I threw This piece of fiction together on the evening of 8/24. Enjoy!
I was two missed paychecks or a government shutdown away from being homeless. Even under those circumstances, I considered myself luckier than most. I had a roof over my head and food in the fridge. I even had luxuries like a fuel-efficient car and a robust internet connection. I think back to the austere conditions I’ve lived in and recognize I’m living like a pauper.

Still, the weight of class and culture was oppressive. Our system looked like a perverse amalgamation of capitalism, socialism, and plutocracy. It was a hooded taskmaster with sickly limbs whipping the corpulent systems to do its bidding. I wasn’t scared to be a vagrant. Some parts of me embraced it. But it was a life I wanted to avoid.
When I came home from war, I returned to the comfortable habits I had acquired as a teenager. Getting high. Throwing liquor or coke in the mix to bring things up a notch. Petty thievery. Driving too fast and getting into fistfights. The crowd I built myself around supported and participated in these anti-social events.
“I can’t stand when you get like this!”
A former lover shouted during one of our arguments.
I was slipping. It felt like I belonged to something, but I couldn’t see that the walls were closing in, and I was up against a bad, bad outcome.
I was disconnected. Unplugged from a society that didn’t understand me. I don’t blame them. Oftentimes, I don’t understand myself. Sometimes, though, we all feel the need to drape our feelings onto the shoulders of others. I had little trust in the capabilities of the few people who were willing to listen. Moreover, I didn’t trust myself to know how to navigate sharing the delicate traumas of my life carefully.

So, when I ended up at a non-denominational group therapy session, I was scared. I don’t remember what I said, only how I felt: regret, shame, and nauseating guilt. A beacon of hope shined on me that day. It was the first time since childhood that someone genuinely said that they were proud of me.
I was stunned. They weren’t proud of me for my service or getting my shit habits under control. She was proud of me for openly navigating those complex feelings in her presence. Once again, I felt like I had a place where I belonged.
Comments