I went crazy two weeks ago.

Yep, I went crazy. I lost my fucking mind. I worried more of you than I thought might think I mattered. Sorry, shit just got too real. Even the great and steel tough Hoodie has a breaking point.

Aside from the normal day to day worry about my fucking ex, the way I have to live because of him, all of that shit I carry every day, I got robbed on the 3rd. My rent and my extra money were taken. I filed a police report, of course, so I could maybe try and find some financial aid through a program. Two days after this happened, I had this big bruiser of a guy decide I needed to be taught a lesson about being a snitch. He clocked me in my head and told me "snitches are dead bitches around here."

My apartment flooded from the tub upstairs, every piece of clothing I had got wet and well, no money, no washing clothes. Oh, and I should have had renter's insurance. In the ghetto. With junk for belongings. They don't make a blip on the insurance radar, but it's everything I have. That little gem was buried in my 34 page lease.

I've been on another campaign to try and get some aid to get my identity changed. Well, that turned out to be the same shit, different smell. There is no help. I went so far as to cold call several pages of lawyers listed on Justia.com practically begging for pro bono services. Every single one turned me down. Mind you, I have been at this for a decade. A long, disappointing, exhausting decade.

I've called all the available agencies that help with rent and it's that time of year, funds are depleted, sorry, toots. I'll be lucky if I don't get evicted. Oh, and there's $5 a day tagged on to the original $439 every day since the 5th. I can't even begin to make a dent in that.

I spiraled out of control and rolled a bottle of pills in my hands for hours. I was -this- close. I posted about how I was feeling and why, and my family descended on me like vultures on a carcass.

I rolled that bottle of pills in my hands for hours, again.

Then, I got fucking mad. Really, really, fucking furious.

I can't get help unless he comes at me. He thinks I'm still the twat he cowered nearly two decades ago.
So, I located him and his phone number. I called and heard his voice on the voice mail and freaked and hung up. I got some cajones, and called back. Some woman answered and I told her that she could tell him "Yes, I'm still alive. Yes, I know who he is and that he should think really hard about not creeping on me on the internet and meatspace anymore." Then, I hung up.

I wasn't quite satisfied. I wanted to poke the sociopath. Hard.

He disabled his voice mail, but I'm a stubborn sort. I sent a text. I told him I wasn't afraid and if he wanted to finish what he tried twice before, he didn't have to creep around to find me, I was more than happy to give him my exact address. I told him I was ready, and so was Sheriff Joe and his pink panties, or maybe one of these folks that hear me screaming and are carrying a gun might just take action, one never knows.

He demanded to know how I found him. I told him I had supreme Google-fu.

He has developed quite the selective memory. I asked him if senility was setting in.

He continued to text me for three hours. I mocked him openly. I taunted him gleefully. The best he could toss at me was "crazy", "fat", "retarded", and "probably poor". I told him negging was so '03 and he needed a new schtick. I referred to him as 'toots', 'old man', 'sunshine', 'sparky', and 'monkeyboy' and a host of other sarcastically demeaning shit. It felt fucking AWESOME.

He tried to argue points of the case. I laughed at how uninformed he was seeing as he was his own legal defense for over a year.

I told him with every message he sent, I knew I rattled his cage just -that- hard. That with every text he sent after I stopped, he was my bitch. I kept resending the same message, "Dance, monkeyboy, dance."

My last message to him said, "You've done exactly what I wanted you to do. I win, motherfucker."

Fuck that dude, he doesn't get to fuck with me anymore. Not in my life, and not in my head.

Now, I can get on to the business of trying to get better and begin to live again.