quirkytizzy: (Default)
The car stopped running. Again. Pat is willing to pay for the repairs, which is going to be hundreds of dollars. I couldn't get to work yesterday, which worries me, as I'm walking a thin line with my attendance lately. (Being sick = calling in sick, which I discovered even using sick days gets a talking-to.) This threw me into a Pity-Me-Pity-My-Poverty funk yesterday.

It's not that the car broke down. It's not that I'm precariously balancing over my job. It's not even the fact that I can never pay for my own repairs and have to rely on Pat to do so.

It's the fact that this happens all the goddamn time. It's like I'm stuck on a freaking unicycle, tilting this way, tipping over that way, trying desperately to either stay upright or to get off the damn bike altogether.

Poverty is expensive in many, many ways. I can't pay money for my troubles, but if worry could be counted in a currency, then I'd have paid my school loans ten times over and be retired in the lap of luxury. But worry, however useful it might be in psychic transactions between paychecks, does not pay the bills.

I want to know what it feels like when a stalled car doesn't immediately fling me into a scrambled panic. I want to know what it feels like to not have the knot in my chest that pinpoints every single little thing that has to go exactly right without any mistakes or added expenses because otherwise I'll be homeless. I want to know what it's like to be confident that I will be able to eat two meals a day for a whole week or whole month (or god knows, a whole year.)

I want to know what it feels like when the stress of poverty doesn't rule my every move.

I know such a life exists. There is a whole world of people whom, when the car breaks down, take the car into the shop and then borrows their spouse's car to get to work. There are people who can pay their bills on time, every month, and who can do things like get milk, cheese, AND gas in their car all on the same paycheck. There is a whole world of people who can afford yearly checkups for their pets, and whom can afford to put the pet down when the vet bill spirals out of reach. There is an entire world out there with people who are not trained to react in panic and survival scrambles to every unexpected expense they run into.

There is an entire goddamn world of people who do not live under the endless ways that poverty weakens you. They exist. They are out there.

And I'm not one of them.

The car will be fixed and I'll be able to get around for another few months, another six months, another year before it irreparably breaks down for good. I'll go to my job and work until they fire me. I'll pay my rent and be grateful that my bank allows overdrafts for online transactions. (It's the only way I can afford to pay my rent.) I'll make do until I can't and after that, I'll just learn how to make do with less. I will do all of these things and know that it won't be long before I have to do them all over again. And over again. And over again.

The real price of poverty isn't its cost in the immediate run. The real price of poverty is that it is a re-occurring charge, and god help you if you aren't able to pay it.

Not Fired

Dec. 17th, 2015 08:38 pm
quirkytizzy: (Default)
I wake up before 6 AM. This is the third morning I've been up so early. I am tired. Got to work, badge wouldn't scan. Security guard looks me up in the computer system and says "It says you're terminated."

I do everything in my power to not break down sobbing in the lobby. I ask the guard to please check with HR, as I've been having log-in problems and perhaps it was related to that. It is, indeed, tied to my log-in problems.

I am not fired. I walk up the stairs feeling as if I have narrowly escaped the very jaws of Hell.

I get called into the HR office. I am still not fired, but it turns out that my entire employee file got accidentally erased. This is why the badge didn't work. Okay, alright, no biggie. Just means some extra paperwork.

....except I might not get paid tomorrow. Or Monday. Or till next week. I am exhausted and the HR person kindly mistakes my calm demeanor as professional. I am too tired to correct him. Like my Creative Writing teacher used to say, if someone attributes something cool you accidentally did to being something cool you intentionally did, take credit for it.

He says he is horrified and will do everything he can to get me a paycheck tomorrow. His apologetic manner - and the patience of my instructors - tell me that despite this screw up, this will still be a good place to work.

At noon I begin to get a headache. At 3 PM it turns into a migraine. I am on the second week of employment. I cannot go home. I WILL NOT go home. Two and a half hours later, we are released into the wild and I go beg Pat to buy me some Excedrin Migraine.

Two and a half hours after that, I am pain-free and it is nearing bedtime.

I'm not fired. I might not get paid on time, but I'm NOT FIRED.

And after this year, I will totally take it. Happily. Eagerly. With joy and aplomb.

Vaults

Oct. 6th, 2015 08:20 am
quirkytizzy: (Default)
I've had it up to here with temp agencies. Or at least, work THROUGH temp agencies. I had my two days at the new warehouse. The first day in which they had me doing all sorts of things other than pulling orders, the second day of which was my first day actually performing the duties I was hired for.

The third day did not happen, as I was fired for not having enough "focus" and "not being a good fit." I was flabbergasted. Then I was kicking walls. Then I was weeping inconsolably. Then I got on the phone and started another round of calling the temp agencies.

I'd forgotten the name of the game with temp agencies. Temporary employment. As in, occasionally just a few days. As in, snap decisions about potential employees. As in, expendable, disposable, perfectly previously trained or else perfectly tossable. "Not having enough focus" is code for "too slow", which would have been somewhat understandable had it not been my first damn day on the actual damn floor. I was most certainly slow, but no slower than the other hires taken on that week. And my lack of speed made for an insanely low error rate, especially for a new hire. I was reassured that slow was fine, better, even, if it meant for fewer order errors.

Not that it matters. I wailed to Jesse, to Pat, to the damn cats, that it wasn't fair. That it was terribly unfair and I was being taken for a ride. But I know fair or unfair doesn't matter. Not really. Not when it comes to earning a paycheck.

It's getting to the point where I'm considering taking on two fast food jobs. I don't think those have hard personality tests. I haaaate working food service. And I haaaate working fast food. And I HAAATE working two jobs. A ten hour shift between two establishments turns into something like 12 hours a day when you include travel and change-your-uniform time. But it feels like I'm running out of options.

Dailyme, did you have to take a personality test for McDonald's?????

Well, at least I don't have to work 12 hours at that last warehouse. I was very much NOT looking forward to that. Perhaps they noticed my reticence about it and that's what did me in. I don't know.

Jesse briefly touched on the "Maybe you have ADHD" argument, latching onto the word "focus", which is surely and easily a sign of ADHD. I snapped sharply at him, perhaps too sharply, that I DO NOT have ADHD and I DID NOT want to discuss it. I know my disorders and ADHD is not one of them.

Bipolar produces many similar symptoms to ADHD. Besides that, I can't take the regular medication for ADHD. Not even the non-stimulating stimulants. I'm an ex speed-freak. I know how to strip that shit down and get high. I also know that sort of temptation, a bottle with MY name on it, would be too much. I'm certain I can keep out of Jesse's ADHD meds when we get them - and we've already discussed the possibility of a lockbox should I need it. Something in which will be purely mine? No way, Jose.

If I were to start the more holistic treatments for ADHD, that would probably not be a bad thing. It seems most of those things are good for mental health care, period.

This whole job(less) thing is seriously starting to affect my self-esteem. This happened in 2007 as well. I'd decided to strike out of the housekeeping industry into better paying, less grimy office jobs. Four months and five jobs later, I gave up and decided to go back to school.

Well, I can't go back to school now. Between the tens of thousands of dollars I wasted on David and the tens of thousands of dollars I wasted at Brown Mackie, I've no free loans left to apply for. I can no longer ask my father to cosign. I obviously do not have the money to return to school on my own.

I've worked myself into a corner and the only way out IS work. This would be fine if I were able to work in a sustained environment. I am not able to, at least not as of yet.

It's strange - the last two jobs I've lost because of my own actions. I wasn't lifting properly at UPS and I'd called in sick too much with MedArt. Granted, it's somewhat unfair that injuries and illness CAN get you fired, but it was still my actions (or inactions) that got me fired. I felt awful, but I knew I'd had some hand, some control, in that.

It was being fired from this recent job that made me feel like a complete screw-up. As far as I can tell, I'd done nothing wrong outside of having little experience. For whatever reason, it was THAT that made me feel like a mixed up child, a person who had little to nothing to offer any employer. The one time it wasn't my fault was the time I felt MOST at fault.

I feel young - and not young in a GOOD way. I feel young as in childish, aimless, without experience. In a way, I am. I've never attempted full time work before. I've never had to support myself wholly before. There's always been another wage earner or else school loans. I do not have that now. For as much annoyed ire that I heap onto these young-and-dumb 20 year old kids at every job I get hired at, the truth of the matter is that developmentally, I am RIGHT THERE WITH THEM.

I am there with them, making the mistakes they do, suffering the consequences they do, all because of my relative inexperience. Patrick reassured me that the average wait time for gainful employment is six months.

Well, my resources over the last six years are just about tapped dry. Those six months are going to end very badly if I do not do something right and do it soon. Patrick and Jesse also reassure me that what I'm going through is normal for someone in my position.

But that doesn't pay the bills. I am not a 20 year old kid fresh out of Mommy and Daddy's house. I am in my mid-fucking-30's. I am well past the age where I should know these things. My loved ones are always kind in giving me considerations for how my life and its troubles has kept me with a foot firmly, permanently, planted about 10 years behind where **I**, as an adult, should be. But employers give no such considerations, nor should they. It is up to me to do the work, to make leaps and bounds, to just work harder. And I'm not making those vaults gracefully.

Hell, lately it feels like I'm not making those vaults at all. I'm just coming up on them and tripping over them, tangled and bruised when both I and the vault hit the ground.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
Yesterday was my first full day at this new job. It's a warehouse job. This being a national, corporate company, it's bigger than the last one. Easily five times as big. We get to drive these motorized carts around, which helps, but you're still standing on the carts. No seats to sit down. Still, that part is pretty fun. I'm still not 100% on the cart (it's called a Pack Mule), but I'm sure given today I'll feel like an Indy 500 racer by the end of it.

