Archives for category: Capitalism Fail

I’m absolutely incredulous at the amount of time it is taking to move out of this phase. I can tell you how I got here: physically, emotionally, psychologically, spiritually, philosophically, sociologically, economically… I have done the reading as a means of trying to find my way out of it.

The last time I healed an emotional wound I looked back and I could list accomplishments like ‘got a degree’. I clearly could not have been doing ‘nothing’ in that time. It’s just that then, as now, I did it all in a haze of dissociation. I was completely overwhelmed by my circumstances whilst refusing to bow to them.

I have to some extent let life wash over me. Sometimes believing that I was giving myself a kind of spiritual once over. I think that’s probably bunkum. I’m just immensely lonely, and very sad. I can not tolerate how deeply I feel that life is passing me by. One year rolls into the next, and I think with each passing year, “you’ve never been so fat”, “so lacking in energy”… and think of all the things that I could have done.

I was the first in my family to get a degree, I was the first to have a career, I went sailing, I engaged in the arts, I actively threw off the shackles of poverty and went to get mine. And now capitalism is functioning like it aught to, the middle and upper classes are squeezing me out of work and maintaining their privilege. And I miss my life.

Knowing this is what’s happening doesn’t make it easier to cope. It highlights the injustices and reinforces my lack of confidence. It successfully gaslights me into compliance. I am the only one complaining. The only other person that understood how this feels, declines to talk to me.

So here I am. Equally loathing myself for feeling sorry for myself, and trying to pep talk myself into taking the least awful routes out of this impasse. I already gave up on taking PIP to tribunal AGAIN, because of the fucking psych evaluation that I had done. The one that confirmed that other than depression (because of my circumstances) I am in fact perfectly sane.

In the long run, this long line of CPN’s and psychiatrist’s and counsellor’s stamp of sanity will be beneficial, but right now, it feels like chains. I am running out of ways to defend myself self against the social. I am living in terror that eventually they are going to sanction me, and that my worst fear will come true: I will end up homeless again.

I can’t handle the pride I feel, and the shame that lives with it. I hate to admit to anyone that knows me that I am out of work. It’s the worst kept secret I’m sure everyone knows, but it’s my Achilles heal. I got a degree, just to end up on the dole. Just who did I think I was anyway.

I was supposed to have a medication review for some anti-depressants that would not interfere with my IBS. A routine referral, has turned into a full psych evaluation. Thanks, tory government. Thanks.

After many years of managing my depression, anxiety and/or PTSD on my own, I’ve finally hit the wall I hit back at the beginning. How do I survive. Where do I draw from when the well is dry. I don’t know. I don’t. Let me tell you how it came to this…

I’ve been told by the government that I am well enough to work, but I know I’m not well enough to do the work I’m trained to do, and no one will employ me anyway. I look for work. As a dyslexic person, I find this very difficult. As a dyslexic person with mental health problems, it’s painful. Honestly: painful.

I broke down in my PIP assessment, not that you would know it according to the assessors write up. She was more interested in this (allegedly) massive IQ I have. I’m having to ask for a reconsideration. After only two days, they are ringing me and I don’t know why. That is hardly enough time to mount an appeal is it?

In December and January I had a ton of doctors appointments, and three were missed. Despite the fact that I did not DNA at least one of those appointments they kicked me off the service. They did this before I could appeal, despite the letter saying that I had time to appeal if I thought the decision was wrong.

The mental health team rang, to tell me they had cancelled my appointment and would rebook in a few months. I rang to tell them I didn’t have few months, in short. They then told me they wouldn’t see me if I didn’t have a doctor. I rang the doctor to complain and beg to be reinstated.

The practice manager said that they would bring it up with the doctors at a meeting. My mother and my nephew come to visit and my mum decides to have an alcohol induced break down. By all accounts, she was jabbing her finger at my brother and calling him by my name. My nephew witnessed this, and my brother opened whoopass.

I’m still ringing the doctors to find out why the practice manager has not been back in touch. My counsellor was away for a week and so called First Response, is unresponsive. What ever energy I gain, I lose. I take a step forward and then I’m plunged back into fuckery. I finally get through to the practice manager and she reveals she forgot to ring me back. And she’s been on annual leave.

They have discussed my case and have decided that I can appeal… by letter. I just imploded. Its like telling a wheelchair user there is pain relief available, but they have to get up and walk to the other side of the room to get it. They want me to write down what I have already told them three times. With each telling the injustice of the situation creates more distress and hopelessness. And now, I have to decide what appeal is more important, AND look for work.

