There is no help. There is no kindness. This is a state-run psychiatric hospital.

Acceptance was just not a place I’ve ever wanted to go. It sounded like defeat.

I worry this is part of my decline. A crooked smile. Nothing to smile about.

It’s weird not to see the nurse’s face. I wonder if she remembers the unmasked faces of the regulars she treats.

I want to stop having MS so I can just be afraid of the virus like everyone else.

Confusion and division has created a pecking order. I’m close to the bottom in a wheelchair, relying on medicare and disability checks.

Laying in a nursing home bed, losing control over everything, I just want to hurry up and be out of love.

I look like I don’t belong here. And I don’t want to belong here. I live in a nursing home with no clear exit plan.

Sometimes when things break they can’t be fixed. I’m one of those things.

The thing about being poor is that the less you have, the more help there seems to be. We’re on the cusp.