July 31, 2014|
I honestly feel like it is such a waste of human potential and life and energy to spend as many hours as I now spend inside a building like this.
I never realized that starting work could make me feel worse about myself than not working. I used to feel like a sponge soaking up government money. Now I think about going back to that. Because it's so much work just to make the equivalent of that where I work.
I don't really try to make too much of it around people I don't trust, but I suppose it is obvious because one of my coworkers said I was just being a drama queen. I wonder if that's true. I wonder if I'm depressed. I wonder if it's just that our experiences are so different that she can't understand why this is hard. I wonder if it's only hard because I'm not used to it. I wonder if it's hard because I should have never gotten used to it.
As I stood at the door of the place I live, after a run that got me high then low, and after road raging against someone that left me so tensed up, I was skimming through an old Vice magazine that I saved because I like the ass on the American Apparel ad on the back cover. I came across an article on someone who once struggled to hold down a job, who just wouldn't show up, and now he's on these pills. And he's holding down a job and he's a success story, and I wouldn't deny someone the right to feel that is a success, and I think it may be necessary because what other way is there? But there is something wrong, I think, when working makes depressed/anxious people more like that. It just makes me think there's a fundamental problem with a lot of jobs if it has this profoundly disturbing effect on people. I'm doing what I'm supposed to do, pulling myself up by the bootstraps like the republicans say we should do, so why is everything getting so much harder? My gvt benefits were cut drastically because I started working. The minimum wage was raised, and now I make a quarter more than I used to.
I don't know how to get through this life. I don't enjoy things I used to enjoy. Going for a run through a park isn't an escape anymore; it's just a loop back to the beginning.
My friend who I thought was doing me a favor in letting me move in with her charges me more money than before because I got a job, but I'm not even scraping by at this point. I don't feel comfortable bringing anything up with her because the last time I brought up my anxieties she just told me I had to pay shit on time and she beats up her boyfriend and screams and is violent.
I wish that the people with the interesting jobs who make a lot of money would just buy the poor and stupid better more interesting lives. Or maybe the stupid ones don't need better lives. Maybe they wouldn't see them.
But I'm not stupid enough. I feel like I'm ripping out of my own skin trying to work these jobs. I feel like all my nights out and mysterious women and kisses are just reminders of what my real life lacks.
I wonder if I'm too smart.
I wonder why it's so hard.
Psychiatrist office didn't call me back. I need medication to assuage the anxiety. My only comfort is that working just makes it worse, but it's always there, so it will help all around; not that it will just help me get used to a shitty existence.
My request for a painkiller refill was denied. Anxiety over calling them and not sounding like an addict. Maybe I am an addict. I like the feeling of softness and calm. But I also like the feeling of being able to move without feeling sharp burning through my shoulder blades and down my arms and into my fingertips.
I need more than this; I am too old for this. I never grew to accept this as living. This is death to me. Fluorescent lights and commercial radio and people who never bothered trying to gain a deeper understanding of how they treat other people, because they never needed to.
I need to be saved from this.
I'm so weak.