Patrick and Jesse asked me yesterday how I liked it. I shrugged and went "Eh, it's a job." They seemed surprised by how nonplussed I am about the whole thing. But the truth is that it IS just a job. I show up, they tell me what to do and I do it, I do it and then I go home. That's fine enough for me.

I'm not happy about the 12 hour shifts, but seeing as this is my third job in like five months, I am obligated to stick it out. Yesterday turned out to be only about 10 actual working hours. Not too bad. I think the largest frustration will be not strangling my coworkers, who are armies of 20 year old kids fucking around in their first job.

I may not be excited about this job, but it's still a job. The rules are that they tell you what to do and you go DO it, and then you go back to the managers and ask them for MORE stuff to do. That's how it works. Them's the rules. Of course, when you're young, you don't know that, and when you're learning that, you don't get it for a long time, usually. Still, at least it gives me a leg up on work ethics.

We have this French couple working there. Young people, likely only in their early 20's. They don't speak a word of English and only ONE employee in the entire warehouse speaks French. I wonder how in the world they landed in Kansas City and how in the world they landed at this warehouse. I want to write up an index card that says "Welcome to the American work system. It totally sucks, doesn't it? Hi, my name is Teressa! I hope things are going well for you." But I don't know French and Google Translate kinda blows.

I also think there's cultural differences in the slight of how sarcasm is conveyed. Still, I wish to find a way to communicate with them. It must be lonely and a little scary to be working in a big place for half your day with no one but your spouse to talk to. They can't communicate any particular needs or problems easily, as the French speaking employee works on the other side of the complex for most of the day.

I've worked with people who did not speak English well or else not at all. The housekeeping industry is dominated by Latinos, so I've spent a lot of time working with people who speak only Spanish. But housekeeping is one of those things you can mime to people. And most places have a Spanish speaking person or three on staff, so it wasn't hard to find someone for them to talk to. French? That's a lot harder.

This particular branch of this company (Alphabroder) has only been open for a year, so there's a big chance to garner seniority. There's been a change in management, and a large spat of hiring people, so all I have to do is wait out the inevitable rash of turnover that always happens when people are mass-hired. I told Jesse that the real bonus of seniority has nothing to do with company benefits like health care, vacation time, etc. What seniority gives you is wiggle room when things go wrong and you miss work or else do it badly. People know you, trust you, and are willing to work WITH you with seniority.

It's one thing I had at Super 8, having worked there for nearly a decade. If I had to take off early 3 days in a row, I was allowed to. They knew I'd be back in on the fourth day, making up every hour I missed. They knew if I was having a bad week, all they needed to do was give me a few gentle reminders to get back on track. It takes time to develop that kind of relationship.

The Big Boss had a meeting with us all yesterday. It was a laundry list of complaints. Dirty bathrooms, not clocking out for lunch, not keeping up on daily cleaning duties, not treating the equipment well, etc.

It's the sort of thing that made me think either this place has lots of problems or else the manager is a dick. It's too early for me to tell which. But then, new management, relatively new location, and lots of new hires. It's bound to roll like this for a while.

This job, being as the warehouse is SO big (one square mile, each foot packed with product) and there are SO many people, gives me the oppurtunity to get my daily duty list and dissapear to do it. Far less interaction with coworkers and managers than the previous place. I like that. Being as most of the staff are kids, they are exceedingly chatty, which does not interest me in the least. One gal spent fifteen minutes last night describing to me her gay father, his boyfriend, her interest in cars, and why two of her children were half-black.

I couldn't care less. But the rules of work (and basic social interaction) require that I at least smile and make noises in the appropriate pauses of the conversation. Most people mistake that for interest. I wonder how it is that they aren't paying enough attention to notice that I am staring at my phone, more grunting than speaking, and smiling only when they do.

I have mentioned that I hate people, right?

Still, this is a job I know I can do. Even the 12 hour shifts don't seem so overwhelming, now that I've worked there in the evening and seen how the evening duties taper off. Of course, I say this NOW. It might be different after two weeks of 12 hour shifts. I am somewhat worried about my mental state. Working that much doesn't do normal people favors in their brainwaves. Working that much as a crazy person?

I guess we'll see. I was cavalier about it with Pat, saying if it breaks me, well, at least we'll know I tried. He looked alarmed at that statement, but I know myself. To stave off any dissapointment (personal or from my loved ones), I'm going to have work REALLY hard. Besides, I'm a little curious. Can I do it? Can I work the majority of the week at 12 hours, for weeks, for months, for years at a time?

I don't know. But if I keep up on my medication, make sure I get enough sleep, and develop effective stress relief techniques, I'm pretty sure I have a chance to make it. A GOOD chance.

Besides, what the hell else am I doing with my life? Nada. Not a damn thing. May as well see what making work my life will do.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
These are REALLY GOOD tips, guys, thank you! And Disgruntled, I LOVE that idea of making a list. I like making lists - they make me feel productive and in control of myself.

The set time and off is a little, well, NOT, as it turns out. The start time is between 11 and noon, depending on what they need that week. That's negligible. The END time?

That's anywhere between 9:30 and 11:00 PM....with mostly 11 PM being the end time. That's right, folks, I'll be working lots of 12 hour shifts. That actually made me blanche upon finding that out. I'm gonna do it, because MAD BANK, but it's going to be a heeellllll of a thing to manage, timewise.

I messaged Pat and breathlessly begged him to encourage me and keep encouraging me. I also told him to be GENTLE when I inevitably complain. I told Jesse to expect some heightened crazy due to working 12 hour shifts for most of the week, and that he needed to be gentle with that crazy. "Nothing will enrage me quicker," I told Pat and Jesse, "than not getting recognition for how hard working this schedule is going to be."

Especially, as I told both of them, that I will now be doing something NEITHER of them do. Not even Pat, whose only worked A COUPLE of 12 hour shifts in his whole life. Nothing pisses me off faster than being lectured to do something by someone who has not and has NEVER done what they are lecturing me about.

So I let them both know, right off the bat, what kind of support I'll need. Even a whiff of the previous bullshit they both rained down on me when I was vomiting profusely and decided not to go into work will be met with....well, a very angry Livejournal post, some extremely harsh words to the boys and depending on how tired I am, possibly some crying.

So yeah, got THAT taken care of. Off with pre-empetive righteous indignation and back to the rest of the post.

2 PM sounds like a good time to make those lists, Disgruntled. Well, it'll be 5 at my job, the third break (we get five of them, 4 fifteen minutes and a half hour lunch. Half hour lunch YES!). There is always that hour, isn't there, that just fucking drags, no matter what, isn't there? So make lists, grocery lists, bill lists, Things To Do Lists.

I'm thinking of doing it on my phone, but I like the idea of having one of those HYUGE calendars where I can write stuff on. Put it above my couch, where I sit, where I casually look up at, like, five million times a day.

I assume each of those kinds of lists are separate? Do you have a Master List or anything?

And Noss, that's what Jesse says his exwife did - all her business calls on lunches and breaks. I LIKE that idea. I haaate phone calls and will put them off until whatever it is is almost too late to handle by phone. If I do it at lunch, that means that I HAVE to be quick and expedient. I will totally be making my wish to GTFO the phone work FOR me.

2 hours seems a long block to schedule for things like errands and housework, but if I think about it, on the days when I DO have errands AND housework, it takes up about two hours. I hadn't at all considered staggering those two things - like errands on one day, housework on another. That's BRILLIANT!

Writing might be a more productive - and sanity saving - task to do when I've got the occasional hour lunch that they throw on us, Cm. Especially working so much, the crazy is bound to get more crazy. A quick writing break - a half hour, 15 minutes - during the day will probably do me WORLDS of good. I can bring pen and paper - doin' it old-skoooool.

And Noss, that's pretty much what I'll be doing here soon. I'm not working 3rd shift, but a late 2cd, so I know when I come home all I'm going to want to do is eat and crash. So setting things up where they can be easily set up MORE in the morning (or at least finalized) is a fantastic idea. No big rush when I get home, but prepare enough so there's no big rush when I wake up, either.

I generally set my alarm about two hours before I have to leave to work (and I leave early enough to get there 15 minutes EARLY). So that means I'm up 2.5 hours before my shift starts. But with this whole 12 hour thing, I might wind up setting my alarm for only an hour earlier. It just takes me so long to wake up, what with the sedatives, and if I don't write in the mornings, before I set out to do anything else for the day, EVERYTHING else just seems SO MUCH HARDER for the rest of the day.

These really, really good suggestions, guys. I appreciate them. Thank you so much. I feel like a kid having to ask these sorts of things, but I try to remember that these are things that you aren't born knowing how to do. It's trial and error, watching those around you, and learning how to do as other people suggest you to do.

Other people include you guys. Thank you. Thank you SO MUCH!
quirkytizzy: (Default)
The novelty of working full time has worn off and I am left with learning how to manage my time effectively. I've got 5 hours, maybe 6 if I stretch it, of free time on a workday. That has to be split up between mornings and nights. I suck at managing my time and so I haven't found the rhythm yet.

I haven't worked such late hours in a long, long time, and for a morning person, this will take some adjusting. The awesomeness of being able to sleep later with my Seroquel, of having the time before work to do errands, is, well, awesome, but I'll still have to learn how to adjust my time for getting off closer to midnight than not.

Does anyone have any tips, suggestions, experience, or advice to offer about managing your time when working full time hours? I could seriously, SERIOUSLY use it.

I also think we have an hour lunch. I haaaaate hour lunches. Half an hour is perfect for me. Anymore than that and I get bored and start casting about for something to do. An hour is also just long enough for me to notice how much I'm aching. Part of surviving manual labor is staying on your feet. Keep moving. Don't relax too long or you'll start to feel it.

I suppose I could just bring a book. An hour lunch would, at the very least, allow me to shovel in a few more smokes. At the previous place, I could only get in four smokes in a ten hour period. I smoke two packs a day. My entire day was one big, long nic fit. Sometimes it ended with me practically diving into my car and lighting up.

