The trailer, Wauconda
Over a year to the week. I had worried that I might have lost this journal—I fear about many things being lost in all my movements. Things have been so horrible, I have cringed at the idea of journaling.
The third mania started around October. Then the election sent me overboard. The arrests. The homelessness. The crazed attempts at making money. The strange encounters and frigid nights. Kept alive by the kindness and generosity of strangers. I burned more bridges. I can’t bring myself to write their names. I miss the twins terribly and feel the guilt of my participation in their cutoff from Mom and Dad. I miss Carlos and Anna, too. I suppose there isn’t anything about my old loves I don’t miss.
I go by Que now; Maza feels so far past.
It’s my last night in this trailer, which feels like home more than anywhere. My cold cell. Tonight I have a call with a potential roommate. Then Allie and I will watch something together—GBBS and The OC—which we haven’t done in months—since before everything fell apart again.
I don’t know what to think about my condition—the threat of continued episodes that will render me suicidal with guilt, poverty, and hopelessness. The futility of creation brings me lower—I ache for companionship more than anything. Maggie, my honorary bestie, does not satisfy the voids left by the latest casualties. It’s hard to trust, love.