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november 7, 2001.The Boy is still unemployed and although things couldn't be much better around the house, I've still been going quietly numb with worry. The problem is that I've been pretending that I'm not worried at all, thinking that if I have faith in everything working out, why should I be worried? But the useless adrenaline won't be logicked away, no matter how desperately I ignore it. What's happened is that I've spent so much energy repressing the worry that it comes out in fatigue & irritability. The prospect of two 1-hour appointments was almost enough to undo me today, which should've been a clear indication that I was hitting the stress ceiling. But it's so hard to think about it and it's so hard to admit to myself that despite my counter-culture postures, I need a certain amount of financial security to relax. About 3 years ago, after the Boy had dumped me & before we reconciled, I had to attend a class on Shakespeare's love sonnets. Yesterday I unwittingly revisited The Festival of Ironic Academic Sessions. We did an exercise in class around the issue of child poverty and the classroom, and I almost freaked right out in my ergonomic chair. I was part of the "Five dollar" group who had $830 a month to make ends meet for a 2-parent, 2-child family. Within a minute of starting this bleak financial juggling, one of my group said flatly: "our children will be taken away from us. We can't afford to feed them even crap food." It was doubly hard for me to be in this exercise where I was forced to think about fixed expenses instead of ignoring my own baggage. The effort of not crying, of not shouting out our financial status to the room and accepting everyone's pity made me numb. Suddenly it was just a bit easier to get inside the heads of kids who come to school hungry because there simply is no food in the house. Or kids who have to sit through family studies budgeting classes when they've never experienced this modelled middle class life, let alone a single week above the poverty line. I thought it was hard to hang around res in 1997 when Alexi & Poet had eaten through my meal card and I didn't have anything to eat. I thought it was hard to wander through the city after Dirk's 1998 birthday with 5 dollars to my name. But that wasn't hard, that wasn't poverty. That was dabbling in momentarily-thwarted desire. I didn't have to worry about my rent cheque bouncing or how long I could stretch a 2kg bag of rice. I didn't have to worry about taking out my worry on my mate because I didn't have one. And the worst part is that we have yet to even see the worst of it on the horizon! I'm just tying myself in freaky Jim Rose contortionist knots by anticipating trouble. Shh. Calming breaths. Now for my 2 mantras: Never worry about what you can't avoid. hmmmmmmm. i feel more enlightened already.
In other news, it's raining a bitch right now. According to the wet, harried weather reporters of the 6 o'clock news, 3 separate storm systems have merged into one motherfucker that's set to pound Newfoundland, PEI & northern Nova in the not-too-distant future. Walking to my appointments was a curse-worthy experience, I can assure you. During the first walk I was buffeted by friendly umbrella-snapping winds & pelted with cold driving rain that eventually wet my pants beyond redemption. On the second walk down the lack of rain was made up by an increase in wind ferocity. It was one of those walks when you're sure that the storm is malicious and wants to take your hat for some bloody purpose of its own. The only thing that cheered me was laughing at others: some dipshit coed left her room in the howling gale wearing shower flip-flops. Honestly. You just want to leave these post-teens in the care of the State until some of the moron leaches out of 'em. Or at least I do; you prolly don't live in a town half-filled with the 18-26 set. Count your blessings & move on.
this time 3 years ago: like my personality had been set past the maximum rating of 10 into a Spinal Tap-ish 11 |
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