Editor’s note: Dan Newth is a member of Street Roots’ MoJo program. MoJo is composed of vendors interested in journaling life on the streets and writing about issues important to our community. This is Newth’s account of navigating health concerns in the midst of unstable living conditions..
Sleep eludes me as I lay in my tent on a grassy spot beside the road. I have to get to sleep so my brain will function tomorrow. I don’t get too paranoid and glare at people, and I don’t erode my community connections.
I hear footsteps as people walk by talking quietly. Are they talking about me? I hear “fuck him,” and my mind is positive they’re speaking of me. Adrenaline pumps, but I freeze unable to know should I rush out and confront or stay in my tent to stress out. To just chill is not in the realm of possibilities.
The sweet escape of sleep is gone for tonight.
I try to manage my meager existence through a myriad of stumbling blocks created by my complex post-traumatic stress disorder (CPTSD) and mild cognitive impairment. When given medications for one, the other gets more severe. Hepatitis C is another complication that flares up when I take these medications. Recently, a new joker worked its way into the deck; tingling pins and needles in my feet, and then hands, gave me a clear signal that diabetes is on the horizon.
I don’t consider myself a brave man but I’ll take a quick painless death over a malingering painful death from diabetes any day of the week. I don’t, however, seek a quick death just yet. Over a few weeks time, I came to the conclusion it was time to give up sugar. Easier said than done. July first is the date I settled on. No more sodas, alcohol, pastries, candy or refined flour products was a beginning goal.
Cutting sugar worked. Not only did the pins and needles stop after three days, but inflammation in my joints and muscles was gone and I had improved brain function. It was not all good news. My paranoia blossomed. I had been self-medicating with alcohol to mitigate the symptoms of my CPTSD and without that crutch, my head was spinning some powerfully tall tales for which I had no defense.
It was after a day’s work, my brain slowed to a crawl, the neighbor across the street stopped by to have a chat. She felt it was well past time I move along. You see, I had made the mistake of taking a politician at his word. City Commissioner Dan Ryan had proposed organizing 30 regulated camps for homeless people. I really wanted to move into one of those camps because it would be safer than just sleeping on the streets. I eagerly talked about this plan with neighbors and friends.
Expectations were raised and then crushed. Commissioner Ryan never did much more than toy with the public’s hopes of addressing Portland’s homeless saga, it is too permanent to call a crisis, and is primed to explode as the ban on evictions and foreclosures ends.
Back to my evening confrontation. She was upset about having to look at a tent every time she opened her front door, and I was afraid of moving my tent to a place people didn’t know me. Both of us felt powerless, and to be honest a bit used by the system. This conflict fired my fear response triggering a train of paranoid thoughts. I was spinning and my normal reaction is to crave the cure of alcohol.
Again, I am not a brave man — stubborn sometimes and I rely on a stern bluff more often than I should — but fear often rules my emergency response. I quickly experienced conflicting fears. The fear of rising paranoia which triggered a desire to drink, and the fear of a slow painful death from diabetes. One night of drinking would erode this newly established sobriety with no guarantee of future sobriety. I didn’t have access to treatment. I was not eligible for Oregon Health Plan, because I am a veteran and despite repeated unreturned calls to the V.A. (Veterans Affairs Department), I have been unable to schedule an appointment to address my issues.
In desperation, and with no other options, I thought of going to an AA meeting. I knew AA would do nothing to help my CPTSD, in fact I have been heckled at AA meetings and previous meetings had triggered me to drink. I went anyway. AA was a way to avoid drinking, and the complications of diabetes while adding to the burdens of my CPTSD. So in a grasp at straws, I’ve been going to AA meetings and experiencing the fallout.
I’m not brave, but I am tough. Since childhood, I’ve dealt with slings and arrows by hunkering down and stubbornly marching forward when able. It was while writing this column on a wooden bench outside the Street Roots office that my Mobile Journalist (MoJo) boss, Gary Barker, said he could call and get me an appointment with VA medical. I called bullshit and explained everything I had done in an effort to get an appointment.
Gary was dialing. Two minutes later I had an appointment for August fourth. I wiped the egg off my face and thanked him.
Funny how good things happen. Maybe housing is on the horizon.