(But better than the two and a half packs I was smoking before I started working. Hell, somedays that was actually up to THREE packs. I apparently hate my lungs and wish to do them grave ill.)

Still, I'm excited to start today. Better pay, better hours, and this time, I'm full up on my meds. Now having a vague idea of what warehouse work entails, I'd laid out my work clothes yesterday. I'd refilled my stapler, gathered pens and permanent markers, loaded up my work apron. I made my lunch, put water bottles in the freezer, put together a couple of snacks I could eat on break. (I've discovered that food during your shift is kind of a necessity for warehouse work. Or at least it is for me, now that I'm not 22 and invincible.)

I made sure that everything was ready to go last night. I loathe having to hunt around looking for things before I leave for work. I despise doing that in general, just on sheer principle. After so many years of living with David, who NEVER woke up on time, who could NEVER find what he needed before we left, and who was CONSTANTLY making me late, I've become even more diligant about putting things together the night before.

God, what an endless argument that was with David. He once even had the balls to argue that he didn't take as long to get ready as I did, which meant that my assertation of him making us late wasn't valid.

To which I then said, "You get up HOURS LATE and then spend another HOUR looking for stuff. Sure, that might be three hours less than the four hours I require to be awake to go anywhere. I KNOW I need four hours and so I GET UP four hours earlier. You refuse to wake up earlier and so WE ALWAYS ARE LATE BECAUSE OF YOUR INABILITY TO GET YOUR ASS OUT OF BED AND FIND YOUR SHIT ON TIME."

It doesn't matter if he took an hour to get ready or three. The fact is that he never managed his time effectively enough to account for his getting-ready-time. Y'know, like an adult fucking should.

I'm pretty convinced he didn't think he actually took any longer to get ready. I do know at that point, he gave up trying to convince me that he wasn't always running late and instead planted his pedantic ass on the phrase "getting ready" instead of "YOU MOTHERFUCKER, I CAN'T AFFORD TO BE LATE TO CLASS ONE MORE TIME."

I use a lot of run-on sentences when I get angry. Oh well.

He also pulled this "manage your time like a fucking toddler" bullshit when it came to things like sleep or game or hanging out with his friends. Twice a week, sometimes more, he'd force himself to stay up for 24 hours at a shot to hang out with friends and then be too tired for work, for school, to clean, to go to therapy, ad fucking nauseam. ('Ad fucking nauseum' is my new favorite phrase concerning him.)

As I say, he had all the energy and will in the world to do the things he wanted. And as he said - and as I accepted - he didn't enjoy doing those things, so it didn't matter how much responsibility he was blowing off in order to go do those things.

I mean, seriously, teenagers pull that shit. I would always tell David this isn't high school, you can't sleep through your classes. He'd nod and then come game night, be up 24 hours again, to whine the next morning (ha, afternoon, because staying up so late means you get to crash the next day and claim that you just can't figure out why your sleep schedule is so fucked) about how the depression has stolen his energy and that's why he couldn't scoop out the litterboxes or go to class or look for a job.

I feel like a broken record. I've been talking about this issue, these issues, for over a year now. We all know he managed his time badly. We all know he blew off any kind of adult living. I am unable to bring up his school record without screaming that I'm the one who paid for it, in entry after entry. None of this is new information.

But here I am, talking about it as if it were a new subject. It's totally NOT. But I can't NOT talk about it, either. I know you guys understand. That's a big relief.

And I don't really need reassurance (at least not at this moment) that's it's OKAY to talk about him, because I believe you guys when you've said already that it's okay to talk about him. I didn't mean for this to turn into a David hate entry. (Not that there's anything WRONG with a David-hate entry. Just didn't plan on that becoming the focus of what I'm writing this morning.)

It's really amazing to me just how pervasive that relationship was, how it seeps into so much of my life NOW, that any random issue I'm writing about DOES have ties into David. I guess that's okay, at least for now.

I think I've got everything ready to go to work. I should double check, though. I'd hate to forget my apron. Or god forbid, my cigarettes. Oh yeah, DEFINITELY got to check for THAT.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
9/25/2015

So, I lost this job. Got sick, called in too many days. And yes, I know that says something about the state of the American work system, where you can get fired for taking a couple of days off sick, but I should have known better.

It outlines on one of my biggest frustrations about working. Most places will give you the benefit of the doubt with one day, but god forbid you call in two days. They act as if a cold or any other run-of-the-mill illness only leaves you feeling sick one day. As if one day is all you need to be sparkling fresh, non-contagious, and performing at peak efficiency. It gets to where you pray to fall sick on your weekends, where you might have more than one day to recover without risking your livelyhood.

But no matter. Shouldering responsibility is one of the millstones of being an adult - and so I shoulder responsibility for this one.

What worried me the most about this was not losing the job itself. A job is a job. I can always get another a job. What worried me was that I might lose Pat. Or at least that I might disappoint him. He may have been disappointed, but if he was, he hid it well.

It just seems like I've been making Pat wait forever for me to grow up.

It all so clearly illustrates that saying, "We are our own worst enemies." David may have screwed me up and over. My parents may have screwed me up and over. But now, in the stretch of my own adulthood, it seems I sabotage myself just as much as anyone else might try to sabotage me.

I sincerely wondered if the sickness that I called out for was specifically that. If it was some psychosomatic reaction to how smooth things were going. This isn't entirely true, though, as not only had Jesse been sick recently, but four of my coworkers had also been sick.

But it wasn't entirely a cold, either. I'd played it too loose with my Lithium, which turns out to have withdrawal properties. I did not know that. I'd been without it for five days. Didn't think much of it. I hadn't wanted to bother Pat to pick up my meds for me last week, as I worked during pharmacy hours and could not get them myself.

Bad idea. Whatever cold had sunk its teeth into me developed into something monstrous. Something with cold sweats, twitchy muscles, mini-night terrors. I'd awoken yesterday morning, internally chanting "This feels like withdrawals. Something's wrong. Something's wrong. This feels like withdrawals, I REMEMBER THIS FEELING. Something's wrong." Didn't think to look up Lithium until after I'd called in and sealed my doom.

Pat told me that he'd far prefer I impose on him the trip to get my medication rather than what happens when I go without. I guess he benefits from a sane Teressa, too.

I feel like I failed at being an advocate for my own mental health. I'm usually so on top of these things. It didn't occur to me that Lithium is an anti-psychotic. It didn't occur to me that I am exceedingly sensitive to anti-psychotics.

Jesse had said he felt bad, as if he should have insisted that I get my meds. He'd mentioned it the second or third day without but I dismissed it. I told him yesterday that it is not his job to make sure I take my meds. He's not my doctor. He'd already done his boyfriend-ly duty by saying something about it and I was at fault for not paying attention to it.

All this made me think of the time when I was on Abilify, working 60 hours, etc etc. See, I didn't call in hardly at all then. I went for three months straight without a day off (between work, school, and Cassie's schedule.) I went another 3 months with only two days off. I did not call in, despite being the most ill of my entire life.

So what changed? Where did that ability go? I know exactly what the answer is. It's fatalism. It's my ability to drive myself into the ground when all is at stake, when I'm backed into a corner, when stopping is akin to dying. It's my own morbid, self-destructive curiosity to see just how much pressure I can take on before I crack and shatter completely.

Stopping is not akin to dying these days, nor is cracking any longer a curiosity of mine. Without that, I don't seem to work as hard. I understand that fatalism is just as destructive as laziness, that the cost of living as I did for those six months took nearly a year to climb out of completely.

But I still think that was the defining difference. But I also know trying to recreate it would ruin me completely. But I also wonder if I'm not trying to, on some subconscious level, recreate it.

I started three sentences in a row with the word "but". Bad Teressa. No English Major for you.

So here I am, writing this entry, embarrassed as hell that I wasn't paying attention and wasn't being grown up enough. I know everyone gets their screw ups. It just seems that I screw up a lot. I know the reasons behind that screwing up are long and not without consideration.

But eventually those considerations stop being, well, considered. And I have a difficult time feeling as if they SHOULD be considered when it's damage I've done to myself. As if I should not feel stressed if I'm the one who screwed up. As if I don't have the RIGHT to feel stressed out if it's my fault.

Pat said that it doesn't really matter if I did it to myself or not, that the stress still presents itself and that I am completely within my rights to feel stressed out. I guess, as with everything, it's just a matter of doing the next right thing, even if you are stressed out.

I did do the right thing after I'd gotten the voicemail from the temp agency about being fired. I gave myself about five minutes to calm down and called them right back, asking for another assignment. Unfortunately, the only one they had at the moment was 30 miles away. I can't do that. But they said to call Monday, to which I will do.

It gives me the weekend to get to feeling better. The withdrawal symptoms eased considerably after I'd taken my normal dose of Lithium. Both the symptoms of withdrawal and the lingering cold are still there, enough for me to want to take the weekend. But I know come Monday, it's back on the horse.

Though if I'm honest, I kind of hate horses right now. (Metaphorical ones, of course.) Turn 'em into glue. Maybe it'll be easier for me to stay on the damn horse if I'm glued on.
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9/26/2015

Morning, a headache, filled with hopeful dreams that dodge the inevitable feeling of...well, feeling like a screw up. (Y'know the dreams, where they offer you your job back because it was all a mistake and no one's really mad at you and everything goes back to normal. That dream. That dream that you realize is just a dream when you wake up.)

But that's the thing, I don't think anyone IS mad at me, except for me, which doesn't really do much good in either direction. I almost texted Pat to ask him what the appropriate amount of guilt is to be felt in these situations. As if guilt were a measuring cup that I could tip over and pour out the overfill until it's at juuuust the right amount.

