I’m so depressed today that I dare not tell anyone. They would be ashamed of me. I’m ashamed of myself.
I’m shaking with anxiety. My kitchen and apartment seem foul to me, especially the fridge, and I’m embarrassed. I’m embarrassed that I’m going to eat gelato, and proably drink cream later. It’s the depression. The effort it takes for me to keep clean is too much sometimes. That’s why I want to live alone. I’m so ashamed of how I live, even though there are probably 17,000 depressed people within a 1000 mile radius of here who are embarrassed by how they live.
I keep people away from my life. I keep them away from my home. I hate my housing: Congregate Care Level II HUD-subsidized housing. The staff watches my every move. Cameras everywhere except inside the apartments (as far as I know). They know – the staff always knows whether or not I’m home. It’s because the front desk person has to record in a notebook whenever a resident exits or enters. There’s just the one entrance. They have a monitor in front of them with all the camera feeds from the hallways and building entrance and lobby. If they want me, they know I’m home. They’ll buzz my intercom over and over. They’ll come knock on my door. The case manager will call my phone.
I’m in an abusive relationship with my housing. Every step I take to protect myself seems to incite some kind of retaliatory behavior. They start treating me like I can’t be trusted; like I’m incapable. They patronize me; they condescend to me. They laugh and pooh-pooh my very real problems. They interrupt me when I’m speaking. They ask intrusive questions – the same ones – over and over; and their shtick is that they need to continually evaluate and therefore they’re allowed to ask the same instrusive questions every time they see me. It’s a design. The program is designed to give me the feeling that I don’t know what’s real and what’s not. It’s designed to give me the feeling that I’m crazy, incapable, dependent, and also undeserving of support and trust.
Their formula keeps me trapped in my home, because I don’t want each of my exits and entrances recorded…because I deserve privacy and independence…because I don’t want to run into nosy staff every time I leave or come home. There’s only one way in and out of the building. It’s all very “Big Brother Is Watching You.”
You want out of the shelter, you submit to them. They get to change the rules whenever they want.
I sit in my apartment and shake with fear. The meds don’t touch it, this anxiety. It’s not anxiety. It’s pure fear of being abused. It’s pure fear of being violated. The answer to an abusive relationship? GET. OUT. Get out! Get out! Get out! Don’t try to reason with an abuser. Just get the fuck out however you have to.