I was told the night I came in that I'd be getting an interview with a case manager and that because of my background in the Navy, it'd probably be a female named Bay. Neither of those things were true.
In fact, nothing went to plan. Nothing ever does. I thought that maybe the spark of human kindness that had given me hope to stay in this place would be carried over.
Mais, non.
It was another place where well-intentioned people with limited resources just shuffled cases onto and off of their desk with a well-honed, reflexive set of words and projected emotions. Round stones sorted and shipped, square stones rejected as difficult.
I could see the problem. Some of the guys there were trying to start over after kicking an addiction. Some of them had mental illnesses. Others just didn't want to work ever again. I haven't asked many guys about their stories. I'm not usually one to pry.
My story is that I'm a shithead. I tried to do things my way, hard and for a long time. I pushed away people who could help me because I wanted to do things on my own or die trying. Now, my closest friends are these guys. Like every other person I've ever met, they're generally kind, but quick to take offense and vigilant about giving up what they have.
These guys, this place, and a few government programs are all I have to try to have my own life.
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