I have a sneaking suspicion the answer to that question is "whatever amount of guilt gets you moving towards the next right thing without paralyzing you." And that seems to be a wildly subjective amount.

I don't do so well with subjectives.

Last night, as Jesse was working at the Haunted House, I paced the apartment, alone and nervous, arguing with myself about the nature of guilt, its worth, and where I need to put it to make it useful. I took a long read through the Sick Systems post of Issendai's, trying to make some kind of connection to my own life, to my own ability to run myself ragged - or to refuse to run myself at all.

Some of it made sense. None of it made me feel better.

I think part of all this is that, having nearly broken myself entirely during the Abilify time, I am terrified of putting myself in that place again. So scared of it, as a matter of fact, that even working ONE day sleep-deprived and miserable sends off alarms, as if it is the same thing, or will be the START of the same thing, that nearly destroyed me before.

This is a ridiculous thing, of course. It won't be and even if it were to head that direction, I've enough experience to throw on the brakes and retread a new direction. But the knee-jerk panic is still there. And it comes off as privileged, as me whining about having to work when I don't feel well, which is spoiled, since it is just The Way Of The World that adults work when they don't feel well.

In all honesty, it makes me feel like a David, that I resent working when I don't feel well, and having now lost my job due to that resentment, I find myself in the position that David found himself. (As in, he had only himself to blame, as I have only myself to blame.)

Maybe it is all simply explained as I'm just having a hard time growing up. Arriving late to growing up. I don't know. Something that is understandable but less than excusable.

All I know is that I didn't want to post yesterday's entry and that I don't want to post today's entry. But I need to go to the net center to re-up my application at a couple other temp agencies (in case my main one does not have any immediate assignments open), and if my ass is planted in that chair with the wifi, then I may as well post this, too.

Off to do so. As Jesse says, maybe Monday morning will come my dream job. I doubt it, though, as it's very hard to find people who want to pay you to write poetry.
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Dawn approaches slower and slower with each passing week. Fall and then winter will soon be here. This used to bring with it a quiet dread, one that grew louder as the nights grew longer. But the last winter, alone and with you guys, kept the darkness outside from growing inside.

I'm not afraid of winter this year.

This job is doing what I thought it might - I'm losing weight. 10 pounds down in a month. I'm absolutely jazzed that, since I am exercising more, I can eat more AND still lose weight. I'm at 150 pounds now. On someone as short as I am (five foot flat), ten pounds makes a noticeable difference.

Though I gotta lay off on the soda. I've kind of been going buck-wild on that one. I just get so excited that I can drink it, now that it doesn't seem to put 3 pounds on me immediately. While 10 pounds in a month is fast, it's slower than the 7 pounds I lost in a week of depression last month. Slow weight loss is happy weight loss. Slow weight loss is healthy weight loss.

I dig healthy. Eventually the weight loss will plateau. It will stop and stabilize. I figure another 10 pounds or so till it does that. Again, that's healthy. Healthy is awesome. And seriously, I can eat fast food again. I LOVE FAST FOOD. I would eat it five times a week if I could. Typical American tool, I know. But now I can eat it a couple of times a week and not worry so much.

The last time I lost weight due to a job was in 2009, right after I left Pat and re-applied to work at Super 8 again. Between the manual labor and the fact that I was eating only about 1,000 calories a day (and that much only because my friends and lovers were buying and making food FOR me) I dropped like 40 pounds in three months. DO NOT WANT to do THAT again. Drastic weight loss is not my friend.

Besides, I don't have a lot of money left over to buy new clothes. I did, however, keep my old skinny clothes. I will not throw away my bigger sized clothes as I get smaller, either. Weight loss gurus will tell you to throw away all of the clothes that don't immediately fit. Poor people know better.

The mislabeling thing was resolved at work. Or at least enough as to where they figured out it wasn't all me. Huge, HYUGE relief. I do, however, seem to have a problem with following directions, in that I follow directions in a very literal sense. This sounds like a good thing. It's actually NOT.

I was told to go through a particular section of the warehouse and clear out the empty boxes. And so I did. Turns out it was just a BOX of empty of boxes he wanted me to clear out. The box of empty boxes FOR that side of the warehouse, NOT the entire side of the warehouse itself.

I apologized. Turns out that while it makes a little extra work now, it'll save us work come inventory time. So I got lucky on that one.

Another gal told me to get a sheet of scrap paper on "the top" of the shelf. So I did. Turns out it was the top of ANOTHER shelf I was supposed to have gotten the paper from. Stuff like that. I just need to start asking for clarification, even as I'm a little worried it'll come off looking neurotic.

Better to look neurotic and get the job done right the first time, though. That much I know. It did produce several minutes of heavily missing my old boss at Super 8.

Donna and I worked together for almost the entire 8 years I was at Super 8. Hell, I even trained her - both for the regular housekeeping AND for Head Housekeeper. (I hated the Head Housekeeper job and was very happy to give it away). We were close. She was the only coworker I've ever disclosed anything to. So she was privy to the particulars of the way my brain works.

And she worked WITH me on it. She knew there were days in which she'd have to be very, very specific about the tasks for the day ahead. She knew there were days in which she'd have to outline EXACTLY, PRECISELY, where to start and where I was to stop. She knew this and was never upset, frustrated, or otherwise put out about it.

Which is unusual, as even I recognize that it is not my job's job to adjust to how I work, but rather it is MY job to adjust TO the job and how it's run. But it worked out well, as she knew that I would be just as efficient and work just as expediently, even if she had to approach my work a little differently.

I miss that. Greatly. There is no disclosure at this job and likely never will be. It's just not that kind of place. So I worry that my whacky brainwaves come off as...well, whacky. I'm not going to get the option of being understood here. And in its own way, that's fine, as again, it's not my job's job to BE understanding. I have to understand IT.

So I'm going to be asking questions, requesting clarification, direct specifics. A lot of it. Especially in cases where I think to take a large project literally. They probably usually mean it literally.

Buuuutttt I'm gonna ask from here on out.

I really, really like this job. A part of me even wonders why other people can't seem to hack this sort of job, manual labor aside. Pat says it's because people generally crave intellectual interaction from their jobs. Warehouse work - and manual labor in general - requires very few brain cells. It's physically repetive and doesn't engage the brain. That's why I like it. It leaves my brain free all day to think about other things. And I WAAAY prefer a job that wears me out physically rather than mentally.

But other people often prefer it the other way, he said. That they not only crave, but need that mental stimulation, that mental engagement. That made sense, in as much as I can intellectually understand it, at least. Pat was sort of awed that I've managed to "side-step" how mentally boring this kind of work, but the truth is, I just like having the extra time TO think. Or the extra time NOT TO think.

Either way, I get the option. And I love that about this job. There is a strange and simple kind of beauty, of Zen, one gets from working a job that puts you on autopilot. Where muscle memory takes over and the mind just disengages. Sure, a few times I've found myself wildly bored with matching product numbers from page to shelf, but those are rare moments.

Besides, it's warehouse work. There's ALWAYS something to do, even if it's just pushing around a broom. Warehouses get dirty fast.
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Yesterday was an exceedingly frustrating day at work, as I got blamed in full for something that was only partially my fault. A project in which things got mislabeled. Terribly mislabeled. Mislabeled in a way that's taking two days to fix. There was a lot of "You weren't careful, you messed this one up big, do you know how much extra work this is costing us?!," etc etc.

Well, I was one of six people on this project - AND I had initialed all of my work. The worst parts of the mess? Not initialed. I got defensive. I brought that up. The lady handling the mess said she didn't remember anyone but me on it. I wanted to scream "WHY WOULD I LIE ABOUT SOMETHING THAT'S SO EASILY VERIFIABLE?! JUST ASK THEM FOR FUCKS SAKE!"

It's difficult not being a tattle-tale sometimes. One gal who worked on this project, when I told her that the Boss wanted us to staple the packages in increments of ten, went "Oh, I ain't doing all that" and went on her merry way with the project. It's more likely that the girl who blatantly flouted instructions is the cause of the mess, but I damn well can't say that, or it'll just come off looking like...well, a tattle-tale. And that never works out in a person's favor.

Eventually, it occured to me that the very reason the Label Lady was in the position TO fix the labels was because she has a broken foot and could only do sit-work. Sit-work is hard when you're used to being on your feet. I realized that she was probably having a WAY worse day than I was. So in the end, I wound up apologizing to her for being on such high-guard, and she said that it happens and not to worry.

That's a trick I've learned over the years to diffuse a tense situation. Even if you feel you've done nothing wrong, even if you feel you're the wronged party, making an apology takes down the other person's guard. It's on the manipulative side, but it's also damn near foolproof. It allowed both her and I the breathing room to focus on the solution instead of whose fault it was.

Thing is that this mistaken work happens on a semi-frequent basis. I'm often getting called over for wrong orders on tickets that aren't mine. (A girl and I have sort of similar signatures.) I'd fixed that by changing HOW I initaled things, but I'm still getting called over for wrong orders. I worry that my repeated "Actually, that's Kristen's order" is going to be seen as an attempt to pin bad work on someone else. I go on and fix the order everytime, regardless of whose it is, but it's frustrating.

I was also blamed for unplugging someone's phone and plugging in mine - a thing that was not let go of until I pulled out MY phone and showed her "Hey, this was NOT the phone that got plugged in over yours."

Whenever I've been in the position where it has been my fault, or even could have been my fault, I'm very fast to admit that. I even said, concerning the labeling thing, that I was SURE some of it was mine. Just. Not. All. Of. It. This has been the case for a month and a half now now, so when does the new guy stop getting blamed for things that go wrong? Especially when that new guy has actually, seriously, like really been found - by the bosses, no less - to be INNOCENT, like, several times now?? Do people not recognize patterns?

