I got off the phone with my depressed best friend who hates his life and who feels that I’m doing nothing with mine, so I cried into my pillow for a half hour, and decided I’d blog my feelings out, because I’ve grown into a woman who can’t express hers to anyone anymore. It just causes disagreements, confrontations, and in both situations the arguing leads to absolutely nothing. I may even regret some of the feelings I’m having right now, but at least I didn’t waste time saying things I might regret, and then linger on it for a week(s), or month(s).
Since May 9th, I’ve applied for 58 jobs. Job hunting is like fishing, you drown a lot of worms and lose a lot of cheese cubes before something bites, and when it does there’s not a 100% chance you’ll actually reel it in.
“Just get any ol’ job even if it’s not what you want to do, or part time.” Is collectively the bottom line of what I’ve heard from extended family and my very best friend. Repeatedly. I want to be a forensic psychologist, so I’ve already applied for 58 jobs I don’t really want to do. But who cares, right?
You need money so you can move out of your parents house and make something of yourself. Because you’re a big loser who does the same crap every day, right? Being a caretaker to your aging parents and your developmentally disabled sister, looking for a job, working out, finding a few hours to watch a show or book you like because you can’t stand how stuck you are and need an escape?
Oh, you’ve been working out consistently for the past several days now that you’ve started and you took a day off? How dare you! You have to work out 7 days a week to make up for all the years that you didn’t work out, right? “If I were working out I’d be ecstatic.”
You’re depressed all the time so you need to change your entire life immediately to remedy that, right? What am I supposed to do with the little in my bank account I scrounge together to pay my bills monthly? Go learn how to jet ski and enjoy the summer on Lake Michigan? Learn pottery? Study literature?
You know, I would love to get my own place. I’m grateful to have a family willing to house me for free until I’m financially independent and through school as well as being there for me when I’m in dire need of them at the ends of my rope on both sides of my bipolar disorder. Without the bipolar and ocd life would be a hell of a lot easier. But boo hoo, change your attitude and take your western medication, right?
It was a common thing on both sides of my family to live at home, save up, take care of the family, and then when you get engaged move out, live in an apartment until both of you with duo income can afford a nice house, then start a family. If that’s not possible, then you get a pet, or build a pond in your backyard and collect nice things to enjoy. Thanks individualistic culture for making it more embarrassing for every generation to need to move out at 18. As if I didn’t have enough to feel bad about. Even the anthropologist in me can’t put up enough of a fight about it. Maybe I could just move in with some pygmies in some forest being chopped down, traveling on foot and having to leave our elderly and sick behind for the survival of the tribe.
Of course all I want to do is help privileged white people who have cerebral palsy or night terrors in a cozy office. I’d never venture to a third world country to live or to provide care. I’m not at all a supporter of global human rights movements or preserving small cultures.
I’d love to have enough money to buy my own 4 bedroom house at 26. I’d like to have a steady job, something I don’t hate, because my brain chemistry is so shitty that it’s easy for me to get depressed to a point where I’m completely stagnant because I hate the stress of my job that I don’t like and am not good at because I’ll likely not be trained properly as has been the standard of the last several jobs I’ve had.
I know that I’m stuck, and I hate it, and I’m trying, but not quick enough for some people apparently. Apparently I’m just a big loser doing nothing with my life. And my dreams of owning my own house are outrageous, right? Having a quality job? Ha! What a joke. You’re not making money and you never will. And if you do? Who cares, because you’re not doing it fast enough.
You know, I already assume I’ll die alone. And as my immediate family passes (which I hope doesn’t happen for another few decades) I’ll be ever closer to that realization. But believe me, I’ll do it in my big house with my nice things and my western medicine, and my PhD and hope that the afterlife is a hell of a lot more pleasant than this one has been.