So Much More(68)

“But, I almost threw away four years of being clean tonight,” I say. I don’t feel worthy of the help he’s trying to give.

“The important thing is you didn’t. You had an urge, and you managed it. That’s what sobriety is. And I believe deep down that if you had access to drugs, you wouldn’t have given in. You would’ve fought for yourself. Because the young lady who walked in here looking for help is a fighter. A fighter with a gentle heart. That’s the best possible combination.” He sounds convinced.

By the time I lie down on a cot in the women’s room, I’m convinced. The demon is gone. Chased away. The fact that I’m unemployed and homeless remains. I’ll take that trade any day.





Pine-Sol gives me a headache





present





If you would’ve told me I’d be running a homeless shelter a year ago, I would’ve brazenly, and unapologetically, laughed in your face. There’s no reward, and the pay is shit. There’s no prestige. The building is in shambles. But, the hardest part is, this job requires compassion.

Compassion is a language I don’t speak.

I remind myself I’m trying as I walk in the door my first day on the job. The first thing that assaults me is the smell. It’s a mixture of the state of decay of the building itself and the people housed inside. The second thing that assaults me is the voice inside my head shrieking at me to turn around and go home.

I’m questioning everything at this point. But, the biggest question is, why am I trying?

I could lie and say it’s for me. That I want to be a better person and grow, but that’s unrealistic. The depression is lifting, that’s a positive. But actual transformation into a do-gooder isn’t possible with my past.

I could lie and say I’m trying for my kids. Though I do feel like we’ve bonded now, and I enjoy spending time with them, but that’s not it either.

Deep down, I know I’m trying for him. For Seamus. I don’t need a get out of hell free card, my fate is sealed in that department, not even Seamus could help me avoid it…but I love him. I know I don’t love like other people do. My version of love is driven by selfish need, a little self-loathing, and some jealousy. But it feels so damn real when it beats inside my chest, and it’s starved for his touch, and his adoring stare, and his loving words, and his complete devotion. God, I miss that. I know games don’t work. I wasted years on games. I thought I was winning, most of the time I was losing. Losing him.

So, I’m here. In a job rooted, like Seamus’s, in humanitarian effort. Trying. Trying out a job that already doesn’t feel like it fits, for a second chance with him. Struggling to open up my mind to the idea of service to others to connect with him. It’s a long shot, I know.

The saving grace in all of this, is that this establishment and the non-profit itself, are on the brink of disaster. That’s where I come in. It’s a business that needs to find funding and efficiencies to ensure its survival and prosperity. I’m looking at it as a chance to push myself creatively and think outside the box. It’s about developing a plan to make this company run like a well-oiled machine. It’s a challenge. A numbers and strategy challenge, I’m good at those.

I’m introduced to the staff, the vast majority of which are volunteer residents. They cook, they clean, they do maintenance, they act as security, and they manage tangible donations like clothing, food, and hygienic items. They’re the engine that powers this train. By the time I make the rounds, I’ve learned a few things. One: I need to buy some different clothes for work. A five thousand dollar pantsuit doesn’t earn me respect from someone in secondhand, ten-year-old, stained, frayed denim. Two: The smell of Pine-Sol gives me a headache. I’ve never set foot inside a Costco, but I’m stopping at one on my way home and filling the back of my SUV up with cleaning supplies that don’t smell like a lemony, antiseptic, artificial, mountain forest. Third: Benito, the shelter’s crisis manager, is a good person. I hope he hasn’t already figured out I’m a bitch because I need him to stay and help me turn this place around.





You don’t get a medal for trying





present





My body is being a bastard today. My legs are killing me and my head is thumping like a bass drum, that’s been the norm for a week now. But today I feel dizzy, like I’m walking the deck of a ship on rocky waters. I’m leaning into my cane fighting the urge to topple over. Things could be worse, things could always be worse, but I’m in a bad mood, and irritation has put an end to my ability to parley with Miranda.

My kids are in bed. I need to be in bed myself, but I need to have this conversation before I do.

Miranda is sitting on the couch drinking a glass of wine, when I approach and sit on the other end. I lead in with, “How’s the new job?”

She nods slowly, I don’t know whether she’s gearing up for a negative response or if she’s just tired. “It’s going well.”

Good. “Good.” Now that I know she’s employed, I don’t feel bad following it up with, “Your time is almost up here, Miranda. I need you to move out this weekend.”

More slow head nodding, but it’s different this time, she’s thinking, scheming. I know that look. “I’m going to buy a house. I want you and the kids to move in with me.”