And the biggest question: How in hell do I bring this up next time it happens without sounding whiny? Because it's really starting to become A THING, where no matter how many times it's proven otherwise, the accusing eye is cast at ME.

Jesse says this will all pass when I'm no longer the new guy. Unfair, but true. It adds up and it's massively annoying, as I KNOW my work is solid, triple-checked, and done well. Jesse says to not worry, that it will sort itself out in the end. He's right. It's just very frustrating. And it raises my anxiety levels significantly.

It's going to take some deliberate, conscience work today to stay calm and not get defensive. I'm going to do it, though, because high roads and yadda yadda yadda.

I was telling something to Jesse yesterday. I meant it as a compliment, but I don't think he felt it was. Wifely duties )
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So Jesse and I are a little broke. Not too bad, that "broke three days before payday" thing. Still, we were a little stressed about how to get milk and butter. I opened up my wallet to give him my card (which has about 3 dollars on it) only to find a 20 dollar bill I'd forgotten.

To which I then went "Holy shit, I'm well off enough as to where I can forget I had 20 dollars extra." I've not had that happen in DECADES. LIEK OMG GUISE.

And okay, my "well off enough" is about 1,300 a month, but still...20 fucking dollars I had forgotten because I'm not counting my money in increments of pennies anymore! YES!

Had a brief and humorous moment of connection with the Floor Manager today. We were all sitting outside on break, smoking cigarettes. Warehouse work is grimy. So we're all sitting outside, sweating through our shorts and tank tops, hands and arms up to the elbows smeared brown with dust and engine grease. It's the sign of a day's worth of work - something none of us mind.

Up rolls one of the sales ladies to speak with The Big Boss. She steps out of her pristine white SUV, heels clicking on the pavement. She is a Johnson County Girl.

It's hard to explain, but anyone who comes from the part of town that DOESN'T have money knows what I mean when I talk about the women who come from the part of town with money. Johnson County has a lot of money. A LOT of money. We were the 3rd richest county in the entire United States for several years running. There are Jaguar, Porsche, and BMW dealerships all within five miles of each other. We are fucking flush with cash.

And so you have Johnson County Girls. The girls who dress with class, who dress not in jeans, but in tailored slacks. They don't wear shirts, they wear blouses. They find a top on sale at 85$ to be a steal. They dye their hair immaculate shades of blonde and blonde. Their jewelry is delicate and their nails are always manicured in subtle shades. They do not curse, they laugh delicately, and excell at being bright without ever being subversive.

These are real ladies.

And these ladies are the reason I find myself looming anytime I have to interact with them. I am not one of them. Couldn't be if I tried. HAVE tried, actually, and been politely ostracized every time. It's part of why I'm so grateful that manual labor exists - it's an entirely different world of people working in manual industries. People like me.

The floor manager was shaking his head as Miss Sales Lady walked in. I took the opportunity be snarky and go "Look at 'em faaancy people, with 'der faaancy clothes. Johnson County Girls, man."

He shook his head, saying he lived in Johnson County, but he wasn't one of them. I nodded, saying "I could never fit in with that crowd."

His eyes widened a bit and he nodded in agreement, saying "Me too."

It made me feel like I've found the right place. The right people. I knew I had a better shot of doing so in manual labor work. My coworkers joke all day long about subjects that would be given a horrified, if not polite, titter in office or retail jobs. (We like joking about foot service as a kink. I don't think it's actually anyone's kink, but it's just funny as fuck to joke about it.) Shit like that. Off the wall, off color - that is our trade.

There's a...there's just a feel, an entirely different feel to the people I'm around now as opposed to who I would have been around at those mall jobs I kept getting turned down at. A real feel, something less refined, hell, even a bit of a sneer at refined things. I wish I could explain it better.

Maybe there is one easy way to put it. I could have just said "Basic bitches, man. Basic fucking bitches."

We bad bitches at my work. We some bad-ass bitches, for reals, yo.

Alright, so I may be a little of an odd-one-out here, as I'm pretty sure I'm the only nerd and I've already gotten an eyebrow raise at using an unusual word. ("Dystopic"). But places like these always seem better at accepting eccentricity, so long as you can haul your weight and do your job.

And THAT I can do. With aplomb, with vigor, and with any other number of unusual sounding words. I can totally do that.
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My hands hurt. Every morning. I'll get used to it, as one does with manual labor jobs. I imagine it'd be worse in an office environment, what with having to type all day. Carpal syndrome and all that. As it stands, every day I am a little less sore than the day before.

And yeah, Morningsong, I don't mind him being on welfare. Hell, I'd be on welfare myself, except that I don't qualify. I have no dependants, I am not disabled (or in the process of filing for Disability) and I am not pregnant. This job pays well enough as to where I should not be scrambling as much, but I don't believe it comes with benefits.

Or it may come with benefits, but not until I'm officially hired on permanently. I have to work 425 hours as a temp first. That's roughly 11 weeks, or three months. And it may wind up being that I have to wait longer STILL for benefits, as many companies will not give you health care until you've worked a certain amount of time for them officially. Usually an entire year. Pensions? 401 K's? Things of the past. Hell, at this rate, I'm pretty sure Social Security as a government program, to qualify for at 65, won't even EXIST by the time I reach of age. And I'm paying roughly 60 - 80 dollars a WEEK into that program. So with all that, health care itself is a shaky thing.

I actually don't mind paying Social Security, though, even as I know I won't get my money in return. There are those out there, poor, elderly, infirm, who need the money. That's who the chunk taken out every week is going to - and they need it. I'm okay with that. I'm able to work, I don't mind helping to shoulder those who can't.

(Kansas did not expand Medicaid with Obamacare. Thank you, conservative-up-the-ass-without-lube Governor Brownback. There is no extra help, no discounts, no nothing out of the whole deal.) The only reason I'm able to get meds at the mental health clinic is because I was grandfathered in after some vicious government funding cuts for the poor and mentally ill. I fear for the day when they can no longer afford to give me even that.

Thus no health care. I haven't had health care since I was 18. Jesse has no health care either right now, as the Social Security office screwed up his app and he has to re-apply. (They filed his application under the wrong name.) Without health care, prescription medication is impossible to obtain and weed would likely be cheaper anyways, even if he did have health care.

A fine day in America, where an illegal substance is easier to get and more affordable. As my friends overseas have noted, were we living in a more generous state, we would not be left such adrift. The poor are not as punished in other countries.

Don't get me wrong, I love America. I'm a patriot. I love our culture, as problematic as it is. I love how loud we are, how brash we are, how our national identity hinges on personal individualism. I love it all. I just don't love what we do to the poor. That maaaay have something to do with being a member of that particular group. Oh well. Outside of voting and writing letters, there's not much to be done about it.

I understand that lots of people believe in bootstraps, but I've also found you can't survive on them. They are chewy and nutritionally void. (That's a terrible analogy, but it's all I've got this morning.)

Y'know, being as I haven't worked full-time in, like, ever, I thought the press of 8 hours a day would be more difficult to adjust to.

But the job is so self-contained that it's not an issue at all. There's always something to do - and now I'm well enough trained to do the more complex bits of work here and there, I'm kept busy enough. Thank god, as boredom is killer in manual labor jobs.

This type of job really does suite me. I like the physical work. I like how I don't have to deal with the public. I like how my coworkers are rough around the edges. I like how sequential the work itself is, how ordered it is. I like how self-contained the work is. I like how I can see the results of my work at the end of every day, packed neatly in boxes that I filled and taped up.

That's actually a big deal to me - being able to see immediate (or near immediate) results of my work. That's something you get less of in an office environment and damn near NONE of in a retail environment. Those jobs are so fluid, with constant interruptions from customers. Harder to wrap up a day and see it all neatly stacked in a corner.

No matter how early I set my alarm (5 AM, for leaving at 7 AM), it never seems enough time. I always want to write more, or want to clean more, but it seems ridiculous to get up any earlier than two hours before it is time to leave. I am not one of those people who can roll out of bed half an hour before they climb into the car. I require wake-up time. A lot of it. Timing the alarm to accomdate that is responsible.

(That was one thing that drove me nuts about David. He'd set his alarm either way too late and could never get ready on time, or else too early and then would NEVER get up when it went off. He'd spend two hours hitting the snooze button every ten minutes. After which, of course, he'd still be waking up too late and could never be ready on time. Drove. Me. INSANE.)

Thankfully that is not an issue now. If Jesse has A Thing he has to be awake for, he wakes himself up at a reasonable time for it. That's way, way awesome.
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I am so glad I have you guys validating that yes, I'm being treated in some fuckery ways here. It helps me stay calm upon awakening this morning. I'm not crazy, I'm under genuine distress here.

Thank you for that.

The thing is, when I met Jesse, I understood that I'd be the sole breadwinner. That him getting any sort of real job would be near impossible. I was okay with this. I knew eventually I'd land something that would cover us both. It's just that to have immediately threatened really trips me up. (And really, with my life, with my luck, I should have seen it coming a mile away. Still, Caught-Flat-Footed-Teressa is Caught Flat Footed.)

He is getting food stamps, which helps. And you're right, Cholula, that one can appeal to a judge only after the 3rd denial. For those overseas, it's common practice to be denied right off the bat for the first two applications. It's supposed to filter out those who "really" need it from those "who don't", as those who really need it will keep trying. It's fucking stupid.

Welcome to America, bitches.

Thankfully, Gonzo, he is different from David in that 90% of the time, when he is in a lot of pain, he does NOT wind up doing what he wants. Often even sex. It is what makes me willing to do this whole thing, that he is not simply avoiding the grown up stuff.

But goddamnit, god-motherfucking-damnit, if I do not get extremely offended - and rightfully so - when I'm told to do something that he could not or would not do himself. I mean, hell, he was hurting so bad yesterday that he could not get his own cup of coffee. I got it for him and later brought it up. I was like, "Dude. You couldn't even get your OWN COFFEE, and I was like 'Here, let me help, don't hurt yourself more."

