Because I can’t afford a food dehydrator, the medicine that could cure many of my problems is rotting. The white fungus that grows all over my apartment—on wood, on the walls, and on my backpack and clothes—is growing on some of the mushrooms.
My rent for this mold filled dump is due in two days. I hate this apartment and I must move to a quiet place because of my PTSD, anxiety, and panic disorders. The area where the mushrooms grow is quiet. That’s where I need to move. You don’t know the shit I have endured to get mushrooms and look for a place to live in the country. I unexpectedly had to sleep outside, on the ground, without any sleeping equipment, tent or tarp, in the rain, at 5°C (41°F), for an example that was relatively easy to endure.
But none of it matters because I am obscenely poor. Three friends, and no family, help me as much as they can. About US$55 a month. That’s not enough for rent in this moldy shit hole that doesn’t have a stove or refrigerator.
I don’t have enough for rent or food or medicine to cope or a food dehydrator or socks or to patch the holes in all of my clothes or shampoo.
Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain killed themselves. Traditional media and social media are falling over themselves to say, “Tell someone you are in pain. Ask for help. You are not alone.” I tell people I am in pain and I need help and I am alone and I feel suicidal, and people respond by saying I am lying.
This is what I looked like in April 2010.
And this is what I look like after years of poverty and sickness. June 2018