dis·so·ci·a·tion /dəˌsōSHēˈāSH(ə)n,dəˌsōsēˈāSH(ə)n/

noun noun: dissociation 1. the disconnection or separation of something from something else or the state of being disconnected

I parked myself in the handicap spot closet to the entrance. I still had to maneuver my scooter across a fake cobble stone pathway. For the record, those things are not accessible. Something I’m learning more about as I, wheel, and hobble about this reality.

The world is not as accessible as advertised.

Of course the handicap door opener doesn’t work, however, the kind security guard has seen my feeble attempts and like a gallant knight presses the inside button and swish, the doors to my treasure trove of food stamps whisk open welcoming me into..

The depths of hell.

I make my way through the threshold of opportunity for greens and milk, uttering a sweet thank you and a smile to a man who probably hasn’t seen anyone smile in a very long time.

People don’t smile here. This isn’t a happy place.

This is where the desperate come. And I am desperate.

After 2 weeks of calling the number and being told “There are too many people on hold please call back later”, I mean that should tell you everything you need to know about the state of humanity… please ban another book.

I committed an entire day to sorting out getting food stamps – currently branded CalFresh to make it more palatable. For whom? Look, poor people don’t give a rats ass what you call it, just give me the damn food. I have kids to feed.

I know the drill and que up. Grateful the line is only 10 people deep, that’s an hour at most. As I slowly inch forward a man behind me comments on my visible scars as my cankle is exposed in my last year’s gold rush Birkenstocks, the only shoes I will wear for the next year.

As I turn to acknowledge him, I see a man, probably in his 60’s, Black, carrying everything he owns. I scan the line behind me, an older Asian woman, dressed conservatively but classy, and behind her, a bleach blond, late 20’s in a full on TJMaxx, got it for less, but still looks amazing, we’re all here, One couldn’t stereotype this line of everyday humans just trying to survive in a world that doesn’t care about them. It isn’t the stories you hear from the alt right… it’s people…just people…like me, desperate.

I chit chat with the man behind me, turns out he broke his ankle once too… It’s finally my turn. I make my way to the window and explain I filed everything online and haven’t heard back… I came last week , spent 2 hours and was given a number and well, you already know what happened when I called that…This time I wasn’t leaving purgatory without a hall pass to another dimension.

The woman behind the window was kind. Imagine having that job. Engaging with people at their most darkest moments, trying to support them as the meander through the vast maze of government red tape just to eat.

Like- WTF is wrong with us?

Sorry I digress.

She explains that I have to talk to a “worker” which is short for social worker. I suddenly envision a beehive with thousands of bees behind the small room made available for the beggars to file into all buzzing happily about flinging CalFresh cards with glee..

Sadly, there are not thousands of bees… Just a small army of dedicated “workers” trying to make their way through a horde of humans and no one was flinging anything.

I’ve done this once. 12 years ago, when I left my husband, my kids 3.5 and 6.

I feel the same shame, actually, I feel worse this time as I plead my case. This isn’t supposed to be me, now.

I’ve worked so hard, literally, and metaphysically. I’ve done the fire walks; I’ve shit out of places I didn’t know existed in ginormous spider filled jungles, I drink a ridicules amount of tea and I have an alter, I have several of them!

WTF?!

Maybe it’s true… I am a failure. Maybe I’ll never break free from this cycle of highs and lows.

The kind lady tells me to have a seat and they will call my name.

I find a spot, closest to the door the name callers come out of and park my scooter and my ass, cause…by the looks of the room overflowing with other humans just trying to get by, it’s gonna be a minute.

My buddy behind me in line has made his way to the window and I watch for, no shit, 15 minutes while he just tries to tell the kind woman his wallet got stolen and he needs a new card, turns out his card was issued by a different office and he has to go there. But he already did… and so round and round they went.

The Asian woman’s husband just passed, the hot girl in the discount couture just got out of jail... ok, I didn’t see that coming, I bet he fucking deserved it… the man behind her with 3 kids hanging on his ankles, the woman behind him…

It went on and on. The stories of loss. A cacophony of suffering from people like you and me echoing in my head, “How…Help. Me, what form?”

I started to feel nauseous. So, I took out my phone and did what I do best, dissociate. It’s what we all do, really, these nifty devices offer us a window into a whole new reality. I opened Insta and saw a picture of Pedro Pascal. And…

Suddenly I was in a whole different reality. Where Pedro and I were dating… we went to Italy. Sarah Paulson was staring as Sarah in Killing Buddha, there was a whole love triangle. The sex was awesome…all the while, interspersed between “Who’s your daddy” was another human pleading to get a small pittance just to eat.

And this was my reality for 4 hours. Pedro and I at the Golden Globes, a mother trying to figure out which form she has to fill out, Pedro and I at the premiere of some film, a frail old woman confused and lost just trying to figure out why her monthly allotment had dropped to just $28 dollars. Ok, who can eat on $28 a month?

In and out until, I hear through the echoes of the Met Gala where I am wearing my gorgeous heels I bought right before I broke my ankle, pink and black plaids, and Pedro is in a matching kilt, I hear “Elizabeth…Elizabeth” a name I was only called when someone was in trouble or died… oh it’s me, I am in trouble…

I startle out of my paparazzi infused coma and say “Me! I’m Elizabeth, the troubled one”