One Thousand Dollars

It turns out that panhandling in the nearest city is illegal. Here I thought I'd finally come up with a way to scrape up some money—just the thousand dollars I need to get into low-income housing—and already my dream of standing terrified on a street corner hating myself for a day has been dashed, because I went online to find out if it was even possible.

Of course, apparently I'd be lucky to make seven dollars a day in this part of the country, but begging being illegal is more of a deterrent to me than it not being lucrative.

Why, you may ask, did I decide to look up panhandling?

The answer is: I'm highly discouraged by my continued unemployment, and today I overheard my sister telling my dad that she wants me and my daughter out of her house. Ouch.

My sister is a great person, really. She can't stand kids, though. She doesn't understand them, and thinks that being patient with them is a waste of time when you could just yell at them, tell them how horrible they are, and send them to their rooms. Because our mom doing that to us didn't have any long-term effects. *sarcasm*

Anyhow, it's a good thing she has dogs, and not human children. She's amazing with dogs. Hers are well-trained, and don't mind if she cusses at them when they bark at inopportune moments. But I digress.

All that's keeping me from moving into cheap housing is approximately $1,000. I owe a couple hundred on an old electricity bill, I need five hundred as a down-payment, and I need some to get all the utilities turned on. No clue how I'd keep the utilities on once I was there, but I can cross that bridge when I come to it. Right?

As much as I disliked my grandmother's house, I'm tempted to ask if I can move back in. They're getting ready to sell it, but I have to live somewhere, and that's the only place where there aren't other people to be annoyed at having an eleven year old girl around being moody and dramatic. Because, let's face it: eleven year old girls are moody and dramatic.

I get this. I don't know how all my family who raised kids, or who were kids, can honestly believe that a child of any age can behave perfectly at all times. Or maybe they're why I'm so hard on myself. I was expected to be perfect, and I did not succeed. I did not succeed pretty hard, in the long run.

The holiday season approaches, and so does the return of the choice I've faced too many times over the past years; where am I going to live? How can I keep a roof over my daughter's head with no money and apparently no marketable skills?

Unless you want to pay me for blogging.

Some Things Never Change

My dad sounded a little too cheerful when he asked to take me out to lunch tomorrow. I am, as a result, filled with dread.

How can someone sound too cheerful? you may ask, and why does that frighten you to your very core?

It's rather simple, really. Whenever my parents had really horrible news, they would try to temper that news with a treat. They'd act a little too casual, and the treat would be completely out of nowhere, because usually it was something they'd been trying to hide. For example: My sister has never watched the movie Forrest Gump through to the end.

One fine spring day, our parents pushed the couch up in front of the tv to make things cozier, told us we were going to have a movie and ice cream sundaes later, then sat us down and announced that my mom was moving out. My sister had no clue until that moment, and she did not enjoy her sundae, nor did she watch the movie all the way through.

I loved my sundae, and I loved the movie. Of course, my bedroom was directly across the hall from my parents' and I was a bit older, so the announcement was wonderful for me. No more being unable to sleep until 3 am listening to them argue! And a sundae on top of it all!

Once in a while I'd wake up and find that my father had taken my sister out for the day, and that announcement was always met with dread. It meant that my mother wanted to tell me something truly horrible, perhaps break my spirit and remind me what a horrible person I was for having repeatedly done something wrong over the previous weeks or months. The problem was me, and she needed several hours in which to set me straight, while my sister went bowling or fishing or out to the park.

So any time I get an unexpected treat just for me, I'm thrown into anxiety. I asked my dad if my sister and brother-in-law were also invited to lunch, which is always the case, but no, it's something just for us. *shudder*

So, what am I so afraid of?

Well, number 1: homelessness. I've been living in someone else's house as a favor to me since December 2009. My then-best-friend kicked me out after three and a half months because I was still unemployed, and she and her boyfriend had decided that not only did I not actually want a job, or I'd have one already, but that I was never going to amount to anything, and I should give up and try to get on disability.

I then moved into my aunt's house. She didn't actually have room, but I had just been kicked out, and it was that or let me live in my car. I stayed with her for about two months before I managed to get into Grad School. Unfortunately, I flunked out after two semesters because I couldn't wrap my mind around Accounting, and my school did not offer any kind of Master's degree in any kind of art or design.

So it was on to grandma's house. I was there for several months before I was notified (by my father) that my grandmother wanted me to leave, because I wasn't the companionship she'd hoped for. I'm an introvert, you see, and sitting quietly in the same room with someone feels like good company. I don't like to fill the air with words unless I have something to say which I think is important.

