I'm about ready to pick up the bags and a one-way ticket and head to Florida or some faraway island that constitutes an escape. Somewhere at the tip of my tongue lies the words, "I've had enough, enough is enough." This entire winter and my life feel like boot camp, and the worst of its kind.
It has been nearly two months since becoming unemployed, and I can't say that things have gotten better. Some friends have disappeared, the family regards me with pity, and, frankly, my motivation is going down the tubes. The only good news this week is that the federal stimulus bailout is picking up half the bill for Cobra health benefits. It is a slight victory in grimness. Maybe I'll be able to afford the Adderall medication after all.
The ADD continues to be an overlying cloud. It is impossible to explain to friends that it's not that I don't want a job, but rather that I have no idea where to begin the job search. This is the nature of adult attention deficit (ADD/ADHD). I can easily flounder around and piss the day away, simply because my mind is like scattered marbles.
I thought that maybe I should write the convents and see if they might have any openings. Maybe I could do PR for them, churn out press releases. I'll do anything for free housing and a meal. It's not the money; it is the structure and a sense of worth. The bottom line of being pink-slipped is this: "You are no longer needed anymore. Thank you very much for your services."
In desperation, I've turned to any aid available, including my 60-year-old date. I told myself I would turn a cold shoulder to him as a romantic prospect, but in this dismal winter I am tempted to just accept the favors. I am anxious for some kind of stability.
I told a friend today that I find this economic crisis an insult to the well-educated middle class. I am too poor to qualify for section 8 housing or food stamps, too qualified for the $12-an-hour jobs, and too poor to ride out the storm with the trust fund. When I interview, I am told that there are no positions, but what about volunteering, they ask.
There is a crazy ring to my laugh now when I receive the volunteer schpeal, but then again, volunteer work fills the loneliness, the heartache. It may very well allow me to briefly forget the current predicament, which even follows me to sleep. The convent doesn't look so bad after all.
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