Scared of Phone, Mail, and Knocks on the Door

I’m scared of checking my voicemail, my email, and my mailbox. I only feel active at night. I feel like bad news will be there. Today I checked my voicemail and there was a message from my social worker to call her back today. I imagine all sorts of scenarios she could harass me for. My apartment was a mess a couple weeks ago when my aid took me to the store. I was hoping since it was just once after weeks of no service that she’d let it slide. I’ve been trying to get everything in tip top shape by next time the aid comes. What if the aid saw a full bottle of liquor ( which still is not open,and I’ve had it since my birthday). Are they that paternalistic? What about anything and everything that I haven’t said to her?Maybe she found out I’m delinquent on one of my bills.

Today, I helped a guy bring his 3 boxes of Coke to his apartment and up his stairway. He had dropped one box and shouted angrily at it, ” YOU FUCKING FAGGOT! REALLY YOU ARE.”

Great, another psyche case, I thought to myself. And while I’m throwing shade in my head, I’m debating in my head if I should help him.

But I’ll have to talk to him, my mind cautioned.

But he’ll think you’re an asshole if you don’t help him, I remonstrated . Fear of being an asshole won, and plenty of people have helped me in the past in similar situations. It’s not that I didn’t want to help him, but the fear of talking to someone is ingrained in me.

He asked me my name and whether I worked at the nearby hospital. I gave him my name, answered no without elaboration ( which might be rude. I didn’t ask him his job just in case he was on disability too. He certainly looked the part, she of the many holes shirt, thought. I just really like my Cat in the Hat shirt, it’s comfy around the house, etc. I wasn’t aware I was about to fraternize with my neighbors.


While he didn’t really like me, clearly,

I’ll still miss him dearly.

He whom I loved in spite of everything.

I never could discern truth from a lie.

A forked tongue and a wicked sense of humor –

too wicked, sometimes; it matasticized like a

tumor and ate me alive.


Suddenly, the myopia of my soul cleared,

and I saw:

The ugly little girl become a wretched, bitter hag.

Ancient ridicule replicated ad infinitum,

translated into a modern curse.

It never ends, but it could be worse.