#i'm p sure most of those were donated to the school

[apple-dandy]

I feel weird when I buy nice food. It's just food, sure, but it makes me wonder if I'm not my people anymore.

I had at least two friends in school who were raised by a grandparent because their parents were in jail. Almost nobody had two parents, and those that did mostly wished they'd divorce. A lot of kids grew up in shady apartment complexes. It was common to make sure that if you were asking someone to hang out - you always offered your place or a neutral location, never theirs. The mall was built on a swamp and perpetually being shored up to keep it from sinking.

We had a few middle school pregnancies. Lots of fistfights. Had a desk and another student (it's funny in hindsight) thrown at me just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. We were muddy and rowdy and covered in bruises - some didn't come from school. Had to go into lockdowns for gunfire every now & then.

D****'s mom's boyfriend tore his earring out during a fight and left him with a weirdly scarred earlobe. He worked at Arby's last I saw him.

E**** died of cancer. M**** survived it.

A lot of kids were on the meager free lunch program. I always shared my home lunch around. School-provided breakfasts weren't a thing back then. At least not in my city.

Teachers all left about midway through the year - either pregnant or for higher paid positions. Dunno why the former, though I suppose our sex ed was "if you have sex before marriage, you will get STDs, get pregnant, and die" so maybe they didn't know. I know why the latter. They'd beg our parents to donate tissues & pencils for class.

My parents don't want to pay taxes for other people's children to go to school. I think they should go fuck themselves. They think I'm brainwashed & insane. I cut them off.

When the maybe 10% of us who graduated made it out, we got mostly shoehorned into college. Don't know how many of us graduated college. Do know that C**** had and subsequently lost a baby, R***** had already been married & divorced before she turned 21, D***** is a pharm tech somewhere, O**** is still stuck with his abusive parents, B****** got out - at least as far as I know.

P******'s grandpa caught him doing weed and enrolled him in the army, which is ironic given how many varied drugs army grunts get up to, and tragic for his music career.

Most of us were a little homeless for a while.

These are my people.

The couch surfer with the shit job.

The kid with the busted earlobe.

The one who made it okay, and the one who didn't. And those who deal with the consequences of both.

The lady buying a 99 cent, 32 oz soda because it's cheaper than a 1.99 usd, 20 oz bottled water.

The teenager praying quietly as they insert their card for a 7.99 usd purchase, hoping beyond hope it won't get declined.

The family still living in a house grandma bought that they can't afford to maintain, because they'll never have another chance to get a house.

The 22 year old purple heart veteran who panicks themself awake, the same way I do, all night until they just start drinking themselves to sleep. It's better than the nightmares. And more affordable than actual healthcare.

The grizzled 32 year old who has no right to be that gray and exhausted at that age. Or have that many medical bills.

The 19 year old with a weirdly shaped bruise on their arm who laughs about how in their culture parents regularly beat their children & can't look you in the eye to respond when you gently ask if they're OK. It has to be funny. It has to be funny or else they'll cry. And there's no room for grief here. Not here.

The fella who's not technically homeless but can't go home because home is where the heart breaks over and over and over until you have to run as far as you can - until you realize home should be safe and not hurt you.

The girl with two kids who doesn't know that sex is supposed to be pleasurable.

The kid who was a genius drummer and could have been famous, who's working at the local movie theater and the Rite Aid and...

So when I buy myself a 3.99 usd, 12 oz kombucha, just as a treat; and go home to my loving partner in my sort of messy, but nice apartment - I wonder if they'd recognize me. Am I still my people? I look at the other people buying kombucha and wonder if maybe I'm their people now. Then someone mentions their grandparents' second house, and I know I'm not.

It's a weird sort of limbo to live in. I feel guilty. All the time. Would they be angry at me if they could see how much more work I've had to put in to heal, when my circumstances are so much better? Would they despair about their own chances? Or would they be happy for me? Honestly doubt they'd care much.

I sharpied my name on the back of my school building before my first suicide attempt. I wonder if anyone's added their name. I wonder if they're okay. I wonder if they're all okay. I hope they are. I know better, but I guess I still hope.