More than likely, this is part of the same disease that at times torments me so. Call it depression, bipolar, Asperger, legacy of alcoholic and co-dependent parents; label it anyway you want and apply lipstick. It's still a pig and a pain. The last few weeks have been absolute hell. Trying to get the depression medication approved, and it being (still) tossed as a football via fax machine, from Pharmacy, to Doctor, to Drug Company, to Insurance and so on and so forth.
I was still waiting for my cab and another man came up to me and asked me about my blindness and I told him. Then I started to tell him about the homeless man, and then, I started to cry. I feel like all the sins of the world are on my shoulders for that one unkindness. You see, I used to be like that and I worked so hard to not be like that. Because I know what it is to be homeless, a pariah, unwanted and living a marginal existence. I never want to go back there again. Being poor doesn't mean not caring, judging, being envious, or loveless. I'm fine with being poor, but I need that compassion, love and non-judgmental acceptance that is all our due. I have always felt that I did more harm in my life than I did good. Or just wasn't good enough, or just fill in the blank. This is my last chance at redemption through grace; I must remember the love, kindness and compassion and generosity that have been shown to me and pass that on, because without it, I am nothing.