Wednesday, August 31, 2011

precious years

Sunset by ceck0face
Sunset, a photo by Digital Heather on Flickr.

It's a sunset, and I didn't even intend any of its ironic, fore-shadowy goodness.

Ready or not, it's the 31st. And this means at least 3 things.

Today is the day J starts his new job. We dedicated precious years of our lives working for the same company which he left in March and whom laid me off earlier this month. Since then he has been relentlessly by my side taking care of me since I fell ill in April. I'm not "better" but I'm better than I was and we need money for doctor and wedding bills.

Today is also the day my insurance ends. It's been a good run. I would be lying if I said I wasn't scared to death that something else bad is going to happen to me while I am uninsured. I hate to be so glum but I have a knack for "knowing."

Back in February, I was working late with an employee (who is also a close friend) and all of a sudden I turned to him and said, "I have a feeling that something bad is going to happen to me. I'm going to get sick and die at a very young age." It was creepy and I killed the mood and weirded him out. And here we are.

I've applied for unemployment and possibly social security. I secretly don't want any of it because I'd rather be sick and helpless and poor instead of sick and helpless with money to burn. I worked like a dog every day since I turned 18, and not working is just so foreign to me. In college I even had four jobs. I look at pictures from 10 years ago and can't imagine how I did it. Maybe after the wedding hoopla I can go to school a second time for a new/different piece of paper.

(Most people whom I have heard call diplomas pieces of paper don't have one because they dropped out and act like they know everything, which they probably do. I call it a receipt or piece of paper because I have one and it has done less for me than my paperless counterparts who never made it through the first semester and taught his or herself a skill and ran with it like html or photoshop and they will ultimately earn more paper than me. Ever. I sound bitter. I might be. Yeah, I am.)

I've had to cancel my high risk OBGYN consultation because the soonest they had back in June was Sept 1, which was fine then, but now is another story.

Today is also the last day to RSVP for my last-minute wedding that no one is coming to. The bright side is that if no one comes, it'll be overall less expensive. But it's not truly a consolation. There are friends I'd like to be with us that day, many of whom I haven't seen in years. Oh well.

I still have to go and edit the many nooks and crannies of my on-line existence to remove/update my work information. It'll be a pleasure because in the end I really got screwed. "Delete" and "backspace" can deliver some snuggly comfort to a nerd like me. Quitting may have felt better but this way I get paid a small portion of what I feel they truly owe me.

Sometimes when it's late (because if the sun is out, I feel like a criminal), I google-stalk people I used to know. Half of the time, they're better off than me and I go to bed with a chip on my shoulder that could rival the imaginary heaviness of my pulmonary embolism. The other half of the time, I turned out better than they did and I wish someone was awake with me for me to brag about strangers' misfortune and my theory of how people thought I'd turn out but didn't. Then sometimes it turns out they have pretty terrible lives with crappy jobs because they never went to college and never got married, but they do have children, so in my mind it's a bittersweet draw and I fall asleep wondering if something beautiful can emerge from the diseased shell that I have become.

And when it does, I can take a picture of a sunrise instead.

Oh. And. Well.

And I don't mean to sound so depressed. I don't think I am. I worry that someone is going to grab me by my chubby neck like a kitten and shake my blues and funk right out of my bones. And that's assuming anyone reads this because I have kept it a secret.

Unless. You. Are a google-stalker. Too.

No comments:

Post a Comment