Give me some of that in return, I said. He said he could. He said the reason he was pushing so hard was because I was so worried about losing my job. Which, yeah, I was, because hello, worry is worry. But it's not like I DIDN'T KNOW my job was at risk. Repeating the obvious gets on my nerves in the best of situations. When I'm so tired I'm crying and I'm throwing up and my skull is exploding from a migraine? It's going to make me feel rageful and hopeless.

I very rarely need "pushing", and when I do, it's usually the gentlest of pushes. I'm a grown adult, I generally know what I need to do. If I'm sick, I told him, don't push. Give me the equivalent of getting a damn cup of coffee for me and let me take a few hours to not be so damn sick.

I'm willing to have any conversation once. I'm willing to have damn near almost any conversation twice. The third time I have to start up these sorts of conversations? Well, that's when I take a page from all those years with David and start re-evaluating the relationship.

This is once for Jesse. I will let him know that.

And yep, Paula, that's what it was. A stress induced migraine. Pat also noted that. A part of me felt almost apologetic, as if it were (again) my fault for letting the stress get so bad. I am savvy enough to know, however, that fault is a ridiculous thing to assign to psycho-somatic symptoms, as the only thing that makes them go away is a combination of rest and then further solving the stress.

And it is the curse of poverty, to miss work, which causes more stress, all because of stress to begin with. Poverty is this endless cycle of quicksand. You HAVE to move, to move FAST in order to save yourself. But moving fast just gnarls you into the mud deeper, and you wind up having to work twice as hard just to keep from sinking.

And Cholula, you are right again in that it is also a vicious cycle that we find ourselves blaming ourselves for not being able to shoulder weight that, in reality, no one can, and in that blame, we blame ourselves FOR blaming ourselves. The human mind is astounding in the circles we can set for ourselves, the endless rat race that we find ourselves in when we get stuck in dark and small places.

I mean, really - it's no wonder psychology is such a wide and vast field. There is never a shortage of baffling thought and behavior patterns in human beings. We are always criss-crossing upon ourselves.

Still, for it all....I slept well last night. I have no migraine. I haven't thrown up even once. I have the ability to bring food to work. I have rides to and from work today. I have a work TO GO to. I feel ready and prepared for the day ahead.

Assuming no one dies, I think I'll be okay today. The sarcasm in me wants to go "It's AAAMAZING how much I feel I can accomplish when I'm not so tired and in pain that I'm throwing up!" but really, that's not sarcasm at all.

That's just the reality of my life - and for it all, I guess that's got to be good enough for now.
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I did not go into work. I'd gone to throw up a third time (making that twice in an hour), curled up on the bathroom floor, and began to bawl. Maybe I am weak. Maybe I am a useless thing who crumbles under the slightest of stress. Or maybe, just maybe, I'm human. Whatever the reason, I messaged Pat, called the temp agency, and went to bed, feeling miserable, weak-willed, and all of about two inches tall.

Sleep, as I knew it would, restored some sense of personal stability (fragile as it feels right now). The migraine and nausea is gone. I'd called the temp agency back and they told me I was fine. Just watch your attendance, they said, and MedArt will be happy to see me tomorrow.

So it looks like so far, the Universe isn't going to punish me for falling under duress. So far, at least.

Jesse cannot work due to the fibro and the spinal stenosis (spinal bifida? Something like that?) He does do some paid volunteering at the haunted houses during the Halloween season, but it wipes him out for days. Hell, even sitting in a car on a long ride can put his ass down for hours upon hours. He has a reading disorder that makes reading comprehension difficult, so office jobs are also not much of an option.

I'm going to talk to Shan and get the number for her Disability Lawyer, like you suggested, Daha. These are all previously diagnosed problems. He has the paperwork from older doctors. But you have to move forward in the Disabiliy process as if you need everything diagnosed for the first time. We're in the process of trying to get Disability, but trying to get it proves every negative thing the rest of the world hears about the American Health Care System.

A couple of days ago, with the phone deal, I did snap at him in a way that involved his lack of a job. Other ex's have apparently done so as well, so it's a trigger for him. I get that but it was SO HARD not to scream it this morning at him. Like, how do I say "Hey, Mr. Person I Love But Want To Slap - give me, the person who has NEVER and WILL NEVER ask you to push yourself TO and PAST the point of vomiting, the SAME DAMN RESPECT."

Maybe that's actually what I should say. It does sort of feel like a David repeat, Eyelid. And it just eroded my sense of...I don't know what, but something, to have to argue that I shouldn't have to work while crying in pain and throwing up.

I mean, that seems so basic to me. Am I doing something wrong? It's not as if I call out all the time. In fact, my job history shows that I am actually closer to a goddamn workaholic, forever coming in on my days off, forever staying late. Jesse may not have seen that yet, but Pat has. So it just sort of makes me feel wrong when I argue that maybe, just maybe, if I'm throwing up and crying, I might, just maybe, deserve a day?

I mean, I don't really "take" days all that often. And my "days" are usually just a few hours. Three or four hours spent crying and being upset and then I get on with my damn self and get on with my damn day. If I'd had my car, I probably would have just called in late and come in at noon. (Pat stays up to take me to work, so afterwards he has to go right to bed for HIS work.)

I am a completely raw nerve right now.

I know it's hard for those around me, but for fucks sake, I just want to some validation that it's hard for me, too. Pat was understanding this morning and said he knew it's really rough on me. That was, like, the first time he or Jesse or anyone face-to-face had said something like that to me in days.

I keep vacillating between "This is nothing that should be upsetting you, Teressa, NORMAL PEOPLE DO THIS ALL THE TIME GET OVER IT" and "Wait, no, THIS IS SOME ACTUAL REAL BULLSHIT HERE and I want recognition for it."

I don't know why both of them couldn't be true at the same time. But those are fences that I keep striking into, spinning back and forth, feeling useless and smarting from the barbed wire on each of those fences.

It is this kind of frustration, along with having been up for about 25 hours and throwing up three times this morning, that led to a brief but strong urge to cut myself. It comes up once in a while. I've got almost 15 years cut free, so I don't pay it too much worry when it comes up, but it still does rise its head occasionally. See, I can't take out the rage and confusion and exhaustion on Jesse or Pat or my job. I can snark and snap, but really translating the pain into a physical, undeniable form? I can't do that on other people.

I used to do that on myself. That's what I felt this morning. I used to cut not out of sorrow, but out of wild anger and impotence. To take it out on SOMEONE. That someone was, in years past, myself. It's no longer an option, but I did make note that the exhaustion and frustration had, indeed, reached critical.

I do not feel like cutting upon awakening. It was not an urge I shared with Jesse or Pat last night. Mostly I was afraid they'd think I was just being dramatic (and let's face it, cutting or even cutting urges ARE dramatic). And I'm sure they are quite tired of my drama as it is.

It's safe to say I feel insane right about now. What I'm seeing and what those around me are seeing are two completely different things. The only real form of validation I'm getting is from you guys - and thank god, because I think I might truly take leave of my senses entirely without that. But Pat, Jesse, others face-to-face around me, are seeing one thing (that this is normal, what's my problem, seriously, what's my problem) and I am seeing something else (this isn't normal, I know what my problem is, it's stress, and hey, it does this weird thing called "stresses you out") and the two pictures are not compatible.

One thing that stress removes from you is the ability to see the big picture. At this point, only a few days in (which doesn't inspire anyone to believe in me and what I'm seeing/feeling about this whole thing), I'm not sure that any picture exists at all.

It'll pass. It always does. Eventually. There will always be some new stressor, some new mistake I've made, which hopefully means I've moved onto something new in my life (and that's growth and forward movement). I know this.

But in the interm? God this sucks and god I'm glad I have you guys.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
So the car is unfixable. Or at least, the damage is deep enough as to where fixing it would be more expensive than buying a new car. The headgasket blew. It leaked a ton of stuff in the engine. I am, in other words, up shit creek without a car-shaped paddle.

I still have rides taken care of, at least this week. What happens next week? Who knows? Let's let the Universe take care of that, because it's done soooo well in doing so before. /sarcasm

I can't buy a junker. I can't save up for a junker. See, after bills I have about 350-400 left over a month. I'd like to spend that money on such wiiiilldddd luxeries as food and gas money for rides and cat litter. (My budgeting has to put "food" in the "after bills" part.) There is no "I can get you a car for 500 hundred", there is no saving for a car, as there will be, after food, medication, etc, is done for the month.

It is now 3:14 AM. I have not slept. A migraine, some throwing up, etc, kept me awake. My alarm will go off in two hours and I will go into work in four hours.

I will work and I will come home and I will have been up for 34 hours straight. And I'm pissed off as hell about it. And despairing. You see, I had told Pat and Jesse that while I know it wouldn't look good, I was calling in. Aside from migraine yay, I begin to get nauseous around the 20 hour mark. I usually do wind up vomiting at least once. The warehouse has been 80+ degrees lately, which of course exacerbates migraines AND exhaustion.

But apparently adults don't call in when they're sick. Not even when they're throwing up. Apparently adults pull 34 hour days ALL THE TIME and I'm just being COMPLETELY self-sabotaging by wishing to call into work. They do it and sure it sucks, but hey, whatevs, ADULT LIVING, MAAAN. Both of them got SSUUUPPPERRR offended that I was going to call in. And Pat said he was worried so I can't, I just CAN'T fuck that up by accidently losing my job, even if I'm sick as a dog.

I know my boss said it wouldn't "look good" if I were late again. And I know calling it would look as equally "not good." But I really, honestly, sincerely believe that going into work genuinely ill is a bad idea. I really, honestly believe that making myself genuinely suffer like that is an extremely unhealthy idea. And I don't want to do it. OH GOD, DO NOT WANT. I know my body and I know I'll be running to the bathroom every couple of hours to throw up or cry or both.

