It is Thursday morning, in the slim hour before dawn. I'm writing from the desk in room 107 of a motel. On the bed next to me is my cat, Sofie. She died sometime in the last six hours. She'd been part of my family for 15 years. She was quiet and sweet and had gone into this exile with me last week, having survived her stepbrother George by four months.

I'm in exile because of the consequences of my bipolar type 2 condition. In 2018, I was dealing with a divorce, as well as the death of my mother the previous year. I ran afoul of an aggressive new supervisor and an unethical human resources employee. The former was just a jerk, and I quit. The former had made it her business to cost me multiple jobs in the last four years. My last employer was more than happy to have me as a freelance writer/producer in their newsroom for three years but would not hire me for a full-time staff position based on incomplete information she illegally shared. At least three other organizations declined to hire me based on that. Ask someone who has actually worked with me, and they'll tell you I am highly qualified and capable. Ask the HR person, and I'm a menace to society.

As of this morning, I am nearly a thousand miles from the city that was my home for almost 30 years. I came out here thinking I had a refuge from which I could start over. But I was mistaken, and that refuge was a mirage.

I drive every day for a rideshare company. That pays my daily rate for a motel room, a bit of food, and enough gas to drive again tomorrow. But my health restricts the hours I can sit in the car. And I'm not making enough to get beyond a day-to-day existence. That's why I'm asking for help. My biggest priority is getting into an inexpensive apartment, which would be half as expensive as living in a cheap motel. I know times are tough for many of us, but anything you can do to help will go a long way.

Michael