I have to skip some steps, you wouldn’t believe them. Today, I rang the mental health team to let them know that I have a doctor and want an appointment. They said it would be months. I said I didn’t have months. One of the managers rang me within twenty minutes and I said I couldn’t go on, being managed off of lists because of my intelligence. She said it was time for me to have a proper assessment, and I laughed.

I told her that every assessment I have ends in reactive stress or depression, “go get counselling”, was it worth wasting everyone’s time. I said I never thought I would beg for medication, after refusing them for so many years, but that I was begging now. (SSRI’s do nothing for me, except give me a bunch of side effects). She said she thought it was time for a more in depth assessment, and that they would find a medication that didn’t fuck with my IBS.

“When?”, I said. With out pause, she replied, “A couple of months”.

As I sink into yet another abyss, I reach out to support agencies for help. I hear the same refrain again and again. “Step back”, “Be kind to yourself”, “Take it easy”, “You’ve been through more in 5 years than some have in decades, don’t put so much pressure on yourself”. This is victim blaming. It’s not often I identify as a victim. But I feel it so keenly at the moment.

The pressure is not coming from within me: it is external to me and is being exerted on many thousands of people. Some of whom have buckled under the weight and have taken their own lives.

I have been close.

I am close.

I am tired.

As a person being forced to look for work that she is not well enough to do, I am being persecuted by the state. Why? Because I am poor. I can not afford to recuperate with out state assistance. As I try and address the mess that led to this disaster, I have to search for work, under the threat of losing what little money I have. This is tantamount to financial abuse.

I have worked. I have worked hard. I have paid taxes. I have raised myself up, from my externally perceived humble beginnings, educated myself, and the reward for my self sufficiency is victim blaming and abuse. Even in my addled state, I can provide better support for myself, than the agencies that I have reached out to for assistance.

Even, as the pressure mounts, and my myriad low level illnesses conspire together to create the impression that I am going to die from anxiety, I am best placed to help my self. All I need is time, or money, or a little of both. Instead, what time I might have is being permanently diverted to other less deserving things. Or more deserving but ought not to be.

Such as : Have I enough food to eat; Can I cover my rent this month; Is buying this cheap food worth the resulting pain I will end up in; Am I going to pull another muscle if I walk to the doctors and back; Will I sleep tonight; Can I squeeze another few wears out of these jeans before they finally give in.

What absolutely makes me howl, is the fact that a woman of my age, and my size being actively discriminated against in the work place, in one of the most underprivileged cities in the UK is being forced to look for work for people who will not employ her. Take my ‘free to them’ labour, yes, but not employ me for remuneration.

Where exactly am I supposed to take refuge in this mess? Am I being mindful they ask. Are you fucking kidding me? I am nothing but mindful. ‘You’ tell me? You keep telling me about how self aware I am… AM I MINDFUL? I am too mindful. I am too keenly aware of what is happening to me, and completely unable to do anything about it. This way madness lies.

Sometimes, mindfulness, in your secular sense of the word is a middle class luxury. It is a kind of mindfulness that I can not afford.

And the patronizing! Dear god above have some small mercy on me. Someone praised me learning to make my own clothes. This, I am told, is mindful. Well, it may be, if I could actually get on. Only I’m so sleep deprived that I can not follow the instructions and I dare not use the machine for fear of stitching over my fingers.

I got flashed, people, that’s what happened. I had to hit that man to get him to leave me alone (he started to follow me). I told him I was going to hit him, and then I popped him, twice. My wrist was sore for weeks. When I asked you who the Boss was a few posts back, I meant my answer, I’m the freakin Boss.

I have to clear a few things up… It wasn’t my stepfather that stopped the counselling it was my mother. My mother went out of her way to make my 40th Birthday a bit of an extravaganza. I start the writing course in two weeks, and I am going to resurrect my book. I’m volunteering for two projects and I’m applying for a writing internship, a paid one! I am learning to make my own clothes.

After living in dire straights for so long a little money goes a long way. So when I nervously asked for money for my birthday, I was very pleased to find myself the proud owner of £300. I bought a lot of material and I fished out my Nan’s sewing machine. I am halfway through making my first pair of trousers.

I also bought three pairs of shoes from Blend. I spent my 30th sailing the fjords of Norway and traveling through the mountains, during that time I bought some trainers. I took a pair in every colour they had: green, blue, red, orange… Something made me look them up this year (nostalgia) and there they were. Now, thanks to the wonder of having friends in foreign places and an internet connection I am proud owner of said trainers. £50 for the lot. Thank you, very much.