My grandmother was terribly injured, went into surgery, and ended up staying with my father, because his house is wheelchair accessible and hers is not. This extended my stay at her house to nearly two years, because I took care of her pets and kept the house from being abandoned/broken into.

My sister kindly, generously, amazingly, asked me to come live with her for reasons such as the horrible heat wave, horror at my living situation, and hope that she could help me out. I've been here four months and I'm still unemployed, even with her tossing every job she hears about my way (yes, I apply for them all), and now it's into autumn, which means the Seasonal Affective Disorder is kicking in. I'm sleepy all the time, I'm no longer oozing the hope and enthusiasm I was when I first got here.

So, back around to lunch with my dad tomorrow. There's a chance he just wants to have lunch with only me, though we don't get along for more than the shortest amounts of time. There is also a chance that he wants to pass on a complaint from someone else because he thinks it's helpful.

I'm taking bets.

Depression is Depressing. II

There's a lot of stigma that comes with clinical depression. My own father has said I'm just crazy, though admittedly he hasn't said it to my face in years. I mentioned having seen a school psychologist once and everyone suddenly got worried, leaning away as though I might suddenly attack them with my hat or the nearest utensil. No, actually, I had a bad case of senioritis, but details.

It's some of those everyday reactions that (pardon the pun) drive me crazy. At first, my being unhappy, for whatever reason, garnered a sharp, "Build a bridge and get over it." Pause for explanation: One of the differences between feeling depressed and clinical depression is the inability to get over it, and that there doesn't need to be a reason for it. All the happy thoughts in the world can't get rid of the hopelessness.

This is where I fight my own stigma. I live it, and I've lived it for over a decade, yet I still feel like it's some kind of personality defect. Everyone has hard times, but most don't collapse, unable to do anything but try to keep alive. Yes, we've all been there, and that's why it's so tricky, that's why it's so hard to understand. We've all wondered if the world would be better off without us, and we've all had that flickering thought that maybe if we lost control of the car for just a moment...

Would that flimsy-looking metal barrier stop the car? Would the car flip? Sink? Could I get the door open? Would anyone report it, or would I die? Would I want to be saved? Are my underwear clean in case the EMT has to cut my clothes off?

We all think that stuff. Right?

I tend to think it more than most. I hate the two bridges I cross four times a day going to and from my daughter's school. I wonder if there's any bank on the other side, or if I'd go straight into the water. I'm afraid that if I did lose control of the car, people would think I'd committed suicide and that would trump any good memories they might have of me; the ultimate failure.

The people who have dealt the most with me over the past years, who have seen the uncontrollable mood swings, still have problems completely understanding, and I mentioned this earlier before I started a side-rant. At first it was, "Build a bridge and get over it," which by the way makes it worse because God, I wish I could do that, you have no idea how much I wish I could do that.

Then people began to accept, but not being in my head, couldn't tell if I was legitimately, normally depressed, or uncontrollably, clinically depressed. The response became, "Did you take your medicine?" Yes, I did, actually. I do not like curling up in a corner somewhere crying while trying to convince myself that suicide will send me to hell, and an eternity of hell can't be much better, so I am highly motivated to take my medicine each night before bed. Plus, if someone randomly saved me from an attempt, I could end up crippled and unable to even try again.

Ridiculous? Possibly. Morbid? Probably, but if it works, it works.

I've gotten a new reaction now, and I think I'd have preferred the old, "Did you take your medicine?" The problem, apparently, is a misunderstanding. I'm having a hard time right now, what with being technically homeless and other things I don't feel like listing off. I think that gives me a right to claim legitimate, non-chemical depression. I got beat up by a cat yesterday (story for another time) and was mopey because a) I hurt, b) I'm sick, and c) it's gloomy outside, and well-meaning family started listing off basic blessings for me, as though they feared for my life. Yes, my daughter is healthy, aside from her illness, yes, I have a roof over my head and wheels under my butt, but I hurt, I'm sick, and I'm sweating a bit because I refuse to take off my sweatshirt so everyone can see that I wallked out of the house today with my shirt on inside-out.

Thank you all for reminding me that I have a place to sleep at night. (Though I'm sharing the bed and am so sick of Christmas decorations I could scream. Just sayin'.)

I am going to post this, and I'll come back later to fix the typos. It's difficult to compose a legible blog on one's phone, qwerty keypad or no. OMG it's so hard! *sniffle* I hate my life! I'm going to go cut because the only way to deal with my pain is to fall into broad stereotypes!

Right.

Edit: edited

Depression is Depressing.

I am miserable with my life. It doesn't count as suicide if you just ask God to hurry up and smite you, right?

