This seems like a good place to rant...
I'm beating my head against a wall, it seems. I'm tired, frustrated, depressed. I don't want people to know that, though. They seem to think that everything is going my way, everything is perfect for me. It isn't. But I usually don't want to complain.
It isn't just that my roommates are insane, or bitches, or are downright rude to me and break my stuff. It's that I want to move out--and they've said they'd be perfectly happy with that--but I can't. I can't afford to move anywhere, it seems. I want to move into Philly, into Philly proper (not the northwest or Great Northeast, not West Philly; maybe University City, but that's a big maybe). I want to make it that I'm not spending over an hour getting to work and an hour getting back every day. I want to be near my friends, near my boyfriend, near my theater--the things which are keeping me sane, which are getting harder and harder to get to. I want to live someplace where my neighbors aren't calling the landlord to complain that I'm parking on the street instead of in the driveway (well, given that my roommates' cars are taking up the whole driveway...) (And it's a public street--a public fuckingn street!). I want to have my own place.
Of course, I'm not making enough to do that. When all is said and done, I take home around $350/wk after taxes. You can't really afford to live anywhere on $350/wk except in the outter suburbs. Even with a roommate, I'd still be paying $500/mo, without utilities in some cases. Then you add in bills, utilities, food, car insurance... I can't save money, I'm living paycheck to paycheck, it seems. I don't go to the movies, I stopped buying only the most essetial records (thank you, Kazaa). I eat the cheapest food I can find (which is also the fattiest, unhealthiest).
And see, this is a full-time, salaried job. I have good health insurance (though my health problems are another, even touchier issue, and even more depressing, and I don't want to get into it, but it's making things even worse for me and others). But I have no future. And there are no other jobs out there. Only jobs which pay worse. And, if worse comes to worse, I may try to find a second job, which is what people do. I'll see less of my friends, family, theater troup, and boyfriend, but I'll be surviving.
Because it's either that or I move back home with my parents. I love my parents very much, and they love me. But neither of us wants me to move back home. I'm 24, but if I move home, I'm just going to have to act like a teenager again, like I'm in high school again. And I know my depression will just get worse. I know I'll just start fighting with my parents again. No one wants that. But I don't know what I'm going to do.
And kids, this is the tip of the iceberg. I studied something useless in college, I don't know what to do with my life. I want to write, but can't get published. I want to act, but can't get casted. I want to sing, play music, play my songs, but no one wants to hear it. So I sit at a computer, like all the other unhappy, angry people, and do the job of a monkey--pushing buttons, repetative work, uncreative. This requires no skill. This just requires repetative motion. And I can't stand it. The only thing that has going for it (other than the health insurance) is that I'm in a library surrounded by books. I can only see them on my lunch break, but still, I know they're there.
And, as I said earlier, there are all sorts of health problems. I need to have my wisdom teeth out, after I broke one. And other stuff, more personal stuff. And sometimes, I just want to cry. And sometimes, like last night, I do cry, out of frustration, out of sadness, out of fear of the unknown.
And then a voice says--"HEY! FUCK YOU! NO ONE'S KILLING YOU, NO ONE'S REPRESSING YOU, NO ONE'S BLOWN UP OR KNOCKED DOWN YOUR HOUSE, NO ONE'S FORCED YOU INTO PROSTITUTION! YOU'RE NOT STARVING, YOU'RE NOT DYING--WHO ARE YOU TO BE DEPRESSED? WHO ARE YOU TO BE UNHAPPY? YOU HAVE NO FUCKING RIGHT, YOU STUPID, MIDDLE CLASS CUNT."
And I'm afraid that the voice is right.
But I'm getting better at repressing this, I'm getting better at wearing the mask. I have to, you see. Any time I've expressed how angry and upset I am, I've gotten in trouble. At work, at home, with friends. I used to see a therapist, but I didn't get anywhere, really. Two years, antidepressants, and I didn't get anywhere. Not really. Except that I'm not suicidal anymore. I guess that is something.
I recently found out that my sister and my cousin are both on antidepressants. It seems to work for them. It never did for me. I'm just an average fuck-up. Hopeless. Pointless.
Yes, this is all very angsty, but that's what the daylog is for, I figure.
We're damaged goods
we're rotten fruit
we're backdrifting.