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Getting paid once a month, I keep thinking that I’m doing okay. I pay off all my major bills (cut to 2 major ones,) pay off anyone I borrowed money from (which I attempt to rarely do,) then I promise myself to mete out the rest of the money judiciously the next 3 to 4 weeks. I tell myself, “see, you have it all planned out! Now put aside $40.00 and you can save for something really special!” This is a lie. I don’t live below the poverty line, I live under the grave of the poverty line. And days like today I am glad for the $25 that I give towards the cable bill.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. There were times where I was much much worse off than this. Times where I was homeless and my method of entertainment was suspended because I had to corral 2 kids in a shelter for battered women from some of the more demented denizens that also lived there. You see you really don’t understand the saying “beggars can’t be choosers” until you’ve been told by a woman who obviously has better places to be that you will be safer in a house full of questionable occupants than with the evil you live with at home. At least at home I didn’t have to contend with a “House Mother” who had a cocaine problem and stole from uninitiated incoming victims. I envied the woman who came in and obviously had money when she got the tour, went downstairs, called her lawyer and sat in the office until she got out of there. She didn’t have to contend with the racist attitudes, interestingly enough which were reversed. The “House Counselor” a white chick from the suburbs didn’t believe that she had to help anyone else white. They had her advantages right? And I never thought I’d have to deal with a nasty confrontation with a black woman who insisted I was “looking at her” and was “looking for a beatin'”. I never left my sons to play or wander in that house. They got their own roughing up one time when I had to cook a meal for the house. It seemed like such a nightmare then and now just like an afternoon tv movie. Needless to say I was anxious the whole time and hyper-vigilant until I got my own check and apartment. I am thankful to get anything. I am thankful for what I have. It may not last long. My Mother may die tomorrow and I’ll be out on the streets again looking for a place to be safe in.
I can’t get a roommate. I won’t get help from my family. I am the black sheep. And because I have bipolar disorder which isn’t considered an affliction in my family, (I think they believe it’s an “excuse”,) I won’t be getting any sympathy. I’m used to it but that doesn’t make me not bitter. It’s all the things you read off the internet about the bias against mental illnesses as well as years of society’s attitude towards something it doesn’t understand and doesn’t want to understand. If I’m depressed I’m lazy. If I’m hypomanic I am inappropriate. And since I’m not a child I’m not cute enough to feel bad for so that people want to do something about connecting with me. All those years actually now make it difficult to connect with me. I don’t trust anyone that talks to me. I’m used to human service workers who are notoriously horrid at helping and communicating without their own agendas trying to fit me into their idea of what is right. By the way, I’ve been through two shelters. Did I tell you that? No, but it left several marks.
I used to be a trusting soul.
Now I’m trusting time to march it’s large @ss on through to Thursday so I can feel a little closer to normal. Or what I consider people feel like when the feel normal, a chance at feeling potential. ‘Cause money isn’t happiness. Money is potential. A new start to either f^cking up royally or maybe a (albeit thin,) blanket of funds to bring some events to life throughout the month so that I can give myself goals to look forward to instead of sitting in front of the idiot box or lying in bed. I know I should flog myself for not being creative and writing in a journal (I do but there’s not much to write about unless it’s depressing and angry, it should surprise you that I am not a pollyanna,) taking a walk (I hide the fact that I fear people looking at me and can only go out and do things if my mind is sufficiently busy enough so that I forget I am human,) or exercising (not going into it.)
Did I tell you I’m skating on the edge of depression? I won’t be telling anyone else. I give myself a 2 time limit to mention my moods that may bring my stability to halt to anyone. People get that scrunched up constipated look whenever I say it more than 2 times. No one wants to deal with it. And somehow I am suppose to use the intelligence that I have to deal with it and change it. You know this doesn’t just criticize regular people. People with MIs are just as judgmental as those without. I don’t understand the ignorance. I’ve come to think of it as a superstitious reaction in people with MIs. If it is expressed they may be dragged down with a depressive episode or shot up with a manic/hypomanic episode. I also think it is superstitious in a different sense for people without. If you are in an episode you may infect them and “make them crazy”. Also you may heaven forbid! embarrass them. Real embarrassment is taking your penny bag to the store to buy a whoopie pie.

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