Soft Spots in Ten Story Girders

Like many public housing tenants who end up becoming agitated and enveloped, literally, by lack of mood health, I am caught between inextricable forces: If I do not leave Riverside Presbyterian Apartments, I will wind up losing my ability not to engage in law breaking conduct, one way or the other. Some of you may say that marginally competent black women come a dime a dozen, however aggressive, cruel, and conniving they've been, focus, hang on, you've been through the worst. I know all this. I just need to leave. So leave, but doing that gives Presbyterian Homes exactly what it desires, and if I am not clever enough to get from destination A to (temporary?) destination B by August, what choices would first responders have, even if I hypothetically leave the borders of the Commonwealth? What the fuck would I do in a shelter, with this chair, if I could keep the more hopelessly deranged from an aging and damaged machine, with bedpan, and whatever else I could carry? It simply isn't fair, this delusion that I could be an independent woman who had options. I can barely sit here without some memory tied to this building, in my 23 year history in it (31 total under the same corporate 202 contract with HUD, I've never had another agent, just corrupt Presbyterian owners, basically a 15 minute Septa ride between Broad and Race), without a trigger begging me to strike back, and I cannot continue. I need to go, and I cannot manage. It is literally, as we speak, killing me, but in the interim, I've always had a forgiving blindness toward Philip K Dick, and as with ... _ElectricSheep? it will be fun to compare High Castle. Dick is one of those writers, flawed, on the mildly raw side, whose tendency toward abstract composites leaves screen writers, directors, room to breathe. I really do not know what I'm going to do otherwise.
Yes, I beat back Presby's escalating and illegal aggression toward me, but the price I have paid has destroyed intonations within which I'll never recover, and I write this without hyperbole. The system has destroyed my compassion. I am not capable of anything, but I am capable of unbridled fury which needs relief.