I shake, I cry, and I throw up after being up so long, let alone with a migraine. I recognize that these are actually unusual symptoms of exhaustion, but they DO happen with me, and in spades. And being forced (or "forced", in my case) to suffer through that feels so goddamn unfair.

Unfair. That's what this whole goddamn thing feels like lately. Like, I get a good thing and I IMMEDIATELY get punished for it. I mean, jesus, I don't even BELIEVE in karma and here I am wondering what the fuck I did to offend whatever deity is currently in charge of my life.

And all I can do is scramble and complain and write and snark and complain and all of these completely USELESS things. People around me are doing all that they can and I'm still sinking and so I KNOW complaining just makes them feel unappreciated. I know everyone around me is getting so sick of hearing it, but fuck, I don't know what else to do.

Noss, you mentioned that your friend went through social welfare services. I don't think there's anything that can be done, but there is a food pantry here with lists of other resources. Maybe rideshares. Maybe some Salvation Army place that helps out with vehicles. I don't know. Amanda goes back to school in a couple of weeks and Pat can only take me TO work.

I'm taking every ice pack I have and taking that and a bandana to work. I can switch out the ice packs on the floor. They won't last long in the heat and humidity, but that's why I have three. We don't have to ask permission to use the bathroom, so I'll just do my best to stay working around it. There are parts of the warehouse I can go cry in for a few minutes if I need to. I'll do this.

I'll get it figured out. Because at this point, my sense of fatalism has kicked in and I'm wondering just how much I can take before I collapse. How much stress, strain, pressure, and uncertainty can be piled onto my shoulders before I have a complete breakdown?

I don't know. Abilify/David was the last time I completely lost it. That was a lot of stress. A lot of working through 34 hour days. A lot of terror of losing things, friendships and my at-the-time relationship included. Much the same now. I wonder how much it will take to achieve the same end that came of that.

I mean, what the hell? Total breakdown is coming anyways. May as well make it count, right? I'm going to throw up one more time BEFORE going into work, I'm going to go into work today at 34 hours of no sleep, I'm going to vomit and I'm going to cry, and I'm going to do this NOT because I'm worried about losing my job, but because the two most important men in my life told me that people do this all the time.

And if other people do it all the time, then goddamnit, I can, too.

They better fucking be right.

Trust

Aug. 9th, 2015 10:38 am
quirkytizzy: (Default)
You guys are right - a huge part of this is the curse of poverty. I hear people complain that as soon as they manage to get a few hundred saved up, something happens to wipe that out. I laugh hysterically, because that stuff happens to me before I have any money saved up. Before I have a few hundred to absorb the blow. It's not my savings that's being wiped out, it's my rent payment for that week.

But then, you all know this. I doubt there's a one of you who either hasn't been this poor yourselves or else known someone this poor. That is one aspect of situations like this that drives me crazy - so many people treat this sort of thing as a "small" thing, like ya'll said. Frustrating, annoying, maybe even upsetting as their savings has just dropped to zero, but overall, they have easier resources for rides or cabs or car repairs.

They don't understand the panic. They don't understand how a car that's stopped running equals the loss of a job, the loss of your paycheck, and the loss of your home as a result. I don't know WHY it's so hard for people to make that apparently wild leap in logic. It seems easy to me, but then, maybe I'm the odd man out on this one.

I have FROM work figured out. Amanda will come get me after work until the car is repaired. That's 50% of the initial problem solved. Now it's just figuring out rides TO work. And Disgruntled - while there are no bus lines that run within 15 miles of my work, there ARE cabs, Uber drivers, etc. I'm keeping that suggestion in my bag o' tricks. That's a fantastic one, thank you.

Carpooling would be a good idea but I honestly don't feel comfortable asking my coworkers for rides. Certainly at least not yet. Even with offering gas money, I would still essentially be asking a huge favor from a practical stranger - and I'm not comfortable with that idea. I HAD thought of posting a Craigslist rideshare ad (Craigslist being a wanted-ad website, for the folks over the Atlantic), but then I don't feel safe being in the car with a complete stranger, either.

But I WILL make it to work, somehow. If I have to leave TWO hours early to give me car time to cool down on the road, I'll do it. Maybe I'll even take a cab to work, which at 20 miles one way, will be pricey. But if it means keeping my job long enough to get my car back, hell, it's worth it.

The hardest part of all this, of course, is keeping my spirits up. In my better moments, I would say the human will can be tempered to be unbreakable. In my better moments, I would remind myself that I have never been left adrift, that I have always found the resources and help to continue on, and that I am a survivor. In my better moments, I know there is a way, because there is a will.

But those are only moments...and life cannot be lived entirely in the better of those moments. I know that sometimes the obstacles are insurmountable and that we must find a different mountain to climb altogether. I know that sometimes the resources and help can only be stretched so far. And sometimes I know that not being adrift and actually being able to swim to shore are two different things.

That....that is the part that frustrates my loved ones to no end. They think I am being self-defeatist. Perhaps I am. But I am also being realistic. I did not come to being 34 and landing my first decent job by accident. I came to this by a myriad of poor decisions and extremely unlucky circumstances that exacerbate those poor decisions.

No one wants to hear someone they love whining or spinning tales of throwing in the towel. I understand this. But if I cannot talk about how this is all affecting me, about what it makes me feel, think, even if I AM able to act in ways that move forward...well, thoughts can be like infections. Left under the skin, they fester and eventually spill over, breaking the skin in a mess of rotting fluids.

And yes - mainsplain'. That's what it felt like. A sort of "Oh, poor Teressa, losing her shit again." (Sad eyes, tilted head). It's like, look motherfuckers - I understand I'm a high strung person. I understand that my basic personality produces wild intensity. But that in no way - now or EVER - diminishes the validity of what I'm feeling or the stress I'm under. Any idiot over the age of 6 already knows that panic isn't useful in making decisions - and I am far from the age of 6. And any idiot over the age of 20 already knows that when shit like this happens, you need to formulate a plan.

I am also far past the age of 20. What I am NOT past, and never WILL BE past, is the human tendency to be upset when presented with upsetting situations. And when it's upsetting situations that threaten the most basic of human needs (food, shelter), it's likely I'll be upset in a way that show very base fears.

Plans are being developed. Suggestions are being taken. That was not going to change, no matter how upset I got. I haven't survived what I have by panicking WITHOUT taking advice. You guys trust me to think about ideas given, to be able to construct a workable plan from that. I just need Pat and Jesse to give me the same trust.

A bad day

Aug. 7th, 2015 11:44 pm
quirkytizzy: (Default)
So I had a bad day today. What took it from a bad day to an outright awful day were the responses of those around me - or least Pat and Jesse, as they are always the first line of defense in my life.

So this morning, when my car stalled out for the second time, I had no way of reaching anyone for help (still no phone). I got out of my car, intending to walk the couple of miles to Elizabeth's house. Thankfully then, a nice person came and took me to Elizabeth's, where I borrowed her phone and called into work. She doesn't have a vehicle right now either, so she couldn't take me into work.

This is a brand new job. I just finished my second week. I'd already been late once this week due to the car. Twice in the same week, so early in the hiring process, looks terrible. I know this is what causes employers to send temps back to their agencies. This is the first job I've ever had in my life where I can actually support myself. This is literally the best job I've ever had. I can't lose this job.

So I hung up the phone with my boss, leaned over onto the computer desk, and began to cry. I could feel it slipping away from me. Not just this job, but feelings of self-sufficiency, of pride, of what I felt was honest-to-god, the only fucking thing I've done right in what feels like forever. There was hopelessness, helplessness, and a great, big, black of hole despair opening right there in Elizabeth's computer room.

Ragey Teressa gets Long Winded Teressa )

Blades

Jul. 31st, 2015 07:11 am
quirkytizzy: (Default)
"Blades to wake me up, blades to sing me to sleep." That's a line of poetry that came to me yesterday. I don't mean razor blades or cutting or anything dysfunctional. I mean lawnmower blades. I had thought they'd be thin and sharp, when in reality they are often an inch or thicker. Handling a bunch of them at once is an exercise in planned grace - and I am not a graceful person. But yesterday, I found some of the movement in handling them had become smooth. I did not have to think about it nearly as hard.

This is good news. It means that muscle memory is developing. I knew it would eventually. Just takes a little time. I cannot WAIT until the entire job itself becomes so.

One awesome thing about this job - I can keep my long nails. While the job itself absolutely demolishes nail polish, it hasn't broken a nail yet. A couple of the ladies even have fancy salon jobs on their nails. The dirt and grime gets embedded into the skin but doesn't tear up the nail itself. MAJOR bonus.

I think I almost weirded out my boss yesterday. There are two major parts of this job - pulling the orders from the shelves and then packing those orders into shipping boxes. When I run out of orders to pull, I've been drifting down to the packing area to help out there. Boredom is killer when you're in a hot metal box so I do what I can to keep occupied. Apparently that's not something new hires do, although I wasn't warded off it, either. I've also been trying to repackage the smaller items on the shelves during down time. This has been encouraged.

I also have been scaling the shelves, reaching up to the higher ones, to drag products close to the edge. This is actually a more selfishly motivated action. I'm ridiculously short (hello, 5 foot short-shit!) and the closer it is to the edges, the easier time I have of reaching it. This is also encouraged, albiet with grave admonishing to be safe when reaching the higher shelves.

I talk about my job a lot. This must seem strange to the majority of people, for whom a job is just a job, nothing of note, nothing of real mention. But for someone like me, whose everything roils just under the surface, whose nearly every interaction impacts, it's damned important to me.

