My bipolar, schizophrenic, epileptic mom was on disability. What they paid her was nowhere near enough to support us, and things like food became a luxury item.
We received food stamps, but they didn’t last. The beginning of the month was a miraculous time of cereal and pop tarts filling the shelves. Hot dogs and hamburgers sat in the fridge, waiting for the flames of the city park’s grill. We had slices of cheese and bread for all occasions.
Around the middle of the month, our pop tart and cereal supply dwindled. We were left with potatoes and ketchup. By the end of the month, it was rice and bouillon cubes.
Then the first of the month came, and the cycle began again.