Here's the deal
This is mostly just me talking venting using the collective "you" as a sounding board, but I don't do private posts, so I'm just going to turn comments off. I'm sick of hearing myself whine and moan, so you must be even sicker of it, so I'm just going to put it all behind a cut.
First and most important, I am NOT going to kill myself, okay? I just really really want to.
Again, I am NOT going to kill myself. Not because I've found a "reason to live" or even a reason not to die; in fact, offing myself seems a more reasonable, viable option every day. But I've promised people I wouldn't, so I won't.
Which makes me feel so godsdamned trapped that I've started scratching myself until I bleed. Oh yay.
I am inching up to the mark where my unemployment will run out. I send out as many resumes as I can per week. I call my agents and sign up with new agents. All I hear is that they're receiving "unprecedented numbers" of applicants for every position.
I can't afford to buy my meds *and* pay my insurance premiums, let alone pay rent and utilities on top of that. And you'll notice that I haven't even mentioned groceries! My bank account falls into the red EVERY WEEK, so I fall behind and I can't catch up. Call me the Red Queen, running faster and faster just to stay in the same place.
I've been told that I can't get "food stamps" (really a kind of debit card these days, but w'ever) or Commonwealth Care as long as I get unemployment, but that simply can't be correct, can it? I've repeatedly argued and pleaded with reps on the phone, and tomorrow I'm just going to storm the fucking offices with a bunch of papers and my Tale of Woe, which they probably hear dozens of times daily. Not that it makes my Woe any less legit, blah blah w'ever.
My mother is 80 years old and lost a large proportion of her savings in the crash. But I've still -- VERY RELUCTANTLY -- accepted help from her mounting into thousands of dollars because I can't afford not to.
I had to borrow over a thousand dollars from my boyfriend, which is a recipe for disaster, but if I didn't, I couldn't have moved to the new apartment.
I'm still living surrounded by boxes. I haven't named the new place or set up my altar because I feel I may lose this place any moment and I don't want to get attached. Plus, I'm so fucking depressed I can't be arsed.
I'm really glad I don't have a firearm in the house. I get spontaneous mental images of me blowing my head off, a dozen times a day. Pistol? Shotgun? Rifle? In the mouth? In the temple? In the chin? The possibilities are endless, which one would be best? Does it matter?
Maybe I should stick my head in the oven instead? I can't stand the smell of gas long enough to make it work, though. Paging Dorothy Parker!
I take a breath and try to do the mindfulness thing. This is what my therapist recommends. I'm supposed to let the feeling wash over me and let it go naturally. I'm not supposed to push it away or deny it because that just makes it come back harder -- so I've been told. Just let it be there, and let it fade.
IT DOES NOT FADE.
Therapy is pretty useless, you know? My shrink can't provide a solution to my situation; all she can do is let me yell at her, and then give me techniques like mindfulness so I can get from moment to moment without doing anything stupid.
I can't eat. I can't sleep. I can barely think. I can't voice my feelings aloud because that just puts a burden on the people who love me, all of whom are struggling with their own lives; I can't add to their troubles by piling mine on their shoulders.
But I can type. I can let my fingers express what my voice can not. (THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID.)
tl;dr? I am desperate. I am desperate. Desperate. Desperate.
First and most important, I am NOT going to kill myself, okay? I just really really want to.
Again, I am NOT going to kill myself. Not because I've found a "reason to live" or even a reason not to die; in fact, offing myself seems a more reasonable, viable option every day. But I've promised people I wouldn't, so I won't.
Which makes me feel so godsdamned trapped that I've started scratching myself until I bleed. Oh yay.
I am inching up to the mark where my unemployment will run out. I send out as many resumes as I can per week. I call my agents and sign up with new agents. All I hear is that they're receiving "unprecedented numbers" of applicants for every position.
I can't afford to buy my meds *and* pay my insurance premiums, let alone pay rent and utilities on top of that. And you'll notice that I haven't even mentioned groceries! My bank account falls into the red EVERY WEEK, so I fall behind and I can't catch up. Call me the Red Queen, running faster and faster just to stay in the same place.
I've been told that I can't get "food stamps" (really a kind of debit card these days, but w'ever) or Commonwealth Care as long as I get unemployment, but that simply can't be correct, can it? I've repeatedly argued and pleaded with reps on the phone, and tomorrow I'm just going to storm the fucking offices with a bunch of papers and my Tale of Woe, which they probably hear dozens of times daily. Not that it makes my Woe any less legit, blah blah w'ever.
My mother is 80 years old and lost a large proportion of her savings in the crash. But I've still -- VERY RELUCTANTLY -- accepted help from her mounting into thousands of dollars because I can't afford not to.
I had to borrow over a thousand dollars from my boyfriend, which is a recipe for disaster, but if I didn't, I couldn't have moved to the new apartment.
I'm still living surrounded by boxes. I haven't named the new place or set up my altar because I feel I may lose this place any moment and I don't want to get attached. Plus, I'm so fucking depressed I can't be arsed.
I'm really glad I don't have a firearm in the house. I get spontaneous mental images of me blowing my head off, a dozen times a day. Pistol? Shotgun? Rifle? In the mouth? In the temple? In the chin? The possibilities are endless, which one would be best? Does it matter?
Maybe I should stick my head in the oven instead? I can't stand the smell of gas long enough to make it work, though. Paging Dorothy Parker!
I take a breath and try to do the mindfulness thing. This is what my therapist recommends. I'm supposed to let the feeling wash over me and let it go naturally. I'm not supposed to push it away or deny it because that just makes it come back harder -- so I've been told. Just let it be there, and let it fade.
IT DOES NOT FADE.
Therapy is pretty useless, you know? My shrink can't provide a solution to my situation; all she can do is let me yell at her, and then give me techniques like mindfulness so I can get from moment to moment without doing anything stupid.
I can't eat. I can't sleep. I can barely think. I can't voice my feelings aloud because that just puts a burden on the people who love me, all of whom are struggling with their own lives; I can't add to their troubles by piling mine on their shoulders.
But I can type. I can let my fingers express what my voice can not. (THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID.)
tl;dr? I am desperate. I am desperate. Desperate. Desperate.