This is ebb tide: six months broken up from Eleven, knowing as I write this that what I need he can never give. My mother’s job gone, and no good way for me to help, unless I want to drop the other balls I have in the air. God, the minute I start looking forward to the next couple of months, the responsibilities I already have lined up, this is what we get.
What happens if I need to get a job?
Which ball do I drop, do you think? Not the kingdom job; there’s nobody else. The investiture? They’ll never hand me another responsibility so long as I live.
But it’s laughable to keep on as I have. I can hear my aunt scolding me from here. How dare I sit on my arse and let my parents struggle to provide? — Well, if the car worked, that’d be nice. But it doesn’t. So I can’t practice driving. Take my father’s car? Without him in it? You don’t know my father, do you? And my mother drives a stick. So that’s the Big Expense coming: a AAA membership and a new battery. Forget a nice canvas tent. Forget period shoes. I might be able to justify a rashguard-style bathing suit if it means I can get into the water and work on strength and endurance. (I get so cold, you know?)
Working from home is a real possibility. If I did telemarketing from home, it wouldn’t be so bad. Twenty hours in an environment of my own won’t do me in the way even ten might on my feet. Also, I’m testing my capacity. I’m volunteering now, at the PetSmart extension of the Humane Society of Wayne County. Four hours on Wednesday mornings and I do sleep after, but I’m not noticing any particular damage. I just have to ensure I’ve wrapped my ankle well next time. It’s not healing as it ought to be. So if that’s four hours more or less on my feet, four hours at a desk dialing for dollars shouldn’t kill me, not even daily. It’s just four hours I’m not spending at a desk faffing around on Facebook.
Mum and I will go to the job centre soon. Together. And I’ll meet with their disability coordinator, get me an advocate, figure out how to do this without losing my health insurance. She’ll draw unemployment insurance for six months. Maybe it’s the six months’ grace I need. I go back into therapy soon. Face the possible autism, the definite SPD, the anxiety, the feelings of helplessness and worthlessness. Face it all down and don’t stop even when the therapist graduates.
Too much to be done. Too much to lose if I give up without even trying.
i must go on standing
i’m not my own
it’s not my choice . . .