To reassure anyone who thinks this theatrics, I am currently technically homeless, and living with a family member who needs help. This house has been seriously compared to Hoarders by worried family. I live out of a suitcase because my personal belongings, including my bed and perishable food items (which were mistakenly delivered with the rest), are divided between several people's storage units. I hope someone finds the food before spring, though I'm sure that by now it's been cold enough for the water bottles to explode and warm enough for the milk to sour. There are four cats in the house, three of which use the litter box, four in the garage who don't have a litter box, but get let outside sometimes, and two in the back room who neither have a litter box nor go outside. One must enter and exit through the garage, which, no offense to those up above, stinks to high heaven.

My friends live online because those I graduated college with have moved on. I have an amazing phone, a few really amazing friends, and severe, sometimes debilitating depression, as of about fifteen years ago. I used to tell myself that the worst that could happen would be ending up homeless and alone, but I've pushed my "worst" standards to far more horrible things. I am not currently being eaten alive by maggots while impaled in a hole full of spikes and having hail pound into my open eyes. Please, please, God, please, don't use my sense of sarcasm against me and make that happen.

Irony (or not, if you know all the technicalities of the word) is that just over a year ago I was set to graduate college, then move to the Golden State of California, where my daughter would attend a private school for hardly anything, thanks to one of those amazing friends, and I would be nearer the kind of job opportunities I'd dreamed of. My ex questioned me, gave me the verbal go-ahead, and took our flight information so that goodbyes could be said, we got the kid a cell phone for easy contact, got a Facebook so they could chat easily, etc etc.

Sunday before graduation, a week and two days before the flight, yours truly was delivered of a restraining order and a motion to take any and all custody away from me. After a week of locating a lawyer (since if you don't have one, at least here, the case defaults to the other person), during which I didn't sleep and unknowingly contracted pneumonia, I completed no final exams and was given a pity D to graduate in a class I'd been acing. Damned final exams. I don't really remember graduation. Had a high fever that day, and was super-proud that no one could tell how dizzy I was.

Anyway, after bouncing from place to place, I failed out of an attempt at grad school (admittedly a subject I ended up hating) and here we are. The child is tired of moving and living with other people, and despite the emotional abuse she suffers when with her other parent, I wonder if I'm doing any better.

"You should get on disability."

It's really disheartening to be told this, especially following a short speech about not being capable of handling a real job and needing to be realistic. It is disheartening both from one's (ex)friend, and from one's father. There is no explaining to some people that working for minimum wage 5 hours per day, 4 days per week isn't much motivation for someone who feels worthless. There is no explaining that 8 hours a day 5 days a week at a job one loves, being needed there instead of expendable, might just possibly maybe somehow ease the feeling of being useless, and that being paid enough to live on one's own might instill a sense of greatly needed pride, thereby propelling one out of one's dismal hole of hopelessness. And unfortunately, when pressured so much to get a job I've already not been hired at for years, it is difficult to contemplate looking for that big fish. It only makes the whole "not capable of handling a real job" thing all that more real, and the big fish looks like a dried-out goldfish the cat left behind the couch. It was shiny once, but all that's left now is a lost dream.

And yes, this is probably all ridiculous and blown out of proportion, but no matter how I try to correct myself, I can't get out of the mindset that "If you were capable of getting an A, but got a B, you might as well have failed."

I have now been struggling with depression for half my life. It doesn't get better for long at a time. The littlest setback is heartbreaking, and losing a dream that was in my grasp broke me. I've never been as close to hurting myself as I was a year ago, and though I don't intend to—in fact, I intend not to—it can always be worse, and that's what I'm afraid of. If I can hardly cope the way I am, how will I manage another ten years of this? Another twenty?

My depression is being treated, but there's no cure. I've apparently trained my mind to push aside my worries, and so anything that worries or distresses me is forgotten. I don't remember to do laundry when I have the time, nor to job search. If it does pop in, I'm busy, or I'm in a bad mood, or I'm too sleepy to do anything (or so I tell myself), and if I can't fill out an application properly, and better than anyone else, then it was not only a waste of my time, but a waste of the hiring manager's time. I feel like a waste of time.

I haven't blogged in forever because I had no internet access aside from my smartphone, which a friend thought I deserved, no matter that I don't (but it's mine! *clutches and hisses*). I don't even know where I'm going with this. Sudden memory loss in the middle of a sentence isn't odd when attempting to discuss worrisome or depressing topics, either.

Okay, I dragged you all down now, and gave you a taste of a long-term, severe depressive's thought process. I wish I could think of another cheese factory story right now, but since I can't, here:

Margaret Bourke-White. At the time of the Louisville Flood (1937)

It could always be worse, right?

Types of Depression

Suicide Prevention, Awareness, and Support

Changes in the HUD Definition of “Homeless”