There are so many days when all I want is to open my door and have family and friends sitting around my apartment with concerned looks on their faces and as they come towards me with their arms wide open in unconditional hugs of love they say something like “dude… we finally got around to finding you the help you need.”
Because the best I’ve been able to do on my own is not to be dead and I think I’m needing a lot more help than feeling like I don’t want to kill myself. I don’t mean taking the pills and the advances I’ve made dealing with the clinical depressions hasn’t been important. Just that, essentially, all of the work I’ve put in so far has brought me to this point… and it’s pretty freaking blunt.
Four years until now has been like coming out of an upside down sleeping bag wrapped in bubble wrap buried under six feet of rock. But the landscape I’ve been presented with is another few years of what I’ve just gone through… only this time my eyes are open to what’s going on.
I want to run away. I want to move. I’m tired of this apartment. I’m tired of this area. I’m tired of having to depend on the Government taking care of me. I’m tired of having to rely on family for support when they still have no idea… why I’m not jumping at the opportunities in the Career section of the local paper.
I wrote something somewhere here not too long ago which I’ve been thinking about a lot… about how I grew up being a blank state. About having a friend who moved forward aggressively in his life while I waited for instruction. The more I think about that the more I think it’s one of the most insightful things I’ve ever written about myself.
The weird thing is, my friend is on his way here right now. His girlfriend kicked him out and he’ll be couch surfing with me until next week. His girlfriend has been telling him for months that she just needs a few moments without him in her face. So he panicked and, not knowing what else to do, he leaned in further… 10PRINT”what’s wrong” “what did I do” “is it someone else” 20GOTO10.
He’s quitting his job and moving to Alberta. He has friends there who can give him a place to stay while he finds work in the most dynamic economic zone on Earth. And I should be going with him.
I should be leaving. But the Ontario Disability Program won’t let me. I’m trapped. I have a support system where I am now, but I don’t have the Second Stage Booster system to get me past this point. I have parents who can’t really quite figure out why I’m not doing Stuff and a Government who won’t facilitate me moving to where some money can be made worth getting off of disability.
And, really, I have no idea what it is I’m supposed to do back in the Career… whatever career I had before my 2002 breakdown is pretty much on life support. Actually I’m pretty sure the plug has been pulled and all that’s left is for Bill Frist, Rick Santorum, and Tom DeLay to make a motion in the American Senate.
It has been four years since I did any serious work for a check, and it was from landscaping. The last time anyone paid me to write was… 2002? My Journalism Career, counting College, ran from 1994 until 2001… that’s seven fucking years ago. Most of us of a certain age define ourselves by what we do… “I’m a mother” “I’m a carpenter” “I’m a reporter”. So what happens when all you’ve done in the Nineteen years from 1989 until 2008 is 2.5 years of college, three years of reporting and 1.5 years of corporate communications?
I need a fucking intervention… I need people who know what they’re doing to stand up and hand me a plan. Because, really, I’ve spent twelve of nineteen years not knowing what it was I was supposed to do… and it’s gotten me exactly here.