I was treated to a weekend away by my mum. We did nothing but eat and drink for three days. We even managed not to descend into complete anarchy. Which is somewhat shocking since we were both drinking. I decided to give up for a few days trying to avoid ‘drunk mother’. Amazingly, my new counsellor ain’t that bad, and I’ve moved from a place of anger to real forgiveness. Not the sticking plaster kind, but a lasting forgiveness. I’m glad because anger is exhausting. So is drinking, I don’t know how people find the stamina to become addicted…

Whilst I was preparing for this writing course, I went through my books and found ‘the book’. I couldn’t put it down, even I want to know how it turns out! It’s also given me the confidence to apply for an internship as a writer. I do not publicise this blog not just because I want to maintain my anonymity, but because I fear my own writing. I worry about my consistency, I worry about my pitch and I am terrified of my grammar. I might not if I renamed the blog “Fuck off, I am Dyslexic” but I’m trying to work on my amiability.

I had a few interviews, which after years of having none is a bloody relief, and while volunteering is not ideal it does give me something to concentrate on. Both projects are in areas that I feel particularly challenged so I am hoping to get as much out as I put in this time. My waistline is also thanking me. I signed up to OKSTUPID again. I don’t know why I bother because most of them scare me, but it’s something to do to relieve the ongoing tragicomic monotony that is my life post recession.

My orchids bloomed. I stopped smoking. And I got thanked for being a feminist!

Something terrible happened yesterday.
I don’t want to talk about it today.
I’m at a friend’s cat sitting.
I’m in a lot of pain; physical and emotional.
A friend wants to know if I need anything, I already said what I needed, I’ve been saying it for months.
I look at my friend’s house and I’m transported to desperately sad and unhappy times.
Every surface is covered. Every surface has something on it. Every. Surface.
There is no view.
I think I’m allergic to her house as much as I am her cat.
I can’t believe the years I have lost to my shit.
All of it, physical and emotional.
Other people could see it, but I couldn’t.
Or at least I did not want to.
Why?
Because I was so very sad, and lonely.
Sometimes I think I haven’t moved on at all, but when I look back to yesterday, I think I’m starting to win.
It’s my time to win.
I so desperately need to travel, it’s killing me staying put. I don’t know how to make it happen, but I have to try find a way. Especially before the world implodes. Honestly, I’m really feeling the political disasters presently.
I feel like I’m in a race against time.
Only this isn’t as much fun as crystal maze.
My pain killers are kicking in now.
I hope I can sleep.
I’m wondering if I have enough masochism left in me to spend another night.
Someone called to invite me to a writing course, I can’t believe the range of emotions swirling around this one.
What is my main aim?
Freedom!
Does writing set me free, or does freedom give life to my writing.
I think we all know the answer to that.

03.33… I wish it were a song title. It’s not. It’s the time. At 11.15 I’m supposed to be viewing a flat. I don’t know what’s happening really, other than I’m here writing this blog. On the 18th April, my wonderful friend, “That damned cat” passed away. She had diabetes, the kind that cannot be treated with tablets. After many vets trips, weeks begging her to get better, I knew that at 18 years old she would not. A week before or a week later, I can barely remember, my granddad passed. Three years of deaths. And I’m still here, wondering: why? Or more precisely: How!

My financial situation is so bad, it’s normal now. And I’m just treading water. Paralysed by fear. Anything I do could tip me over the edge into a more precarious position. ANYTHING. Moving is a big gamble. Here’s the thing… Now the cat is dead, I can afford to go to hospital on the bus. I bought some cigarettes, and some booze. Flipped out for a few weeks. Ate all the meat. Well, chicken and fish. Wanted to eat all the cakes, and chocolate, but everything tastes the same, synthetic, saccharine and somehow tasteless too. So I bought prepared fruit. The decadence. Had to borrow money to get through another round of “not going bankrupt this month”.

Apparently, I’ll get some money now granddad’s dead. Nan’s money was tied up in a living will… When the cat died, I thought it wouldn’t be long before I was a goner too. But it seems I’m locked into living again. My reasoning being that none of my family are getting a penny of my money. Literally over my dead body. I can think of so many people who really need, and would make the most of my money. I’m sure that if I died before I got the money, it would instantly pass to my next of kin. I don’t have one at the moment. Anyway, by the time I get the cash, they can’t have it either. I’m going on holiday till it’s spent.

