seven eight nineteen
I know so many of you have been waiting for the death notice or sputterings of whatever. Not dead, shit, you all know I am good at escaping that but the odds are terrible, of course. Obviously many of us have gone through the single digit survival chances with the emergencies and all that crap, but as one gets older, it’s kind of expected that you understand the risks, the outcomes, the eventualities. And yes, eventually of course I will run out of luck. I initially wrote cash because that is what my mind has been focused on for most of my life. Never enough resources not to fuck everyone else around me. And that is what I am most focused on given the circumstances of my life–not ruining it for everyone else
But given the themes of recent posts, death, life whatever, I have had a really hard time trying to negotiate the idea of having any sort of quality to life. Yes, we’ve all heard me say when you come into adulthood with a shitty illness, you expect to have nothing. You certainly aren’t going to get a real retirement and my work history going back to 15 on the books–I am not getting shit with social security because I will be dead long before I can retire. So I work. And I guess I am kind of just waiting to die since there isn’t a hell of a lot life-wise I can achieve. Don wants a house and he knows he will probably get that when I am gone. The idea of me earning enough to make my life even remotely feasible in the next few years is laughable. If I knew I could make it up to Don and get him all he deserves I would kill myself so he could have it, but there are always the suicide clauses in life insurance so I have to be fucking practical about it all. And suffer, and die of a terrible stroke or get run over by a texter as that would be even more appropriate.
The argument I have been having with myself over the past week since I posted is what I should do and what would be the best thing for me? What would be the best thing for me that would not hurt Don?
One thing that would not be the best would be to trade in the 20 hours I get with Don to trade it in for a commute. That is what is currently planned to happen August 1 where I will be expected to go into the office every single day. Keep in mind we have the one car so with a fucking blood clot and having lost 2/3 of the blood to my lower leg—I get to walk over 2 miles on every end of my commute. My manager could care less, in fact she doesn’t want to know anything and is hiding behind HR. This is the MomManager, the new one we have who is really not great with us at all–she tried to make it seem like it was all about giving me the credit I am due with having me sit with people and with her every fucking day. Yeah, thanks. I now get to sell what percentage of my remaining time on this earth so YOU can feel really good when I already told you I am unwilling to trade all of my time to the company?
I am petrified, fucking PETRIFIED, can I say, to take whatever time I have left to make a bunch of assholes money. My time is limited so enduring that is something that is tough to reconcile—but then I think who the fuck am I to think I can just not work a real job and expect it will all be okay? I have been working since I was 15–to not seems wrong. I mean, I certainly don’t plan on quitting to do nothing. But I have 3 weeks left to absorb ALL of this secondary training and make something reasonable happen–if I don’t—I am really just–well, for lack of a better term…absolutely fucked. Adding on that time–we have only one car–to add that time in there is insane–that is asking for my leg to die even sooner than it would–and asking for my marriage to also shit the bed when he is legitimately my best and only real friend. Sex will also turn into a weekend thing I guess since our morning routines will be also shelved. ALL to make my MomManager happy and ruin my fucking life.
3 weeks. 3 weeks before I should jump off a cliff.
I have dreaded writing this–I guess I assumed that I could talk them out of the in office thing–FMLA protects the job but the commute to them is a non-issue–they could try to promise me a handicapped spot, but without a car I am still a fucking normal walking gimp. So what the fuck do I do? I spend the time learning this shit and praying with all I have that not only do I have to give up fucking ANYTHING and EVERYTHING most of you seem to get without trying—but also praying that hurting myself and my leg and adding on what will be no joke—2 hours in the morning and close to 2 hours home every day–that is a LOT lot of time I am giving up to not make my life more worth living–but ultimately–illustrating that I don’t life a life worth living a lot of the time. I live to work and get sued. I live to have nothing, but pain and really, nothing.
I would rather be dead than have any of that be true.
