I know many are curious about the title. It’s kinda a private joke pertaining to where I am from compared to New York. There are so many differences between the two that it makes me feel country, like I am from Mayberry. And if I look further down the road, I will see Andy and Opie..*lol*... Things are so different that sometimes I have to joke from keeping myself from crying. But despite my sacrifices, I still fell in love with New York.
As far as my living arrangements, I am still in a domestic violence shelter. In an undisclosed location. My time is almost up here and I still haven’t found housing. I am suppose to look at a place on Monday. I am hoping I will get it. If I don’t I can see myself falling into a depression. It has happened already, a few days ago. I have a psychiatrist that I see. I would say she helps, it helps to talk to someone who is not biased. But I feel that is not helping so much anymore. It kinda just feels like a pep talk. Just a feeling of being placated.
I have yet to connect with any type of hiv doctors. I have gotten bloodwork back, it’s just been hard getting the results. Last time viral load and cd4 was mentioned to me, it was 525/59,000. It has kind of been put on the back burner because I am focused on trying to get new hearing aids.
I have to remind myself that everything here has a process. The process is slow. Back home things move a whole lot faster just minus the benefits. The doctors I have seen since being here actually act like they care. Back home, you feel more like a number and their bedside manner sucks. Get you in and get you out, sort of like a factory line. Now where is the love in that?
My adopted mother passed last year. She passed the day after my father’s birthday. I’d like to think that they spent his birthday together. Due to my beliefs, I’d like to think that my father was the one to help her crossover. Both their ashes are spread across Lake Erie. I didn’t find out til three months after her death. I felt guilty about that because I had not seen or spoke to her in years. Not since we buried my father. I hate myself for that.
I’d like to think they are watching over me. And when I feel like giving up and cutting my loses, it’s their voices I hear. Nudging me forever, giving me the strength to go on.