Broken Arrows

I really hate the holidays. Things are hard enough when people are in their normal routines. I can dodge and weave enough to stay medicated, stay motivated, and manage expectations.

But for the holidays, that all goes to shit. Everyone I rely on for support for things I don't even realize goes away to visit family, or friends, or clients shut down for two weeks, and so don't pay until well into the next month only after receiving the 192823th copy of the same form they've been receiving from me since 1994.

But strangely, this time around may be different. A few friends have noticed that I'm all splayed about, my mind seared raw, my body skeletal. Without a home anymore I go from couch to couch. People have lives, and I can't fault them that. I refuse to go past that line again.

And without a permanent place to settle, on occasion, especially when young love heats up, I'm ready to pack up and ship out as if I were never there.

I only wish that it were at a time when people weren't already accusing me of irreparably damaging their lives for helping them.

I lose my entire support group at once. And then I freefall. The landing is a bitch.