McDonald's was blissfully warm this morning after a long and chilly walk. Sat at a warm table in the back near the children's play area drinking hot coffee as I ate my sausage biscuits and hash browns. Workmen behind me in their work clothes, talking loudly and boisterously. I was glad just to be around others and their jubilant speech was contagious. I wanted to join in as if they were long lost friends I had rediscovered after many years absence. I sat with a smile on my face looking pleasant.
Felt shabby this morning and usually this would combine with my social anxieties to keep me from going out of the house. It reminded me of my homeless days: day old clothes, two days without a shower or bath, a day old shadow of a beard upon my chin and face. I felt grubby. Felt too shabby for even McDonald's, but my hunger for a breakfast affair spurred me on.
I realized this morning as I walked home to write this that I hate pity. I hate the way people wield it as a weapon. But just as much, I hate the way my mental illness takes my peace away and exacerbates that feeling of everyone with prying eyes and the perceived threat of everyone meddling in my business. My father, the gang, Rosa, my family, blog readers. They all want a piece of me and I grow so weary and tired. They won't leave me alone, not even for a minute, always there hounding me with their eyes, their expectations, their wants for me. Their all encompassing desire for me to conform to the established norms of society -- a society which I see as mentally ill and dubious at best.
My father stayed over for hours last night. Clara never showed -- probably too drunk to walk the mile to my house. My father thrust that handful of pills upon me, checking my hand, and then under my tongue to see if I took them. Humiliating! I wanted to cry out for help -- to escape the pressure my family puts upon me and their ever watching eyes -- eyes I have to conform too and put on a grand facade of mental wellness for fears of mental hospitals and more medications. Luckily, my father largely ignored me as he watched television in my den. I sat for what seemed like hours until he left and I collapsed in the bed exhausted to get a few hours of broken sleep.