I have not been doing well lately, and there is no way to really segue into this one. Last weekend my mom took me to the hospital, again, because she found me in a state of panic and that was the right thing for her to do. The thing about mental illness, I guess, is that it looks different for everyone. It looks worse to her than it does to me. If it weren’t for my mom I would have muddle through. I would have panicked and screamed and cried and then I would have gone to bed for a few hours, and instead my mom took me to the hospital, I got a dose of Ativan, and I went back to life. I know that any sane person would think me crazy for saying it, by my god, my kingdom for a fast acting Xanax prescription in my life.
So I may or may not have a legit panic disorder, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t been writing. In the last five days I’ve written over 15,000 words. That’s a ton, for such a short period of time. It’s a ton for me anyway, and it makes me feel fulfilled and gives me a sense of self worth that nothing else in life really does.
I am still waiting to hear back about a waitressing job I am really interested in. Ironically I keep hearing that they haven’t called me for an interview because they are too busy to call me. I suppose I can call that a good thing, if I end up getting a job.
Yesterday I read a post by a gal named Liz Henry called I Want You to Know Where I’ve Been So You Know Where I’m Going. You should click on that link, I think.
She talked about being essentially homeless and what that was like – something that fortunately I’ve never been. I’ve been poor, though. I am now currently in what a person would call an extreme state of poverty. I’m unemployed and on food stamps and it’s embarrassing and demoralizing and hard.
I’ve been brave, but I haven’t been brave like Liz. I want to talk to people about what it’s like in my shoes. I wish more people could understand what it’s like to be poor, how being a struggling writer isn’t glamorous, how the thought that a family can actually live on minimum wage is a sick, sick joke.
Liz posted pictures of her home in a basement and I cried because I’ve never been brave enough to share pictures of my home in a trailer park, and now that I feel like I am brave enough I can’t, because now my trailer isn’t fit to live in because the air conditioner shorted out all my electricity and I can’t go home until it’s fixed, and of course my landlord isn’t calling me back.
Oh yes, one day I’ll be that brave.
Sometimes it just feels hopeless, you know? Some of you know. Some of you know exactly what it feels like to be down to your last few dollars with no gas in the tank, and you can’t even forget about it for a while because you’ve been responsible enough to give up all of your vices.
It’s incredible how hard it is to be burdened with so little.