Nothing but the curse of Sisyphus

I’ve been trying to figure out what to post, because it’s been a while and I know I need to update. But my previous enthusiasm at the notion of getting better has kind of mellowed into a melancholy sense of reality. The stress and anxiety and chronic pain just keep piling up and it’s looking pretty bleak again. I feel stuck again, with no way out, and no prospects on the horizon.

I still haven’t come up with the money for my treatment program, and that’s always on my mind. I really thought I could raise the money, and now it’s just another failure on my list. I can hopefully come up with it through a block grant from the Department of Human Services, but I was really hoping to avoid that, because I feel guilty getting help from them again when it’s supposed to be a one time thing. I feel like I’m just a burden, on the system and on everyone I know. If I’m this tired of dealing with my own crazy bullshit, how must they feel? If I’m so helpless, what does that do to the people who are helping me? And why is it that I live in a country where help isn’t even available, where a gun is a cheaper, more accessible option to someone with mental illness than medical intervention? (Please don’t misconstrue that as me being suicidal, because I’m still not. I have no desire to kill myself. At this point, I’d totally to be open to being hit by a bus or contracting e-bola, but that’s not really my desired solution. I just want to be well, and healthy, and even happy sometimes. But the obstacles are like Everest, man. With no money for hiking supplies or sherpas or a coat.)

Even if I get into the stupid program, it’s not even the exact sort of program I need. It’s for addiction counseling, and I’m not really an addict. Drinking is just one of the many crutches I’ve tried out. Honestly, I’d much rather be cutting myself, but that’s a lot harder to hide. I don’t crave alcohol, nor do I even necessarily need it to escape. I use it as another form of self-punishment, and relish the hangovers like I used to adore the annoying itchiness as my cuts healed. No, this problem really boils down to my self-loathing and depression.

I spend every day trying as hard as I can, but I continually crack under the stress and anxiety. Lately, I’ve been crying and sleeping more than anything else. Granted, I’ve also been desperately sick, with a combination lung, sinus, and tooth infection. I’ve pretty much given up on everything. I had people come help me clean my house a few weekends ago, and I’m pretty much back where I started. It honestly seems pointless to me. Within three hours of having their bathroom cleaned, the kids had managed to get soap and toothpaste everywhere, and Zoe had an accident and got shit everywhere. By dinnertime, there were sticky spots on the clean kitchen floor. I can vacuum three times a day and it doesn’t look like I’ve done anything. And every time I get the dishes caught up and the counters wiped, it’s a disaster by the next meal time. I’ll spend an entire day doing a mountain of laundry, and by the next day, it’s magically reappeared. I can’t keep up, and I’m tired of trying. No one listens to me when I’m on my game, and when I’m off it, I don’t even bother. I hate this house. I hate the chaos. I hate the constant stress and anxiety that someone will show up unannounced and see how bad it is. I don’t know. I need a vacation, because I feel like Sisyphus rolling his boulder up the hill. No matter how many times I push it up, I’m always at the bottom the next day.

Work is really no better. It’s a dead-end job, probably better described as indentured servitude. My boss is kind and generous and helpful, but only as benefits her. She won’t give me a raise, but she’ll give me a loan that I’ll pay back in labor, thus guaranteeing my continued employment with her. She tried to get me to finance her ability to run a third crew, by trying to sell me a car that would have eaten up sixty percent of my income for the next two years. And when she has a bad day, she takes it out on everyone else. This weekend, as I was sick as a dog, taking horse pill antibiotics, she made it a point to tell me how hard everything was for her because I wasn’t working. This, when I worked the past five or six Saturdays in a row when we’re only required to work one a month. The way she treats me is taking a serious toll on my already depleted self-esteem. But I need this job. It’s the only one I can find where I can’t possibly get fired, because she refuses to give people the chance at unemployment. So I know I’ll still have a job if I have to take two weeks off for treatment, or if I have to call in a lot in a depressive week, or even if I get really drunk and decide to tell her via text message what I think about her. (Yeah, that’s happened. Nope, I didn’t get fired.) And honestly, I love my job, and I love my boss. It’s a really confusing relationship, but there are benefits in addition to all the bullshit. So I’m kind of stuck between a rock and a hard place here.

I’m getting really tired and suppose it’s time for bed… I still feel like hell five days strong on my antibiotics. I just wanted to, you know, let you all know I’m still here, plugging along. I wish I had more cheerful news for you, but this is about all I can muster. Hopefully things will get better soon… if they don’t, I have no idea what I’ll do. Run away to the forest and become a hippie and call myself Star Child or something. Anything to end this endless cycle of depression and back-sliding. So until next time, au revoir and good night.

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