Tears of a Clown

14.04.14 (Day 113)

15.42

Thoughts as they occur, to me: I wrote this in the notebook (the paper one), with a good old-fashioned pen. The netbook is broken. Not that it was a lot of good given the limitations of facilities in this shithole of a town. So it’s back to basics. Back to where I was; to where I’ve been so many times. One step forward, two steps back.

I had what I call “a moment” earlier. One of those when I wished it was raining and was grateful for my sunnies.

I feel low (I am diagnosed as chronic depressed). As well as the netbook, I’ve had money lifted (again): that’s what happens out here. People with less resolve wouldn’t last a day. No-one knows what we go through. The latest incident is being dealt with though, in the old-fashioned way.

I’d actually concluded – on the advice of a friend – to let it lie. The thief obviously needed (or wanted) what he took and no doubt got what he needed (or wanted) with it. Being the forgiving type, I was prepared to leave it. Word got around though and the drums of the jungle beat loud in this hellhole, so someone has taken it upon themselves to have a word.

Stealing from someone out here is simply against the rules of the road, especially when the victim is someone who’s bought lunch. But nevermind. I’m just too trusting. But I’m forgiving.

I’ve been asked by yet more people not to mention them by name here, so I won’t. On top of the broken netbook and the stolen money though, there’s also someone who I hold dear apparently not recognising two-way traffic. Then there’s O2, who’ve fucked up my mobile allowances and lack of funds (due to theft) means that I can’t top up. Then there’s DWP’s fuck ups on the benefits (which I need to move on), the latest episode in the saga being that I have to jump through further flaming hoops and jump over more barbed wire-tipped hurdles to achieve nothing, again.

As well as the money in the stolen wallet, there was proof of postage for the package I spent £45 on the contents of and sent to my children. The package hasn’t arrived; I have no way of proving postage and I’m no doubt labelled a liar. Again.

I get it. I earn it. I share it. I give it away: I may as well, or it gets stolen.

Right now I’m just so tired, I want to go to sleep. In some respects, I hope I don’t wake up. I’m finding it really hard to carry on at the moment.

And then he cried. Again.

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