Today is hard.
Some days are easier. I can hop out of bed, go to the gym, run errands, apply for work, clean the house. I can't seem to do that today.
I'm a bit pathetic at the moment. Curled up in front of my computer, under the covers. I am with out a job or income besides being able to sell things online and at consignment stores. The house is a mess. I've gained weight and I hate the way I look right now. I wish I were smaller. My husband, at his gratifying and well paying job, is sexually unsatisfied with me. My parents feel neglected. My friends move on without me. I'm alone here, under the covers.
Unemployed friends and acquiescence were with me once, part of the disenfranchised and unpaid looking for work here and there. It was our little club where we could support each other, laugh at terrible interview stories and the desperate search for the silliest jobs.. But now, I look around the club house and find I'm all alone and so scared of more failure.
Why won't anyone hire me? I've spent hours on my resume, given it to no less than 7 people to review. I desperately try to speak to a person, get an interview, even to just look someone in the eye, proof to myself that I've made it to this step, that someone has noticed me.
I feel this physical hurt through me. I grit my teeth and rub my legs, like I can somehow push the sad out through my toes. Wouldn't that be good?
I have no career, therefore I am of no concern.
If I were on ebay, no one would bid.
If I were at a swap meet, I'd be in the free pile.
Why can't I just be happy? Why can't I just paint and sew and not feel a crushing guilt of being without a 'path'? Is it true I can't be an artist unless I can live off my earnings? I feel it must be true. I watch the credits at the end of a movie, the long list of names; they all have careers. All my facebook friends update about how they hate their jobs. Someone had to assemble this computer, sell it, ship it. All those people were paid to do that. The garbage man outside my window. The person who designed these sheets. Every building full of people working on something.
I miss my brother. I feel like he would understand. I imagine it in my head: He sees me struggling, sad and he would come over to see me, pizza and video games in hand and we would spend the rest of the day talking, stuffing our faces and killing zombies. Then we would drive in his car and get dinner and he would tell me that it's just a rough patch and it would be ok. He would help me find something, somehow.
I'm going to allow myself a shower to feel all this. About 30 minutes to feel bad, cry and hate myself. Then I'm getting up, getting dressed, putting on makeup and going out into the world, looking good so no one will know. (Because as much as I hope someone will notice, I hope even more that they don't.) I'll feel better later, when I get over myself, when I realize there are people starving, people that have cancer, people who suffer while I lie here warm, under 300 count covers.
I have to reference one of my favorite people here, because I think she nailed it on the head. It makes me feel not so bad and made me smile.
Deep breath. Here I go.