I am so very, very poor now

Antheraea Polyphemus via Wikipedia

It's only recently that I have come to fully understand how very poor I am right now.  I'm so far past broke that I'm just hemorrhaging money.  Seriously, it's bad.  The library pays me once a month, and I clear about $700 after taxes.  $270 of is allocated for my car payment, I need at least $50 for gas, $90 for health insurance, and $70 for my and my mothers cell phones (the only form of rent I'm currently paying).  That leaves $220 every month for discretionary spending, EXCEPT that I'm carrying a balance on my credit card, which is in excess of $1500, and needs to be paid off; unfortunately, I will soon be adding to it with a $490 charge to pay my next six months of car insurance.  That's not even counting my ridiculous student loan debt.

I am fairly screwed.  My life is a big, gods-damned mess.  Unfortunately, or fortunately (depending on how you think of it), it's a mess of my own making.  I chose to leave the museum knowing that I'd be placed in these straits.  Well, I mostly chose.  And I mostly knew.  But knowing and living are different things entirely.

The thing is I did this to myself for myself.  I was miserable at the museum, and quickly burning myself out.  Check out the Occupational Burnout page on Wikipedia, I was exhibiting all the symptoms (phases), including suicidal ideation.  I'm not generally suicidal, nor, I think, am I generally quite so depressed, but death was looking more and more welcoming.  I needed to quit, for my own sanity, and because I was worth more than a part time job that didn't challenge or excite me.  I earned my Master's degree (my Bachelor's too, for that matter) so I wouldn't have to work such a job.  I put a lot of work into getting my degrees, and was so unhappy to not be using the skills for which I academically (and metaphorically) bled.  Plus, I needed to heal, to find myself again, and to regain my sense of equilibrium—which has been shaky for years, but disappeared entirely around 2013.

My situation can't last long.  There's no way I can tolerate being so very, very poor for very long.  Plus, I've been living on my parents largess for too long already.  I've thought about trying to sell some poems and stories, but I'd have to be an instant success for that to work out.  Don't get me wrong, that's still a part of my long-term plan, but right now I'd rather have a full time job with benefits.  If worse comes to worse, I will get another part time job, but that's the option of last resort.  I worry that if I go that route I'll just end up burning myself out again, and I don't EVER want to feel that way again.  I had a panic attack a few weeks ago when my mother first suggested it to me.  I think my psyche's come a long way to allow me to consider working two part time jobs again without  hyperventilating.  Also, have you noticed that this post is making a lot more sense than many of my older posts?  Or is that just in my mind?

I think I hit my lowest point some weeks back.  I refuse to fall any further.  I'm finally working on projects that I've had on my list for years.  For instance, I'm cleaning my room.  Actually, I'm preparing it for painting.  I have my colors picked out and everything.  I'm going to have to sand the crap out of my walls and trim, but not only am I doing it, but I'm on a deadline—one that I will more than meet.  Everything—the walls, the trim, the ceiling, the door, and the windows—will be finished by February!  I'm even thinking about replacing the door knob.  On February 19th, the dresser I bought will be delivered.  I've been living out of laundry baskets for years.  It's really sad.

I'm making other improvements to my life as well.  I have plans that are not all hopelessness and death.  I'm starting to eat healthier, though I've yet to break my sugar addiction.  I'm writing more and thinking about writing more, which just fills me with such joy.  I think in the upcoming year I will be able to keep my Fiction Friday commitment here.  You will recall that Fiction Friday is a feature on this blog where I post one original short story here on the last Friday of the month.  I've got four or five stories in the works right now, three of which I'm planning to make part of two series.  I'm losing weight, hope to lose more, and gaining physical strength.

After New Year's, I will start applying for jobs again.  I'm taking the month of December off, and maybe the first week or so of January.  I'd like to get my room completely prepped for painting first, and there's so much family stuff going on between now and January.

All in all, I feel like I can breathe again.  It's nice, and being temporarily very, very poor is, I think, a fair payment for this much needed healing.  I've got a ways to go still.  I still have spells of meanness that show up at awkward times—like when I'm trying to socialize.  I used to be able to tell funny stories that were actually funny, right now though . . . Ugh.  I think I insulted one of my cousin's friends at her Christmas party.  Didn't mean to, it's just—sometimes, especially lately, what I want to say comes out jumbled and angry rather than light and humorous.  So, obviously, I still have some anger I need to release.  More for me to work on.

Still, I am not without hope!  Which I couldn't have said two months ago.