My dad that was ill, nearly died again. So that’s been fun. He hasn’t been in touch for a while. He could actually be dead now, and I wouldn’t know. He says I’m next of kin, but every time he goes into hospital, I find out from my aunty. Fuck it. The other dad cut me off for not paying his phone bill. Apparently, none of the reasons I had detailed were good enough. Fuck it.

The job centre want to send me on a work programme. OVER MY DEAD BODY. They can get to fuck. I want a job, with minimum wage, and stable hours. Any job will do, but I’m not lining the pocket of fucking tescos with my tears and stress. No chance. I’m trying to set up some businesses, but I haven’t the energy. This woman is trying to get me to apply for some funding, I’m like, listen love, it takes all I have to apply for a job… Anyway, she’s trying to help, but actually it piles on the stress. She’s alright with mum, and a partner looking after her. She might have her woes but she doesn’t have mine and can’t see what the block is. There was a creative thing that looked really awesome, but it didn’t pan out. Got several more rejection letters. It’s the grey hair. I know it is. Hair dye costs money you know!

Dyslexia; grief; illness; poverty; the never-ending bullshit of living in a stupidly dysfunctional family? Pick one or two, mix it up see if you get a different result to me. I tried to get some help from some Dyslexia places, they are fucking useless. Even more disorganised than I am. My teeth need fixing, I think I have a filling coming loose… More bus fares… One return journey currently runs at 5% of my weekly income. So, I can’t go this month. I’ve paid for the hospital trip. I mean, I can. Of course I can, there is always a compromise to be made: don’t look for work, go to the dentist. Don’t buy food, go to the dentist.

Someone sent me some money, did I say? An anonymous donor? £60. A lot of money to some one in my predicament. I felt guilty for spending some of it on food!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! No shit. I felt guilty spending it at all to be honest. But there you go. Glad I don’t have to worry about how much fuel I’m using at the moment, that feels like a little holiday in itself. I over paid some council tax, I have two months break as a readjustment. That’s £30 I needed then like air, but need just a little less now the cat is gone.

That was expensive, getting to the vets, and contributing to her vet fees. The food, the litter… She was going through a bag of litter a week, the tray needed cleaning every day. It was full-time care, she just wanted to be in my arms. I gave her what ever she wanted. And all she wanted was to be with me. I couldn’t afford to have her cremated, so she was cremated with all the other poor pets and sprinkled on a paupers garden. My princess in the cheap seats. This is what I got my degree for… to be able to tell the world eloquently that I’m falling apart, instead of going and jacking up in a back ally somewhere. Lucky me.

I have a box of her fur, and I’d like to have a bit of a do for her, but the thing is, I can’t think. I just can not think. I have moments, flashes where I’m on fire and I get lots done, but they have to be spent on job search. Only the job search. Or bits of work I manage to scrabble together. The writing is dead. The reading is dead. I self medicate on social media networking sites. Everyone thinks I’m bonkers, but what they don’t know is I’m more switched on than them… I can prove it, all my counsellors tell me so, and the psychiatrists keep telling me I’m just stressed. Well, they would say that wouldn’t they? The level of what’s normal in my area is a bit skewed compared to the rest of the country, and we all know there is no funding in mental health.

Anyway. Here I am. Terrified to move, in case it makes a bad situation even worse. This time two years ago seems like a party at the moment.

11147065_1578526479084310_6006932785639725944_n

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F2s0m2VNbVE&feature=youtu.be

 

As a child and teenager I used to enter these periods and I would endure them for a short while and shake them off like water. I’d make a motivation and step through walls and climb mountains. The time I experienced the Long Dark Night of the Soul, I sincerely thought that I would not make it out alive. Until of course I shook that off also. It took years. Maybe 10, maybe 14. I still functioned, I progressed in many ways, in ways that were unexpected. And yet, on other levels, I was barely alive. I was moving through this world like a ghost.

Despite acquiring wealth, possessions, stability, a degree, a reputation as a person with integrity among friends and within my career… I felt like a fraud. At times I was angry and anti-social, at times I was classically depressed, at the lowest point I was 100% convinced that there were secret messages hidden in songs, which contained clues about how to resolve my emotional pain. Fortunately, I had an infatuation with a Muslim man who talked to his Imam about me. His Imam said I was seeking refuge in music, ever the Contrarian I said, “I’ll show you”! I wrote a poem and then silenced my stereo for the better part of 3 years.

