AN INTRODUCTION

Welcome to my freedom.
My sweet, precious freedom.

You've shown up fashionably late-- but not to worry-- I'll catch you up to speed.

     It's a Sunday.
     And I'm enjoying a day off from job hunting.
     I feel inclined towards guilt for such laziness, but really, who ever landed a job on a Sunday anyway?

Truth be told, I already have a job.
Telemarketing, five days a week.
I'm sure no other explanation is needed for a continuing job search, right?
The word "telemarketing" should say it all.

However, I do feel grateful to have any job at all.
A paycheck for a homeless man, is a true blessing.

Yes, I said homeless.

You see,  just over a month ago, I was released from the county jail after a nine-month stint behind concrete and steel.

And now, I am living in a shelter.
Which is, essentially, another institution.

I am in Boulder, Colorado.
A town where I know not a soul.
A town where I hardly know how to get from one point to the next, via the bus system or my legs.

Not surprisingly,
it is no easy task to work your way back into the fold of mainstream society after obtaining a criminal record (albeit misdemeanor).

I have been turned down for jobs such as dishwashing (at Whole Foods), and laundering bed sheets (the St. Julien Hotel).

In both cases, I was interviewed and hired, but once the misdemeanor criminal record was looked at, I was turned away.

The message (which I received loud and clear) was that I am not good enough to wash people's dishes or do their laundry, because I have been in jail.

To be fair... I have been convicted of six misdemeanors in the past 3 years.
That's a lot, in a short amount of time.

And during these past three years, I've lost everything:
Custody of my child, every last one of my friends, my car (crushed by a tow yard), most of my clothing, photographs, and pretty much anything else of monetary or sentimental value.

The whole of my belongings now fit neatly in a small locker provided at the homeless shelter.

I am lonely.
Most days I wish I were dead.
Often, I even fantasize of ways to kill myself.
The most popular fantasy is of me buying enough heroin to do the job-- which wouldn't be much, since the hardest drug I've ever done is marijuana.

But something, I'm not sure what, keeps me going.

Hope?

Fuck, I don't know.

I think a lot about the first 33 years of my life and the successes I had.
I'm an honorably discharged military veteran.
I've worked in the corporate world as a department head, I've worked as a writer and as a graphic designer.
I'm college educated.
I've done volunteer work over the years, helping out people that, ironically, were in the exact position I am in right now.

But then I hit my thirties.

A marriage fell apart.

Depression struck deep.

I picked up one too many bottles, tilted them back one too many times and spent far too much time and money in bars.

Anger festered inside of me, the cause and source of which is still pretty much a mystery to me.

I became abusive.

And shortly thereafter, the arrests started coming.

And now, I've got to figure everything out.
Figure out who I am, WHY I am, and how I came to this state of being.

The purpose of this blog,
is to document my climb from homelessness and loneliness and despair... back into the fold of mainstream society.

I want to believe I will get there.

I have to believe.

And along the way, I'll talk about the things I've done.

And the things I haven't done.

And everything in between.

     Additionally, I'll be working to rebuild my karma and inject the positive vibes into the world that I wish I'd been putting into it over the past few years.

Come along for the ride, would you?