Every morning starts the same: a new chapter in the never-ending dialogue with the panicked, paralyzed girl on the ledge. She isn’t going to kill herself but she just might fall off, and I have to convince her to leave the ledge and come back to where it is reasonably “safe”.
Of course, the girl and I inhabit the same body and so when I say it’s “safe”, she isn’t fooled. She knows that really, nowhere is safe, particularly not any location she might find in my brain where she could set up shop. The reason to panic is everywhere there. The knowledge that this thing – which could barely be called a “livelihood” and upon which we must subsist – has no longevity, that it needs to end as soon as possible but there is nothing to replace it, thumps a bass drop heartbeat to go along with my own. That we are basically painted into a corner and it feels like there is no way out (unless we care to shuffle off this mortal coil). That any skills laying dormant in our wheelhouse are laid to waste, because agoraphobia is still a big issue, and we have no car. And we refer to ourselves as “we”, at least in this moment, and that could also be problematic – the fact that we are “seriously mentally ill” (as is our label given to us by the government healthcare system).
Just the fact that I say “complicated math” does not bode well.
So each morning, I’m trying to push out the echo bouncing off the walls of my interior, the echo of “I’m fucked (fucked-fucked-fucked-fucked)”. It’s not that I doubt I’m fucked and that I am trying to push the thought away so as to be more “positive”. It’s that I am pretty damned sure I am definitely fucked, but still I am trying to figure a way out that is realistic and achievable. Which from here, looks absolutely impossible.
But in order to get through the day, the morning, the hour or the minute or the next fucking second… I have to pretend that I have a chance.
It’s the only way to keep going. A manufactured false hope is my fuel.
Hi, I’m a fuck-up machine, and I run on pipe dreams. I was born musical and artistic but never encouraged to develop those potentials into something sustainable because “you’ll never find a job doing that.” Which I am sure was well-intentioned, but sadly, not at all helpful.
In less than a month I will have a “milestone birthday”, and frankly, it is crippling to juxtapose that with my current situation.
If I could somehow afford a car, I would have the agency to change a few important things that would go a long way to beginning to solve my predicament. I could go into some sort of sliding scale therapy, where I would have support to help guide me into something better. Also, I would not have to be so fucking isolated and alone all the time. Being around people would give me new experiences and new confidence which I could build upon and eventually use to propel me into that next thing – whatever it is, if it even exists. The car could be a total beater. It would not need to be pretty. It would just need to run and have good tires. I don’t even need air conditioning – I could affix a portable fan to the dashboard.
Good luck saving up a few grand for a beater car, though, girl. Everything I make goes to bills and expenses. I have a very, very low overhead, but still, each month, I barely squeak by. And despite the people I’ve talked to recently telling me that I am “at the top” of the thing that I am doing (I disagree, bigtime), i am lucky if I make enough for utilities. Lucky. And that is not even close to my rent. And it’s not guaranteed, either. If I don’t work, I make nothing. So if I have a sick day – or a sick week – I am beyond my usual amount of fucked.
But. Here I sit, tear-stained face and all, and that is not an option. Writing all of this has not exactly brought that girl in off the ledge. But at least it isn’t just sitting there fermenting silently inside me, like pretty much every other thought I have.
Everything they say about solitary confinement is true. It does make you crazy. It does break your spirit.
You would be surprised, however, at how far you can get on a broken spirit. Because when you have no other choice but to keep going, that is what you do.
No matter how pointless and futile it may seem.