It’s ironic that after all of these years of hiding away at every given opportunity in this little burrow, I’m now being forced to leave it for good. But it’s hardly surprising and I’m being ejected at my own hand really.
To my eternal shame, I do get benefits from the government, but they do not cover my mortgage, which I totally understand. Why should they buy part of my property for me? But it’s some other humungous charges that are to be my downfall. On top of my repeatedly sticking my head back in the sand, pretending that my payout/savings would last forever.
Then came the day when I realised that not only did I have but a couple of grand left, but a massive bill would be winging its way to me in a matter of days, and I felt all the blood drain from my face and head to my bowels where it sloshed and churned miserably, and still does to this day.
Being penniless and on the street has always been my worst nightmare. It was my mother’s before me too, and I seem to have inherited that from her. Along with bad eyesight and goofy teeth.
Thanks for that, mum.
So why have I brought my own horror story to life?
Well for a start, in the past when one door closed (job wise) something else tended to creak open so I’d always, if not land on my feet, manage to stagger to them with a couple of grazed knees and a mild case of concussion. Nothing amazing or career enhancing you understand, but I’d put my feelers out and something would come up on my radar and save my financial bacon.
Not this time. In all fairness, as most of you know, I did deliberately eschew the corporate world for the last 2 years, and of course my EUPD (BPD) diagnosis did nothing to stabilise my condition or confidence, but I have applied for other jobs. One or two of similar seniority, some mid range, but mostly pretty lowly ones, that paid a fraction of what I used to earn. Jobs i could do blindfolded, with one arm tied behind my back.
Did I even get a callback?
Not one single one.
I’ve done odd days of ad hoc work. I’ve tried to sell my baking. And above all, I’ve been constantly on the alert for a sign from God whom I thought, given that I’m watching and listening so intently, might give me a clue as to what my purpose should be on this earth and perhaps open a door for me. Even the tiniest crack in some some shitty, splintered, graffiti festooned door somewhere would do.
Is that too much to ask?
But if he’s sent me any messages, my network must be playing up as I’m still no further on when it comes to figuring out what my next steps are with regard to this predicament and indeed the rest of my life.
And I constantly mull and ponder and question myself. Have I been making this all up? Is there a God? Does he/she/it have a plan for me? Or is it all random and I have no more of a destiny than that little grey mouth pounding it silly head against the hot bulb of my reading lamp? My cat is watching it very intently so I don’t fancy it’s chances once it gets bored of doing that either….
So I’m meant to live, eat, shit, fuck, sleep, die and decompose and it’s no more complicated than that?
Or I am burning up some horrible karma from a previous life where I’ve been a total biatch, and that’s why I’m getting the silent treatment?
Maybe God is just thinking ‘Lazy, cocky little mare, who does she think she is? Who said I have a plan for her anyway? Slog away aimlessly little insect until I decide to acknowledge and give you something useful to do. If you’re lucky.’
Boy I’ve done a number on myself, make no mistake about it. Because if, no let’s be honest, WHEN I leave here, I’ll be unable to do the 2 year Schema Therapy trial as I’ll be living in outside London so not entitled to it.
The only thing that would rectify this situation would be if I got a full time job here and was able to fully support myself. And let’s face it, that ain’t looking too hopeful.
But maybe this is meant to be. Maybe I’m meant to move. And if I’m able to buy a little place outright with what I get from this place, that would be a load of my mind. I could get a tiny house with a little garden for my mogs somewhere in the sticks.
What if I can’t get a job in Newfoundtown? Well I can’t get one here, so what’s the difference?! And whilst I might be super broke, the bailiffs might take my TV (ARRGHH!), and my leccy and gas might get cut off, I’d still own the place and no one will be able to repossess it.
As for the Schema, I’m due to get a proper written diagnosis so maybe that will help me get some alternative therapy in the new borough/city/county.
Oh God, the thoughts just keep whirling around in my head. And after the shit that’s come from living in it to date, I still want to shrink back into my brick shell and not do anything bar trembling under my duvet.
Aunty C (my counsellor) is being wonderful and supportive and optimistic. But I know she’s afraid for me too.
As for my family, I’ve pretty much told them that I’ve run out of money and have to sell, and that message was met with complete silence before my sister changed the subject and wanted to catch up on some gossip about a mutual friend.
No offers of support or help. I think she’s worried I’ll ask for money or ask to stay with her but I’d rather slice my tongue out than do that, as the last time I did that, many years ago, she presented me with an invoice the day I left. The bill was calculated as if I were lodger renting a room, there was a charge for the food I imbibed per day, a share of the energy bill, TV licence, council tax etc., and came complete with a date that it must be paid by.
I walked away in shock. I hadn’t even started my new job and felt about as loved as a dose of herpes.
Then a week later she demanded a contribution toward a very expensive gift for a family member when I didn’t have a penny to my name, and when I told her I didn’t have it, she threatened to stop me seeing her kids if i didn’t comply.
I forgave her many years ago. But some things you never forget.
What I would have appreciated was a call asking if I was OK, maybe some advice and a bit of sisterly support, but she can stick it now.
One thing’s for sure, I won’t be moving anywhere near her as many have advised. Anyway I don’t have to worry about being lonely in the new town, because that’s always with me, wherever I go.
So I just need to get on with it so that I can walk out of here with my head held high and not tweezed out, wriggling all the way like a winkle on the end of a pin.
That’s a good point! I could live at the seaside!
OK so this might be a good thing, but I’m going to do a three pronged approach.
1. Get this place valued, start looking for somewhere and figure out how much money I need to facilitate the entire operation.
2. Doctor/dumb down my CV with a view to getting secretarial/admin work. A EPA/Miss Moneypenny kind of role ideally.
3. Write to my lenders and explain the situation, ask them what they can do for me, and if nothing else assure them that I’ll be paying them off in full so they have nothing to fear and don’t need to repossess.
Lord I’m scared. But I’m going to bite the bullet and get on with it.
I have Clara and my friends, and I also remember that I always feel stronger when i look after my body and diet. In fact the Lent period was the healthiest I’d ever been so I guess i should get back on that too.
I think this is a quite good plan. Unless stuff goes wrong. And there’s so much that can go wrong. Especially with my karma.
Fuck, STOP THAT SISTA!
This fucking FEAR rules my ass big time.
I just want to find a place I can call home. As I’ve never felt that I belong anywhere.
And it occurs to me that if I can conquer this SHIT and feel a sense of belonging within myself then I could feel at home anywhere like those little molluscs, adrift in a vast, all encompassing ocean, but perfectly happy in their self sufficient shells.
That’s quite a way off though.
And even they have to look out for the pricks….
Please pray for me.