The past couple of days have been difficult for me. I hate Sundays and Mondays because I don’t have my kids, so I’ve been spending a lot of time at Mr. Anderson’s house.
Mr. Anderson has a boy house. It has everything utilitarian, all the amenities…but nothing….”home-y.” No pictures on the walls, nothing decorative…the man has two jobs. This is just basically where he sleeps. All the shades are always drawn too, and any light in a room without a human in it is off–it’s a recipe for Seasonal Affective Disorder.
I began missing my slobby mess of a place (don’t worry–not “slobby enough for CYS to complain) and my cats after the first full day here. The internet is nice (I have to stick my computer in the window to share my neighbor’s signal), the ordering in is nice (although I swear I hear a toilet flushing money down the drain every time it happens), and, of course, seeing him is nice too….but…..even my very few friends have started complaining of not seeing me.
So today, after filing a FIVE page document that my (court appointed) attorney didn’t feel like doing himself, as well as enduring ANOTHER random drug test, I went home. It was stinky. The garbage needed to go out. And the litter box needed to be scooped. But it was home. I put some laundry in, did the garbage and the litter box (and was thankful that Mr. Anderson had done the dishes the day before) and went over to my neighbor, Lumen’s house, who happens to be one of my good friends, hoping to vent. She was on the phone with her mother, her son was bugging her for homework advice, and her brother was watching TV too loudly while the dogs ran from room to room.
I left, feeling defeated. No solace there, I guess. Back at home, I slumped onto the couch while the cats, who missed me, piled on, and started to fold laundry. In less than ten minutes, Lumen knocked on the door.
“SPILL!” She demanded, while telling me that she knew something was wrong the second I walked in the door.
We ended up having a much needed hour and a half long gab-fest, which was the best kind of therapy I could have asked for.
It reminded me of earlier that day, when I was talking to the receptionist for the public defender. She had asked me who the people were that were sitting with me in the courtroom on the 2nd, when I, unbelievably, did NOT go to jail. I told her that the one was Mr. Anderson, and that the other two were my very good friends. She told me how glad she was that I had a support system, and we both smiled as I left, with,
“It’s good to have friends.”
I just can’t say it enough.