These songs? This endless list of songs I play, they are just songs with lyrics or melodies that move me. They may be relevant to my current emotional state, they may not, they may be directed at one person, a group or solely at myself; they are all just songs. Audio glitter to sparkle dreary days and nights, there are no secret messages contained within.

There is an understanding that none of this even remotely matters. In my heart of hearts I know that I can unravel this life, right now. I could just choose to walk out of the door and disappear into the night. Thousands of people do it every year, some stay gone for days, weeks, months… some for years. Personally, I have always known that regardless of how far I travel I will always have to take myself with me. And so I ran away standing still; in comfort.

I used to engage in day dreams in absence of action. When I was trapped by my circumstances I resorted to my rich and fertile imagination. Sometimes, these fantasies bled into real life and I was dragged into a shared reality when other people strayed from my script. I hated it when people did not respond in accordance with my dreams. I used to mind read. That is to say, I used to believe that I knew what other people where thinking and feeling, and would rarely ask even reasonable questions.

Since my grandmother died, I entered a period of existential crisis. I am not depressed, I am not stressed, I am slightly numb, occasionally angry (I am not patient); I have chosen to experience this state of being as a period of waiting. I am waiting. What am I waiting for? The bodies of my enemies to pass me by? No. Sometimes our enemies have the most valuable lessons to teach us. What I am waiting for is a revelation.

I am waiting for a door, that once opened wide can not be closed, that will not be ignored. I’m waiting for the wisdom to recognise that door when I see it, rather than when I’ve gone so far passed it I’ve lost it. In the mean time I am meditating on my weaknesses and learning what to do with them. Accept them or develop them into strengths. I know that any time I can change this life, with a word, a thought, an action. I am not powerless. I might not be fully self actualising, or perhaps in going for refuge, I *am*.

These are dangerous times. The world is going crazy. We can only make it a better place by being as authentic as we can, with ourselves and other people. We have to learn that sometimes the people who smile the most tell the most damaging lies. We have to understand that other people sometimes have a vested interest in making sure we fail. It absolves them of having to take responsibility for their own lives and subsequently the consequences of their own choices.

We have the power to unravel this life, now. Sometimes all it takes is a change of perspective, sometimes it requires something more radical. But we, no one else, are responsible for our current realities. The only advice I have that is of any use is this: When making decisions make sure mind, body and soul are in alignment. A sense of calm will help you know when you have made the right choice, and you will be able to act with authenticity. Be kind. Yes, to yourself and other people.

Play Your Cards To Your Heart – Groove Armada

1) Send out an email. There are too many recipients for this email. So send out 5 emails. Do some social media stuff.

2) Download something. Download a bittorrent. Download a template. Down load the thing. Install the thing. Do something to the thing. Re-upload the thing.

3) Arts council funding bid for a really bloody good project, that someone has potentially plagiarised from me. Why didn’t I keep my stuff more secret? Why didn’t I apply for more funding? Why did I get disheartened at the first hurdle and throw it all away.

4) Apply for a job.

5) Make a poster

6) Finish a piece of art and find someone to by it, so I can fulfill a promise I made.

7) Put some stuff on a bidding site to sell.

8) Take some things to charity. More things.

9) Respond to an email from an old friend saying thanks but no thanks… Why aren’t these people leaving me alone? It’s been years… What am I to conclude from the fact that people I am trying to leave behind refuse to be left?

10) Sort out volunteering at the local Buddhist Centre.

11) Send a reminder email to someone about volunteering my time to give benefits advice to people who are in need.

12) Go pick up somethings from a friends. Do things with the things.

13) Apply oil paints to an existing piece of art (recently made).

14) Call my mum.

15) Stop devoting brain energy to certain people, who are not even in the same city as me.

16) Write more book.

17) Call my dads and brother

and on and on and on and on and on and on and on… It feels like a land slide… I have to make some doctors appointments and attend some clinics too. I just want a hug really. From someone who loves me. A real physical hug, from a man, who loves me. I’d like to sleep properly and I’d like to move again. I’m feeling really claustrophobic.

I did manage to do several positive things today, but then someone stole my joy by telling a rape joke. It wasn’t funny. They never are. Did you know that if you tell someone who has told a rape joke that they are not funny, you reduce instances of rape. FACT. Don’t be a baby dude, tell your friend he’s not funny. I would, but we all know what happens when ‘teh menz’ are ask by women not to be arseholes.

Get Here If You Can – Oleta Adams.

