S. K.
I define the Bad Days as the period beginning January 1, 2024. I am not sure when exactly the Bad Days ended, but I know they have because I do not wake up with nightmares of being trapped in my childhood home, trying to reason with my captors.
The Bad Days are a nebulous concept. I had a good day on New Years. I probably had good moments smattered inside Bad Days.
I looked through my camera roll for proof of what got me through the Bad Days. I found pictures of cars that broke down during the Bad Days. Pictures of apartments I wanted to show my boyfriend. Pictures of books, songs, movies, and tv shows I swore I was going to watch during the Bad Days.
Bizarrely, I also found the contact information for my 3rd-through-9th grade crush, which I had (perhaps unethically) looked up during my time working at an H&R Block.
I did not hate working at H&R Block in specific. I hated sleeping in my car before and after work, waking up early to move around the Hill to avoid parking tickets. I hated the people I worked with, who seemed like sniveling babies for having any issues besides find shelter, find food, pay bills. Everyone I met seemed to be oblivious to their charmed life, and oblivious to my cursed one.
When I told people I was homeless, I saw it roll off their glazed eyes as they continued their navel-gazing, searching to find a topic in their own lives to circle back to.
I skipped class one day to see my campus’ emergency therapist. I hysterically told her about leaving, about my fears that my parents would find me, about how my older sister was mostly fine except for her tendency to torture me when our parents weren’t around. I remember going catatonic in the first five minutes as the therapist told me that her time was limited. I’m sorry, is my crisis inconvenient? I thought. I said nothing — I didn’t even fill out the post-appointment survey she emailed me. As I drove home, I thought about crossing the median.
CLAMOR 