Life isn't what we want

I want to be doing more blogging like I used to. I had to quit for a lot of reasons. But one big thing, I felt like I had so much bad happening, and how is that helpful to anyone? Well, it's helpful to me to have the outlet. And there may be others who are struggling to be writer/artist, parent, wife, etc. While working other jobs.

So, while I will do my best to share happy things (good books are happy!), I'm also going to be doing as I did before and trying to talk about things. Maybe it will help somebody. Maybe it will help nobody. I don't know.

Alert: Depressing downer and very personal :(

Right now, I feel as if something I've been a part of for 15 years is slipping through my fingers. As all the love, loyalty, and time I've put in counts for nothing. As soon as someone else is around, I become less than nothing. It may not be true, but it is how I feel.

I may have just lost an opportunity at something great and wonderful. I planned to ask for a gift back (on a sort of permanent loan), as a FAVOR, and to beg, to get a chance at something that could have taken me and my family to something greater than before, and at least, something better than the poverty we've been living. For four years, I've been living somewhere that the doctor has said will kill me. It nearly did last year. It came very, very close last year. We are finally moving. Perhaps the stress of moving and being unable to find something suitable (as in, they'll let us live there and we can afford it!) has aggravated all emotions. Perhaps, my desperation to get out of here has made the idea of being so close to the climb out and missing, more depressing. I've been called dishonorable for even thinking that it was okay to ask. (hadn't even gotten to the asking part!) I guess, I'll have to agree to disagree. I would have been begging a favor for a chance out of here. (With intention of giving it back at some point.) If I'd been less generous and kept my favorite and best one to myself instead of giving it away, wouldn't be having this problem anyway.

Now, I'm not trying to convince anyone. I've already told the person offering the chance that I've been refused, so nothing I say or do is going to matter about it. But what it did was something nothing else has done in years. It may have broke me. It definitely broke my marriage. Whether it can be repaired, well, that remains to be seen.

I've been fighting depression--for years. I am happy by nature, and the depression fighting me is debilitating and hard to overcome. I feel inadequate. I'm apparently not enough for anyone. I'm sick all the time. The years of being sick has screwed up my credit. I feel like years of being nice, loving people, helping them, etc. has only garnered me a few moments of smiles. I'm beat down, broken, inside and out. I can't even always go get my meds, which takes away my mind/intelligence, and health. Circles of hell? I  live them. My kids are the only thing I have, and they'll only be here so long (as it should be). I don't have my health, I don't have my mind, I have very little personal possessions. Most of my clothes don't fit. Most of my books have been ruined/lost with all the moves. Things I've had for most of my life are getting ruined/gone.

And my kids and I still have nowhere to go, to live. I'm feeling pretty down. Part of me, is well, you're writing and editing. It'll happen. Not enough. Not soon enough. Unless some miracle happens, not soon enough. I have no choices, no way out. I've struggled and struggled through the illnesses, through my husband's bipolar, off his meds as much as on them. Usually off them. I think he only got his meds 6 times last year. Maybe Seven as the last time was at end of December. His meds are free through Indian Health Clinic. I picked them up as often as he did. The prior years, I'd had to be the one to pick them up because he'd refuse. I guess that's something. He's improved on how often he gets his own meds without fighting about it. I have, as I've become sicker and sicker, forced him to do more and more of the home responsibilities. But he still doesn't help much with housework. It is what it is. Until it's not.

I am broke. It's a crack within my soul. A deep crack. Question is, will it heal before I fall apart? Before I lose my family? Before I die? Stress, environment, asthma, lack of thyroid, all conspire against me. What will win?


If I have my way, it'll be the writing and the painting. But life isn't what we want.