I could send this letter but you'd never understand. You don't know who I am. You've probably forgotten about me. You probably stopped thinking about me within hours after the incident. I'll probably never knowingly cross paths with either of you again. But I still remember being spat on and called a faggot and told to kill myself just after 6am Pacific on the second of September 2017, while I was out and the streets were empty in Downtown LA, out on foot looking for a store to buy toilet paper to use at the Airbnb I was staying at. I was 26. I'm not your enemy. I didn't do this to you. I'm not the reason your life is the way it is. I still remember the shock of the warm wet saliva splattering on my left ear as I kept my head down. I was walking along and I didn't want to make eye contact and I didn't think it was gonna be like a warzone. Like I thought it would be like comparable to a regular morning in like Manhattan. I thought there would be people bustling about even if it was a Saturday. I didn't think it would be a ghost town, even at 6am on a Saturday. Stepping out of the shadow of my building and into the sunlight while crossing the street, I felt the warmth of the sun's rays upon my skin. I was wearing a few necklaces at once, letting my freak flag fly, not expecting retribution for doing so. Just minding my business, you know, I had to use the GPS to find where the nearest store was, so I was using walking directions. And, you guys inexplicably thought I was taking a picture, and, bada boom bada bing, I got spat on, and that happened. I heard the angry harsh tone voice acting like I was enemy number one for owning a smartphone and/or for being gay. And it was traumatizing and I stayed in the Airbnb for the rest of the weekend until my former friend (who was everything but understanding and supportive) picked me up on Sunday. With friends like that, who needs enemies? I don't remember how I reacted at the time of the incident, probably just shock, but it manifested itself later over the next couple years as PTSD and violent outbursts. Big fights with my sister (including one where I spent the night in jail) and with one of my friends with benefits who was abusive. More anxiety, more apprehension, more fear of others, talking quietly and minding my P's and Q's with certain people who for whatever reason trigger that PTSD. The air was hot and unusually humid, Downtown LA felt cavernous, there were no police anywhere, no one out walking except for me and apparently you two crackheads. But Lord knows but for the Grace of God it could've been much worse, and um, that's what happened. Hot weather in LA can make people do crazy things, especially in a city where the divide between rich and poor, the haves and the have nots, is so stark. And especially if you're walking around without a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of, possibly strung out or experiencing withdrawal from hard drugs, with untreated mental illness and addiction, and you've been wearing the same sweaty clothes for days, and it's 90-100ºF. I can understand how in that state of mind, pretty much any outside stimuli could make someone do something crazy. I just wish it hadn't been me. But either way, I still survived.
