A Fuckfull Fraud

It’s been about a month since I found out that I didn’t get disability, a lifeline I had been clinging to with a very un-Zen attachment. I’m disabled due to severe B12 deficiency, something that used to be known as Pernicious Anemia, because it’d kill you right dead. I didn’t die, but I’ve been living a half-life at best.

I’m terrified that I’m going to be evicted, and I just can’t keep trying so hard. When I found out that disability is a no-go because, seriously––I’m young and the economy is good––a suicide storm overtook my brain like has never happened before. And I’ve had a lot of trouble with depression since becoming homebound ill a year and a half ago.

I didn’t think I’d survive the night so I called 911 and spent a few days in a mental ward, which was extremely helpful. (And huge for me, as I just started talking about my depression this year.) But now, a month later, I’m still terrified I’m going to be evicted. It’s often so hard to get through the day with my body torturing me whilst in this quiet sanctuary of an apartment… I’m so scared.

It’s occurred to me that the title of my book suggests a life free of worries, and I just wanted to say that no one can be Fuckless all the time. Sometimes life’s shit feels bigger than we are. And that’s okay. I’ll make it through, despite what my brain is currently screaming. And you’ll make it through too––yous who happen to be feeling empathy at reading this post.

A dear friend of mine set up a fundraiser which has enabled me to catch up to “only” almost 3 months late on rent, and allowed me to get a car––a $500 1993 Camry, good things do happen!––so things are better than they were a month ago. They are. They are.

Having big dreams seems the worst right now, they just feel so far. I’ve always wanted to do something BIG with my life, which was a grand goal with a healthy body, but now, fuuuuuuuuck. I wanted to open a charity cafe when I got into this health mess, and so I morphed the idealist points of that restaurant into a book because it was something I could create in this condition––but shit, how’s anyone going to read the thing??

I hate it when writers of the personal growth persuasion act like everything’s perfect if you just follow their tips. It’s bullshit. There’s no such thing as perfect. Consciously working on personal growth can indeed get lots of days to feel elated despite shit circumstances, which indeed is a miracle––but not every day.

Which is why I write. Okay, the suicide thought storm is gone. Phew. It’s going to be okay.

Fuck I can’t keep doing this. Okaaaaaay. Phew… Hey, another good thing happened, I won tickets to an Alex Grey (artist, pic below) event tonight. I’m anxious about going in this condition, but I bet if I cry there no one’s gonna chase me away.

Wishing you at least perfect brain chemistry, if not a perfect day.



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