I incurred a traumatic, sheared axonal brain injury in 2019. Neither my family nor I followed the doctor’s warnings on the injury of increased patient temper or failures to communicate with confidence, but peacefully. Situations developed to where I was no longer welcome to stay at my mother’s home. I stayed with a kind-hearted sister for a weekend before I took an older brother up on an offer to live with him in Texas. This brother works out of town for weeks on end, but I was allowed to stay in his home with his girlfriend at the time. Upon his return, I was verbally accosted for a claim that I had snuck into the woman’s bedroom, where she woke to find me hovering over her bed. This accusation was accepted as false by all members of my family, save said brother. Within a month, I was shown by them where to move at a good price. During this time, I had begun blogging about my childhood’s positive events, but also about my daily life, which had become more negative. My family took some offense to my sharing of family stories, but greater offense at my coverage of daily goings on. I became nervous about riding my electric bicycle around the same town that my brother, an especially combative Harley gang member, might treat me poorly in any encounter, notably a street encounter. So I bought a plane ticket back to Georgia to stay with my sister for an undetermined amount of time. To do this, I would have to sell the electric bicycle that was gifted to me in Texas because its batteries are not allowed on commercial flights. I met a kind pastor there who was instrumental in finding a discounted buyer for the vehicle and also offered me a ride to the airport, several towns away.
I returned to Georgia and my sister’s, where her boyfriend put me in contact with a man wanting to sell his electric bike. I purchased the Darth Vaderesque-looking and more off-road-feeling Imperial Stout for a thousand dollars. My sister lived in a beautiful area, and I enjoyed the Stout, immensely. My sister had turned me on to CBD while I had still been staying with my mother. Incidentally, it was my mother’s discovery of my CBD use that led to my having to leave my mother’s home, despite Fareed Zakaria and the general opinion of doctors that it was useful to my injury. My sister had been an accomplished user of THC and was not considered the sharpest knife in the drawer. I had been injured in a drunk driving incident, so all drugs for me were considered anathema, while drinking and drug use were common and accepted in the rest of the family. Those coinciding facts led to my blog becoming more angry with family and them with me to the point that it eventually led to me being blocked on multiple outlets from communicating with most of them at all.
It was possibly a mixture of my easily angered mind and my sister’s Christian beliefs that led to my first admittance to a behavioral health institute, of which I, at last count, have visited 6. The suicide hotline call I made in this anger made my sister tell me that I would not be welcomed back to her home. By this point, I had alienated myself from my entire family and had no place to go after my release from Ridgeview Institute. I found a courier for disabled people to be placed in various homes in my general area. The courier introduced me to a Jamaican family close to Atlanta that supplied room and board to disabled folks for $1200 a month. Alcohol and marijuana abuse were quite prevalent there, which made my need to remain sober impossible to meet. I stayed there for a year, bunking with some old yankee that reminded me of one of my evil stepfathers and sharing a space with an autistic boy that I had met in Ridgeview. Our downstairs area also had a couple of mixed pit bulls that came after me when the autistic boy threw punches because I caught him stealing some of my stored food. We had a range of disabilities that rotated through there for the year I stayed before I found a group that introduced me to another Jamaican lady who rented beds to the disabled in a home where we would live only amongst ourselves.
This home was usually overstuffed with people of various disabilities or no disability at all, other than not being bright. My xenophobia got in high gear when several of the Jamaican tenants had more problems than most. I stayed there for 2-3 months, but didn’t have to pay for the final weeks I was there because paying the landlord, who did not accept checks, was difficult. My time there with roach-infested silverware drawers was unpleasant, so I contacted Safe Care Homes Group, which had introduced me to the owner of that home, for another home. I was taken to another home, owned and run by a couple of Jamaican ladies who lived off-site, where I tempered my doubts as best I could, but could not escape the dilemma of having no telephone for multiple reasons, including two-factor authentication that was needed to pursue my quest for paid writing gigs online. I have now signed the papers for my departure from this home to a different home that is owned and operated by a kind enough-seeming person. The current landlords have and will remain displeased with me until I move out in less than one month. I have visited the new home and believe I will likely operate quite well from there. Of course, I’ve got brain damage and am oftentimes incorrect.