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It's been a year and several months since I last posted anything. Things were crap then, and they're a million times worse now. And it's all my fault. We've become so good at hiding how bad things really are, people don't believe me when I say that we are in imminent danger of becoming homeless. After all, I've been saying it for years- we could run out of money soon, hopefully the job market will turn around before that happens. Welp, didn't happen. Game over, we lose. We're broke, and don't have enough money to pay rent and bills next month.
How is it my fault?
Depression owns me completely. I'm its bitch. I believe whatever it tells me. And it tells me that I'm stupid and ugly and worthless. It's robbed me of any ability to do something about our situation. It tells me I deserve to be homeless, because I'm too stupid to look for work. And how dare I even think of asking for help, pretty much everyone we know is already in some sort of financial or medical crisis anyway.
I've always been aware, even before depression took hold, that I'm somewhat lacking in empathy. When people I care about are hurting, I usually say nothing, at least, not online. When injustice happens, I just watch it, read about it, feel bad, and keep my opinions mostly to myself. Depression takes this, and uses it to reinforce the feeling that I suck and don't deserve help from anyone.
Luke has carried a very heavy burden for years. Going to school, finally finding something he really wants to do, and the sadness of not having it pan out (so far) into a real job. Shouldering the responsibility of trying to be the breadwinner, while I sit here paralyzed by pretty much everything.
Our downfall has been so slow and gradual, we could almost pretend it wasn't happening. We stopped buying books and CDs, now we've sold almost all of them. Ate at cheaper and cheaper restaurants till we couldn't dine out at all. Haven't purchased a new item of clothing (other than maybe undies) for more than a year. Started actually paying attention to the price and brands of the food I buy. Downgraded every service and policy we could. We finally got rid of cable TV. We would have given it up sooner, but we were trapped in a contract till last summer. I miss cable more than anything else...
So what do I do with myself everyday? I eat crap. I read. I worry. I cry. I self-injure. I do things that a housewife does, laundry, cleaning, dishes, shopping, dinner. I read about the world on Facebook and Twitter, play stupid games on my phone, and watch endless reruns of Law & Order on the 12 local TV channels that are still available to me. I tell myself, hey, I should post something, reach out to the world, DO SOMETHING! ANYTHING! But I go to bed and stare at the ceiling in the dark, and wonder- how many more weeks will we have this apartment? Our warm, dry, safe place?
I imagine working. I remember working. I liked working. I remember interacting with the world, the hustle and bustle of downtown office life. The routine, the accomplishments and petty annoyances. It's been seven years since I held an actual job. What I can't imagine now is the looking, putting myself out there for scrutiny, the way everybody else who wants a job does. When I even think about that now, paralyzing fear washes over me. My brain says that I'm too stupid, technology is beyond my comprehension, it's been too long, no-one, anywhere, ever, would hire a fat, ugly 50 year old woman with only a high school education, who hasn't worked in seven years. For anything. They'll laugh at me. They should laugh at me. My smart, educated friends, people who have ambition, who understand things, and know how to do things, are trying hard to find work, and not succeeding. So there's absolutely no hope for me, why even try? That's what depression tells me. And I listen.
So where are we at right now? Luke and I love each other. We support each other as best we can, and we even manage to laugh together. With the end of Luke's seasonal job, we got our Medicaid benefits back. I can return to the shrink I used to see. We've had some fun doing odd jobs and yardwork for friends. Unemployment and food stamps are pending. Luke is applying for anything and everything. We have somewhere to go for Thanksgiving.
Somewhere, deep down, I know we have friends, I know we are loved, I know there are people who would help us if they were able to. I wish I could believe, for more than two seconds at a time, that I'm worth it.
How is it my fault?
Depression owns me completely. I'm its bitch. I believe whatever it tells me. And it tells me that I'm stupid and ugly and worthless. It's robbed me of any ability to do something about our situation. It tells me I deserve to be homeless, because I'm too stupid to look for work. And how dare I even think of asking for help, pretty much everyone we know is already in some sort of financial or medical crisis anyway.
I've always been aware, even before depression took hold, that I'm somewhat lacking in empathy. When people I care about are hurting, I usually say nothing, at least, not online. When injustice happens, I just watch it, read about it, feel bad, and keep my opinions mostly to myself. Depression takes this, and uses it to reinforce the feeling that I suck and don't deserve help from anyone.
Luke has carried a very heavy burden for years. Going to school, finally finding something he really wants to do, and the sadness of not having it pan out (so far) into a real job. Shouldering the responsibility of trying to be the breadwinner, while I sit here paralyzed by pretty much everything.
Our downfall has been so slow and gradual, we could almost pretend it wasn't happening. We stopped buying books and CDs, now we've sold almost all of them. Ate at cheaper and cheaper restaurants till we couldn't dine out at all. Haven't purchased a new item of clothing (other than maybe undies) for more than a year. Started actually paying attention to the price and brands of the food I buy. Downgraded every service and policy we could. We finally got rid of cable TV. We would have given it up sooner, but we were trapped in a contract till last summer. I miss cable more than anything else...
So what do I do with myself everyday? I eat crap. I read. I worry. I cry. I self-injure. I do things that a housewife does, laundry, cleaning, dishes, shopping, dinner. I read about the world on Facebook and Twitter, play stupid games on my phone, and watch endless reruns of Law & Order on the 12 local TV channels that are still available to me. I tell myself, hey, I should post something, reach out to the world, DO SOMETHING! ANYTHING! But I go to bed and stare at the ceiling in the dark, and wonder- how many more weeks will we have this apartment? Our warm, dry, safe place?
I imagine working. I remember working. I liked working. I remember interacting with the world, the hustle and bustle of downtown office life. The routine, the accomplishments and petty annoyances. It's been seven years since I held an actual job. What I can't imagine now is the looking, putting myself out there for scrutiny, the way everybody else who wants a job does. When I even think about that now, paralyzing fear washes over me. My brain says that I'm too stupid, technology is beyond my comprehension, it's been too long, no-one, anywhere, ever, would hire a fat, ugly 50 year old woman with only a high school education, who hasn't worked in seven years. For anything. They'll laugh at me. They should laugh at me. My smart, educated friends, people who have ambition, who understand things, and know how to do things, are trying hard to find work, and not succeeding. So there's absolutely no hope for me, why even try? That's what depression tells me. And I listen.
So where are we at right now? Luke and I love each other. We support each other as best we can, and we even manage to laugh together. With the end of Luke's seasonal job, we got our Medicaid benefits back. I can return to the shrink I used to see. We've had some fun doing odd jobs and yardwork for friends. Unemployment and food stamps are pending. Luke is applying for anything and everything. We have somewhere to go for Thanksgiving.
Somewhere, deep down, I know we have friends, I know we are loved, I know there are people who would help us if they were able to. I wish I could believe, for more than two seconds at a time, that I'm worth it.
