I'm thinking I might go home.

My day to day life is being taken up with strange survival tactics. I spend a lot of time in the student union because it has been freezing cold and raining non-stop for about four days now. It's projected to keep raining straight through to Sunday. Then there's a two day break. Then more rain. Each day is taken up by the basic functions of living for me: Find food, find hygiene facilities, find shelter from the elements, catch a little sleep in a safe place during the day, find food, find cat food, take cat food to Lily, find a spot for the evening, don't get arrested or harassed.

I fell asleep for four hours in a doorway last night, clutching my backpack. My sleep was fitful, but it was the first time I had fully stretched out in forty eight hours.

In the last four days I have had two doughnuts, a McChicken sandwich given to me by someone, and two shelter meals. The shelter meals are small, but there is something so comforting in warm food. This morning when I got there at six thirty for breakfast, there was even a pot of coffee on the table. Cupping my hands around the mug was as satisfying as a warm bed on a snowy morning. There is no sugar or cream at the shelter, but one of the men at my table actually gave me a creamer package that he'd pocketed at the store! It was a real treat to enjoy something so simple as a warm breakfast (canned sausage gravy and two biscuits, half a rye bagel, some fruit) and the company of people who were not cruel or crazy at all. Our table of four consisted of a disabled veteran, a woman displaced by domestic violence, and a polite young man overcoming addiction. We enjoyed our coffee and breakfast, wished each other all a good day, and headed on our way. The woman I recognize from my other visits to the soup kitchen. She's there pretty regularly.

People look down on the homeless, but I have honestly never been given so much generosity from people who have so little. A street person is always willing to bum a cigarette or share what they have with another street person. If a street person sees another street person, they stop and talk to them, ask how they are, ask if they're new. They tell each other where the best soup kitchens are and what time they serve. They direct each other to services and shelters.  The other day one of them gave me a pair of shoes. Seriously. A pair of fucking shoes. I needed them pretty badly. And there are sometimes nice church ladies who wander around in the morning on the east side near the river handing out cups of coffee and cookies.

But there are bad days, too. There are drunk frat assholes who attack people, or feel they have the right to touch you because you're one step below a human being to them. There are cops who want to give you a trespassing charge. There are people who will judge you, people who feel they should get to tell you exactly what they think of you, even if you haven't said anything to them at all.

There are people who are violent to street people. Really violent. Verbally violent, and yes, physically violent. I have only been attacked once in my twenty-four days out here, when that man pushed me into the doorway and shoved his hand into my pants and I pushed him away and ran, but I have seen others spat on, beaten, and abused.

There are other things, too. The ground is bitterly cold at night. It seeps into your back and freezes up the muscles, and makes you constantly sore. My legs, my hips, my back, and my neck are all very stiff and pained right now. Even if you find somewhere to lay your head down for a few hours, you have to be at least somewhat aware of what's going on around you, because the cops or worse could come to fuck with you at any time.

Survival becomes the keyword. Finding warmth and shelter, avoiding attack, keeping yourself fed, and keeping yourself out of jail become everything. You don't sleep or eat well on the streets. After a while those factors, along with a sense of isolation, begin to wear at your mental health.

Sometimes I wonder if its really been less than a month since this all started. If you had asked me before, I would never have thought this would become my daily routine.

That's why I'm thinking of returning to my parents. I haven't told them yet about my situation to spare them the concern, but am beginning to feel like I must let them know and return to them in order to escape the cycle.

I don't know. Would it help? Would it delay the inevitable? Would it answer anything?

I have until Sunday to decide.