"No. I won't go back."
I listened, expecting and shoring up my supply of reasons in advance.
"I tried. I really tried."
Around me, the contents of my storage facility. I would rather die than let them use that label on me. So, yeah, I had no running water, no electricity, no nothing except the contents of my closets and drawers slung everywhere serving as a multipurpose couch/bed/cocoon. Yeah. I'm that person. Rehab had been so not for me.
The streets - my arms are too scarred for tattoo ink. This, this is slightly better than the alternatives, of which the numbers dwindle on a daily basis. I get enough from begging on the off ramp to pay for a prepay phone to keep in touch with my baby's foster care. I dig in garbage cans for shreds of food outside the KFC. I steal toilet paper from Lowe's and piss in a bucket. I wash in bathrooms, best I can. Yeah, all that. Just don't label me "homeless." I've got my pride.