I am exhausted. I have weaned myself off of antidepressants, Abilify (to enhance the antidepressant), cigarettes, and, unwisely, Adderall. I am soooo in need of stimulants I just want to sleep December away.
Yes, I snuck a ciggie from my guy's pack. It's not helping. I just want to curl up and fall asleep in a warm ball of sheets and comforter and soft pillows I want to dream the holidays away. I don't have the scrap to buy presents, I don't have the green to do anything but pay my cheaper rent for my new room in Queens and eat cheap food. I don't so much feel sorry for myself as just plainweary and wondering as I wander the streets of New York, worrying about next month's bills. Ho ho ho.
I had to ask my dad for money. Do you know how much that SUCKS? To be my age, to have some stupid advanced degree that is basically useless, and to suckle at my dad's money teat because I STILL don't have security in my career(s) and am wondering how I will make it through the spring? You know what? I bet you do understand, because so many of us are experiencing this, especially over the past twelve years of hell. Utter hell. Financial hell. Health care hell. 401K hell.
I know this is supposed to be some comedy relief blog that makes you forget your troubles and larf through the shit you are wading through. But sometimes you just have to acknowledge your friends who are foreclosing on homes that they built and raised their four kids in, who work their tuches' off and yet still can't put their name on a rental lease because their credit rating is now fucked and they don't know how they will pay for braces and books and they are curled up in a ball in their beds and wondering when the dark clouds will pass. Will they pass? Will they?
I called the lady from whom I am renting a room - after living for years on my own, in my own sweet studio - and was ready with the sob stories to have her understand why I am late with my December rent. She stopped me mid-wail and said "Baby, it's been a shitty, shitty time, and the hurricane made it worse here. We are fabulous, gorgeous, smart women who've had a run of bad luck, and honey, it's going to get better. We are going to turn things around and take over the WORLD. Don't you fucking worry about being a little late with that goddamn rent. It will come when it comes, and I told the landlord that he'll have to wait for once, as I've never been late, because life has handed us some fucking bad shit lately and that is what it is. So take a deep breath, know that you are fabulous, and pay me when you have it."
Holy shitballs, who says stuff like that? To take my grey cloud and tell me it is passing and the sun is getting ready to shine again, soon, soon? My true and wonderful friends, that's who. My family, who sends me loving messages of hope when I am under my covers. My buddy Dan, who fights the demon darkness as I do, but lifts me up as he himself is struggling. My guy, who kisses my ankles and makes me smile and feel like a million bucks when I want to cry. My dear sweet friend Sarah, who faces fear with tenacity and grace and humor, though she wonders if going off her meds is the best or worst thing to do right now.
My god, I am so tired, so tired. But I will keep on keepin' on because that is the only thing we can do through all this. Roll up my sleeves, grin and fucking bear it. Augh. It takes every ounce of strength but what the hell is living for?
Just tell me it will get better. It will. Right?? You better believe it.
Being somewhat homeless these past few weeks has been interesting. No, I am not sleeping in a box on a Madison Avenue church step, though, if I were that homeless, I know the church and particular step I would choose to lay my cardboard -- let's just say it's something I have plotted out as a distant possibility, knowing how the past ten years or so has gone for me financially. After the Disaster, which is how I refer to that delightful day in September 2001, I finished one last children's theater tour and hung up my spider costume for good in December of that year -- and then there was no work. I mean NO work around NYC for actors/temps/part-time admins. And then there was shitty work for low pay. And then there was work at a underground poker club. And then a paralegal job that paid well but then the fucking financial CRASH happened and I was out of work again. I have been playing catch-up for almost eleven years, and it has finally become too much. I cannot borrow any more. I cannot maintain my Fortress of Solitude, and I have to put on my big-girl pants and face reality.
I am going to be renting a room from someone soon, and the thought of paying one-third of what I used to shell out in rent money is a reassuring thought -- but, BUT, it means I have to share my space with a stranger, including the BATHROOM, and that makes my butt cheeks clench in anticipated worry. What if my future roomie needs to fall asleep with the TV blaring "The Wonder Years" at full volume as was my experience with my first rented room in 1993? I mean, the sweet old lady was related to Sigmund and Lucien Freud and was fascinating and served me tea and I had a safe place to lay my head, but I could not have a dude over or get up naked and make myself a peanut butter and jelly sammich at 4 a.m. and wander the apartment while thinking. I like to do that sometimes. It's not sexy, but it's freedom. Having money does not make one happy, it makes one free to have choices.
Listen, I am actually grateful to have my good health, to have jobs, to be able to eat, and yes, I can go live with my parents if I was truly in need. I have been blessed with amazing love and support from friends and family. I am aware of my need to face reality and live more simply, and I don't have children to put through college or needing braces or new shoes. I can be a gypsy for a while. My burden is light in comparison to many of my friends who are also facing financial crises and health problems. Believe me, my skin is clearer, my posture is straighter, my nervous tics have died down since I had my things moved to storage and bade farewell to my 250 square foot hovel. I feel relief. Actual relief has washed over me, now that the anticipation of doom and gloom has actually passed and the worst (I hope) is over, for now.
I don't want to have a roomie who needs the bathroom right after I have had a spell in there.
I don't want to listen to Bette Midler at 3 a.m. with the bass turned way up through my bedroom wall. What if he/she cooks stinky food and leaves the dishes in the sink and has weird friends hanging out and insists on running the air conditioner throughout the winter months when I pay half the electric bill? He might scratch his balls a lot as he walks around in his dirty skivvies and hates my cats and she might leave her brawrs hanging on the shower rod and drink my orange juice from the carton mouth. But I don't buy orange juice anyway, so fuck that worry. Fuck all of it, I'll pay an affordable rent and deal. And then I'll have the freedom to be a gypsy and do things I need to do to keep me sane and nervous-tic-free. I can audition and sell real estate and bartend and live without fear of eviction and housing court and bill collectors. I can sneak smokes outside and maybe stop smoking altogether, since I will fret less. My parents won't be concerned about me like they are now. My friends won't have to buy my drinks and I won't feel like a total schlemiel.
I am happy. I am dating a nice guy who cooks me dinner and refuses to let me clean up afterwards. I feel like the future is exciting again, because I don't know what part of the city I might be moving to after nine years in the same neighborhood. It's time to change, time to rearrange. And that's alright by me. I'll buy some matches and air freshener for the shared bathroom. I'll adapt. My parents raised me to be strong, to be scrappy, to pick myself up, dust myself off, and start all over again. Fuckin' A.
-HMG
p.s. what does the "A" stand for in "Fuckin' A" anyway???