I'm having to adjust to a full-time schedule, though. I can't remember the last full time job I worked. It was always part time, either because Pat brought home the big money or else because of school. And this full time job is traditional in it's Mon-Fri, 8-5 schedule. It means I have to be a hell of a lot more careful with planning things like psych appointments. I had to cancel my talk-therapy altogether. I'm hoping that with a steady job I won't NEED it as much. And if it turns out I do, I'll have to seek weekend services, of which I, as an uninsured patient, will not find.

So doubling up on self-care techniques it will be. I won't qualify for food stamps with this new job and I won't have time for the majority of food pantries. But with this job, I shouldn't need those services.

I did straight up weird the floor manager the other day, though. I think it was over with fairly quickly, but I was a little stymied. See, I totally had him pegged as a nerd. An old-school nerd. It was the long hair in a ponytail, the metalhead shirts, the slight but noticeable awkwardness. So I straight up asked him. I outright asked him if he was a nerd. It turns out he isn't. I later, casually, said I hope I didn't offend him. He laughed and said a little, to which I then told him "Hey, don't be too offended. It's cool to be a nerd these days." He laughed again and said it hadn't been when he was in school.

To which I then also laughed and said it hadn't been when I was in school, either. As I put it, I had to "shamefully hide my habit of Dungeons and Dragons." After this exchange, though, he seemed a bit more open to me. That was nice.

Especially as a couple of days prior, he'd gotten rather growly about a bag of spare and yet unhomed parts he was certain was mine. It wasn't. I've been making extra sure that all the right parts go in all the right boxes, even as it slows me down, even if I have to tear apart the box I was working on and redo it. His voice was even but his eyes had that look, the one that said "Why are you lying to me?" When it turned not to be mine, he apologized profusely. That was also nice and I told him as such.

I'm getting along well with my coworkers, who are also like me, in that they have the same kind of rough edges that make working in office/retail environments difficult. That is a GIGANTIC relief. While I wish and await for another nerd to be hired on, we're all pretty basic people. No airs, no need for fancy clothes or fancy talk. I don't have to be "on" for this job. I don't have to worry so much about saying the wrong thing, the thing that will convince them I'm low-class or poor.

It's pretty interesting to see the temps drift in and out, though. Two of them just this week. This kind of job definitely isn't for everyone. But it IS the kind of job for me. I walked in the first day like I was a permanent hire and I walk out everyday like I am a permanent hire.

I can do this. If the lawnmower blades are getting easier for me to handle, in just a week, then I damn well know everything else will also get easier as the weeks go on.

Schedules

Jul. 28th, 2015 07:16 am
quirkytizzy: (Default)
So I got me a warehouse job. One of the temp agencies I'd applied to put me there, on account of my very long housekeeping career. It suggested that I know how to do manual labor (of which housekeeping is. People always came in there thinking it'd be like cleaning their house. I could only burst into giggles at that.)

It's Mon-Fri, 8-5, and pays 9.50 an hour. I'm not sure if there are benefits, but honestly, right now, for that kind of pay, I'm willing to ignore the conversation of benefits. I've heard that warehouse work, if you can hack it, has amazing job stability. I know it's not like the golden days, where this sort of job would lead to a 30 year pension, but still, for that kind of pay AND hours right off the bat of being hired? Hell to the motherfuckin' yeah.

And I've got it in the bag. It is ridiculously easy. It IS manual labor and there is NO air conditioning in the warehouse, which quickly heats up the big metal box we're all working in. The heat index has been well over 100 degrees for a week now, making the warehouse itself oh...well, I don't know how hot. But HOT. But the job itself? So. Damn. Easy. It's also not anywhere near as hard, physically, as UPS was.

I take a piece of paper which has a bunch of aile and product placement numbers. I find those products in those ailes and pick up the product. I put the product in a tote bin. When I've gotten all the pieces the paper tells me to, I shove the tote onto the "finished" belt. At the end of the day, I put the finished totes into boxes, tape them up, and set them by the loading dock for shipping trucks. While I do have to work expediantly, there's no real rush for time, either.

That's it. That's totally it. I cannot believe just how simple the job is. I get that the hard part isn't the job, but rather the working conditions. (On your feet on concrete for 8 hours, very hot, etc). But still, here I was, torturing myself with those goddamn fuckered personality tests that asked questions it would be illegal and irrelevant for employers to verbally ask (do they really need to know how I feel about mankind's future or if I struggle with getting along with my family???) all for jobs that would pay minimum wage and afford me less than 20 hours a week.

I also like my coworkers. It's a very small team - maybe 15 people altogether, and only about 10 who are on the floor at any given time. They are all sorts of misfits, the kind where it's obvious upon meeting that they've got some rough edges and they wouldn't fit in traditional job roles. So, just my type of people. They are also personable and friendly, but in that casual way that does not suggest that I have to carefully craft a refined image to respond with.

We're also treated like adults in that we can have our phones on the floor (and even headphones, albiet only one ear, as to hear the forklift with the other ear), I don't have to ask permission to run to the ladies room and the work is EXTREMELY self-contained. It requires little interaction (or at least will when I'm more familiar with the work.)

These are things I LOVED about housekeeping. It's good to find them again in another, better paying job.

Y'know, that I've worked a job that had me getting up at 3 AM (UPS), I cast an eye back to when I was on Abilify. I was waking up between 1 and 3 AM every morning. With UPS, I'd discovered I'd needed to go to bed between 6 and 7 PM. That is the normal sleep schedule for waking up at 3 AM.

And yet, on Abilify, David pitched a motherfucking fit if I didn't stay up to game or go hang with friends - both options which kept me awake till midnight or later, for goddamn nearly 24 hours at a shot, like literally. At the time, I was frustrated but felt bad that I couldn't stay up with him. I felt as if I was to blame, as if I were weak and lazy.

Now, having worked a schedule similar to the hours Abilify kept me on, I'm pissed off that David kept insisting, kept throwing fits, kept guilting me into staying up for fucking 24 hours at a shot. Going to bed at 6 PM, when you're waking up between 1 and 3 AM, is perfectly normal and in fact HEALTHY. It is called good sleep hygiene. And yet David found a way to spin it into a guilt trip, into making me feel like I was taking precious time away from him.

God, that pisses me off so much now.

A rant

Apr. 17th, 2014 04:55 pm
quirkytizzy: (Default)
Took another hydro. The bottle says every four hours, but I waited eight because uggghhhh to this feeling. It will be several hours before I can drive. But pats couch is comfy and that works. We are also having dinner with pats parents and his grandma. Love!

An awesome thing happened: I got my loan in. The small one, but enough to pay down all of my bills for three months out. I also paid off a ticket that apparently had a warrant out for my arrest. It was for a speeding ticket back in 2009, one that when I was issued it, I'd tried to pay it off and was told by the county clerk that the officer had not submitted. I called again a year later to check, and the ticket was still not there.

Not so, as it turns out. For some reason, it takes agencies years - and in the case of Sierra Vista, decades - to track me down. I've had steady and legally recorded addresses for well over a decade now, so I'm not sure what's up with that. Magic? Luck? A legal invisibility spell?

Eileen, check your text messages. Sent you a text.

I got a ton of shit squared away, well enough to last until I get my next loan. I feel pleased, productive, and proud.

And angry. Or maybe the word is more annoyed. See, THIS feeling is what David missed out on. This feeling of pride and satisfaction of knowing you are taking care of yourself. This absolutely wonderful feeling of knowing You Are A Grown Up because you are doing The Grown Up Things. Sustaining your sustainability.

It's wonderful. I fucking love this feeling.

And he missed it. No, he didn't "miss" it, he fucking refused it. And now, two and a half months later, now having spent down just about everything I got in that loan the DAY I got it, all on bills....his excuses for misspending the thousands upon thousands of dollars and the lying about it seem so....so....

So bullshit. Because they were bullshit. Utter, total, complete BULLSHIT.

He'd say "I wanted to treat you to nice things. I just wanted to spend money on you." No, motherfucker, we ate out at Applebee's a lot while you spent the rest down on Magic cards and minis that you never painted. (And then carpeted my apartment with)

I'm wondering if clutter...squalor...hoarding....if that can be a form of forcing unhealthy control in a relationship? Like, in an attempt to make me feel as off and crazy as possible, since I told him so many times how it affected me, he did it anyways because it was another way for him to throw a tantrum? Kind of like how kids will refuse to clean their room because they think it will show the parents a lesson. And he knew, he KNEW because I told him, directly, over and over again, how badly it affected my mental state.

I don't know, though. He's got serious hoarding problems and so that might not at all have had anything to do with his feelings towards me. Either way, though, it's not something that was healthy. Ugh. I need to do some sound boarding off Issendai's hoarding tags. Cuz the further away I get from the relationship and the squalor, the more important that area of the relationship seems.

Seriously, I need my laptop. I think so much better when I have an actual keyboard in front of me.

Anyways, his total bullshit of spending down thousands and thousands of dollars that was supposed to go towards rent, putting us at risk of eviction god knows how many times, sending me to scramble and beg from past lovers and friends and even the few remaining family I have wasn't him trying to ”buy me nice things."

It was him being fucking selfish, short sighted, manipulative, stupid, childish, and just...ARGH. Angry about all that. For him to put me at risk like that, all because he wants to stay a fucking man child and buy his stupid toys and then to say "I did it because I wanted to show you how much I loved you?"

What the fuck was that shit?! I mean what in the actual goddamn fuck?

I didn't mean this to turn into an angry anti David rant. I guess some days are going to be like that, huh? It just felt so fucking good to be able to pay down my bills, to give myself some room, a cushion, to do the responsible thing and NOT have anything - or ANYONE - waiting to fuck that up.

Rant rant ranty me that is ranty. I'll get to responding tonight, I see you guys have good things going on I your journals, too!

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