thought was off, but he didn’t growl or anything. When I say old, I mean ancient. Barely-talk old. I thought he was harmless until he grabbed me with a ridiculous amount of strength. He embraced me so hard I couldn’t breathe. He. Was. Strong.
I pushed away him with my free arm, the one that wasn’t holding my dog’s leash. I pushed, and pushed. He let go, squeezed my boob, and was down the street before I could catch my breath.
I didn’t know what to do. The last TIME that came out detailed #MeToo women coming out against their bosses. If this had to happen to me, I wish it was a boss. I wish it was someone I knew. I wish it didn’t happen at all, but since it did, I wish I had a name and location I could’ve given to the police.
But I didn’t. There wasn’t anything to be done about it, so I stayed silent.
My time is up. I don’t usually get this dark or personal, but I needed to vent.