I’m really ticking over time now… (Mos Def – Umi Says) spent sometime with the female parental, and my nephew who is 7 and one of my favorite people. I’ve been wondering where my ‘fuck you’ came from and more recently, where the hell it went. Well it is coming back with a vengeance.

I do not get how ironic it is that I need a job to be able to sack in working! I want to get rid of all my stuff. If you do not have stuff, DO NOT GET STUFF! Seriously, you need very little and with hand-held devices that connect to the internet you need very little else.

Anyway, there is a lot of political activity among my friends and mostly I’m just a bit of an idiot, I’ll do anything for an easy life. In the absence of being able to run around lala land though I think I’m going to set up a thing. It will be fun and I might learn something.

I need to write all this stuff down because it will be important for the book at some point. I can feel the bubble, it’s about to burst, the plot is there, but I lack something… that thing, that just won’t appear.

I have a head ache with all the stuff I am trying to hold in my head…

Ah yes, trust and respect… You can not make people trust you or respect you or like you and it’s not important for people to do any of the latter, but you must have a certain amount of trust, even in your enemy… Trust that they will behave as you predict! How’s that for a hook?

In this case the enemy is not really the enemy it’s a game I’m playing but it is yielding interesting results. If they are who they say they are they get rewarded with my time and skills for free, for the benefit of Bradford. If they aren’t, well that bit will reveal itself in the fullness of time.

I can honestly say that I am having fun, and I don’t mind which way it goes for now.

Really though?? I just want a passport and a plane ticket still. And a man with a hairy chest.

Which reminds me, last night, one of my exes was back in touch… Long term readers will know that a while back people from my past turned up en masse trying to reconnect, I was not having a bar of it. Except for one perhaps. Anyhow, this one lad will just not go away. The relationship is getting more and more unhealthy the more he tries to reconnect.

It’s been a year since I said that I didn’t want to talk to him anymore and he just pops up, “Are you in a better mood yet”, he says. “Aye”, says I, “if you don’t go on about sex”… “Oh.” Sez he. Enter huge argument and lots of swearing and name calling, the likes I haven’t engaged in since I was a teen! Proper words were said… Right in the middle of my bloomin puja none the less… I’m wondering if I need to start again? Or if this is part of the process? 9 days to go.

After moving the papers on my desk around for the millionth time, trying to change my address on my student loan (from 2004) for the millionth time, looked at my bank account for the millionth time… It is fair to say that nothing has changed. For the better. After 4 months of paying bills for two homes I’m about ready to default on some payments. Even with £235 of tax refund this month.

Couldn’t care less. £70 went on two months internet supply owed to the landlord because the ISP will not put the account in my name. £60 on a night out for 3 pints and bus fares, looooooooooong story… £30 for the new ISP up front so I can have all my bills in my name (WHY!!!!!). £25 on council tax for the old house. The rest on food and rent.

Why I chose this month to have a melt down and repay a £50 debt from ten years ago I can only put down to sheer fuckery. Today I went to my doctors for my initial counselling therapy to be told that they didn’t have me down. Back home and the session is next week at a different doctors.

I think if I tried to keep doing this on my own, I really would break my mind. I am punishing myself to pay off a credit card debt I can’t afford, why? Because I was brought up to pay my debts. Never mind that these debts were incurred by my ex, or more properly my idiocy. If I hadn’t moved him in, he couldn’t have defaulted on the rent and I wouldn’t have had to borrow to pay it back, this you might have already been told (another long boring story).

So, now, I’m just flat fucking broke and full of anger. I keep telling myself I’m a fraud and people treat me… like I’m a fraud! That amazing job should have been mine, I have all the right skills, but I told myself that somehow I did not deserve to get the job. I am not worthy. I tell myself all the time that I know nothing. Sabatuer!

Oh well. One of my friends showed up and another stayed with me on-line, I was also blessed to go to a house party and was treated like a princess, taxi home to stay over night at another friends scrambled egg on toast for breakfast and a lift home. Just what I needed (except for the job you understand).

There are four jobs to apply for this week, all outside of the area that I live in, but it has to be better than this surely? Fantasising about a friend I haven’t seen in the flesh since 2008 who just sacked in a job and trotted from France to the Ukraine… I wish I had the guts… I wish I had a passport…

I’m Leaving – Mos Def.

Oh well, Praise to the 21 Taras morning and night for 21 days; 11 days in… 10 to go. Yeah, this is me not doing Buddhism, I’m a messed up middle aged kid. My friend wanted me to write about the time I went for a job in a strip club, but I don’t have the humour for it.