Drowning
I know that I’m not happy here, but would I really be happy anywhere? IKEA Boy invited me out tonite, so I scrubbed my butt, changed my jewelry, did my hair, painted nails/toenails, and then called him to say I wouldn’t be able to make it. I’m pathetic, I know. But I’m in no condition to speak to another human being right now, let alone go out dancing. He didn’t even ask what was wrong, but he knows. He ain’t dumb. I know he doesn’t want me to be sitting at home on a Saturday night, but I got so used to doing that when I worked at Easter Seals, I’m sure I will get used to it again. Gawd, I hate my life.
I just think about in Pgh, how when I had money, I was stupid and was always spending and sharing the wealth with friends who needed a night out but couldn’t afford it (the role IKEA Boy seems to now take with me, and while I was always enjoyed taking my friends out, I hate being in the very same position because I just feel desperate and needy and just plain annoying, and I refuse to let what little dignity I still possess slip away). If I had only SAVED a few bucks, maybe I’d be able to not only cover my bills, but enjoy an evening out, now and again. Meanwhile back at the ranch, the only reason I made it financially this month was because two of my cousins sent me a few bucks for “emergency” money. Hah. That’s gone … overdue bills were made my emergency. At least I never had kids, nor do I plan to.
I don’t understand why I’m so aggravated by living without money now … I only had wealth for one year in my miserable life. Yet I guess it shows that it is easy to become accustomed to affording the things you need and want. I’ll admit that I’ve indulged in a bit of retail therapy in my day, making purchases to distract me from some other big (and sometimes unsolvable) issues. Now that I have to budget for two lunches this week with two people I don’t even care to see, that just hurts even more, that I have to part with my last dollars to look at them for an uncomfortable hour each. Argh.
I never did record the one incident with our 80-year-old librarian. Two weeks ago, she had suggested that we do lunch, and I was super-busy and said it would be better if we waited a week or so. Well, I was treated to a NASTY e-mail from her last week, stating that if I didn’t intend to have lunch with her, I should have just said so. Oh, she went off on a tirade, and I felt obligated to schedule a date post-haste. Now I’m going to feel like there’s a gun to my fucking head while I’m eating with her. Great. Not like I am the most emotionally stable human being right now, anyway, and I’m afraid to postpone for the mere fact that she’ll pitch another bitch.
I can already hear IKEA Boy when he reads my recent posts — he’ll be telling me again that I need counseling. For the record, I am avoiding the whole subject of seeing a counselor or psychiatrist because, well, I don’t need a professional problem-solver who earns per hour what I earn per week to tell me that I’m depressed. In fact, the depression is the symptom, not the cause. Think about it … I would have to pay co-pays for doctor’s visits and meds, therefore pulling me further below the financial current. Something tells me that seeing a doctor or counselor would only serve to depress me even more!
Off to Washington Jobs to see about fixing my problems!